The reconstruction of Crossroad Keep had been well underway by the time Isaviel and her companions had arrived. The snows might be reaching a foot thick, but that only seemed to spur on the men working on the scaffolds; Nasher had spared no expense on this, evidently. Over a hundred men were employed at their work, reroofing with strong oak beams and tiles, pulling the bailey walls back together massive stone by massive stone. They worked in shifts well into the night, with five wizards between them all sent to keep a magical light shining at certain key places, and to make sure the fires did not go out, lest they freeze to death. With a hard winter promised, there was a great sense of urgency here, where the respective clang and scrape of the rebuilt forge and carpenter's workshop in the bailey seemed never to cease. Their tents and workplaces filled the field outside the castle, where they had also made a start on the farmhouse, and the dead farmer's family had been permitted to come and bury him.
Over the next four weeks, the keep was well on its way to completion, and it would need to be, for the snows were falling heavily almost every other day, and it would become an impossible task to keep the bailey clear at all times. It was cold, and it was growing darker. But they now had a functioning kitchen – a vast cavern of heat and luscious smells – and an impressive (but bare) banquet hall within which soldiers, workers and servants alike ate at the benches, jostling for a place by the enormous fire, its dusty display shield void of both banner and complimentary weapons.
The library was quite large – equal in size at least to the tavern floor of The Sunken Flagon – and Aldanon had set up camp there. He even had a bed brought down, and a candle burned most hours of the night. It was dusty, many of the ancient books mouldy at best, but they were still legible, and he was having a great deal of fun reorganising and cataloguing with the aid of his long suffering manservant and some of the other new castle employees. Every time Isaviel went to see him about Haven they had cleared up significantly more, and there were more maps, charts and scrawled sums all over the table, some accidentally carved into the wood, but he only had theories. Plenty of them, and no facts.
The central keep was all but completed after a month, as were the barracks behind the building along with the practice areas. Many dummies had been filled with the last leaves of autumn instead of straw, which had been at a premium for the thatching of the roofs of the building around the rest of the bailey. The great defensive walls were taking a long time to fix, but the gate tower was complete, its base larger than Sand's whole house and perhaps five times higher, with a portcullis as well as a double set of doors. A ditch had been dug early in the rebuilding and filled with sharpened spikes, a drawbridge added – currently without a means of being drawn up.
As well as an armoury and a carpenter's workshop there was a small shop to keep up morale, and Sand had taken up residence in another building to create his alchemical wares. He spent a deal of time consulting with Aldanon and attempting to keep the old man on the course of finding Haven. More than ever he was looking more tired than his half-Elvish blood would allow one to assume his right, given his apparent youth.
Nasher had left not only Sir Nevalle as Isaviel's minder, but had also chosen the Moon Elf's lieutenant Kana most purposefully to torment her, it would seem. She was an acidic-toned, hard-faced soldier who followed the rules to the letter and had a penchant for shouting when she should have been discreet. She had been very forceful in her recommendation that Sir Nevalle be given the officer's quarters in the north-west tower – they were larger, it was true, but that meant that the tower had to be completed more quickly, changing the schedule and rushing the builders. The spiral stairs meant it was hard to drag up the necessary furniture, and the plump overseeing decorator was panting and almost fainting by the end of that day.
Kana had also insisted that Isaviel would be no true captain if she did not wear the appropriate garb and live in the appropriate rooms. The commander of Crossroad Keep did at least live in the central building, while the stairs and balcony leading up to those chambers from the main hall had also been rebuilt in stone. The Moon Elf felt a guest - or pampered prisoner – in her own rooms, which were lavish and vast. Her bedroom was unnecessarily furnished before she could stop it being so, and someone (probably Kana) had made sure swathes of new, richer clothes were ready for her. That meant someone (probably Kana, too) had measured her clothes. That was unsettling.
She had her own staircase leading up to the ramparts of the keep, and a hidden door leading to an escape route which it had taken Isaviel perhaps thirty seconds to find hidden behind the bath tub. Thankfully the fire was always kept blazing, and she often found herself huddling close to it to write the journal she had been forced to create just to keep control of all the details under her care. Ahead of the bedroom, the sitting room had been helpfully laid out with maps and condescending reading material on battle tactics. A servant was always on hand outside her door, and they always made sure she had hot food in the mornings and evenings waiting for her. She found herself grateful but embarrassed, and her early attempts to shoo the servants away did her no good. They kept coming back.
When Kana had tried to dictate to her which of the soldiers stationed with them should be in command of various groups, Isaviel had refused to listen. She had named Casavir her lieutenant for soldiers and Khelgar his marshal – as well as Shandra sergeant for the foot. She had dared to put her faith in Qara for part of a contingent of the Many-Starred Cloaks, and thus far it had worked. Their practice of offensive spells, every day at midday, could be heard throughout the keep, and it made her feel – perhaps ironically – a little safer. She had been less trusting of Bishop, and instead made Grobnar sergeant of the archers. The ranger and Elanee instead each had groups of scouts, as did Mae'rillar on a part-time basis. The Drow was also a self-titled 'weapon-master', having a hand in training all of the recruits. Even the most seasoned fighters came out from practice with a few extra bruises and various injuries to their egos. Isaviel was no exception in this, but every time she fought him she saw his impressed look – something he did not give lightly – and he had begun to look a little taxed as well after their most recent training sessions.
Neeshka was her spymaster. The title had made the Tiefling squeak with delight, and she ran her operations from a small and entirely unassuming house by the motte of the keep. Both she and Mae'rillar lived there, but their relationship was not akin to that of Casavir and Shandra, who thus far remained happy but…awkward with one another. It was as if their characters were so similar that they clashed and could not find peace. Shandra had complained of the paladin's coolness, and Isaviel had been at a loss to console her. Bishop was cold in rather opposite ways from Casavir, and he never displayed that quality to the Moon Elf when he came back from the ranging.
Zhjaeve had made her home in the small circular building which had once been the castle's closest offering to a temple. All the trappings aiming it to one god or another had been removed years ago, but its sturdy stone structure – and its small size – seemed to have saved it from the ruin of the rest of the complex. She had just a simple bedroll at one side, and had been known to pray at the centre of the room, upon the tiled floor of which had been inset an unusual spherical stone of streaked marble. Whenever Isaviel came to ask her for information over the first four weeks her answer had been the same: she had said that she could not reveal her knowledge yet, for there was still more to learn. Now, after four weeks, she had asked to see the Moon Elf just after dawn, a time when she knew Isaviel's new dutiful lifestyle would see her finishing her hot breakfast of spiced porridge.
They met on the keep's battlements above Isaviel's room, when the sky was clear but oddly grey in the early morning light, promising to be a blinding blue when the sun actually troubled itself to rise. Snow had been carefully swept even from this part of the roof, to avoid any more issues with structural integrity, but it hung a foot deep on the crenellations. Zhjaeve was already waiting there, staring out at the still, snowy world beyond, evidently having taken the long way round, but having arrived there first regardless. Isaviel had struggled with the trap door, which had frozen shut rather wilfully, but it had eventually swung open with a loud clang and little dignity.
"Do you have some answers for me at last?" Isaviel asked as she stood straight, kicking the trapdoor closed and approaching to stand by the Githzerai's side. Her companion still only wore that strange dress and that thin cloak, without shoes, and her face remained veiled. The furs Khelgar had given her remained at her little temple.
"Yes," Zhjaeve responded softly.
She glanced around at the Moon Elf only briefly, her eyes sweeping over the half-completed ramparts and the sleeping world ahead; the battalion of tents in the field were all but camouflaged in a blanket of white, as were the trees beyond. The little farmhouse had smoke coming from its chimney and snow melting swiftly on its roof, dripping from its eaves.
"You seek to be known as the leader of this place. That is wise; you have taught me a great deal with your struggles to fit in with the human world, and I have learned even more from observing that to which you are a stranger."
"Speak more clearly," Isaviel suggested, already feeling annoyance rising, "Riddles will not help my patience."
"The garb of a leader suits you, though you think it does not," Zhjaeve continued, unbothered.
Instantly knowing to what the Githzerai was referring, Isaviel looked down at her new green velvet tunic uncomfortably. In some senses it was a little less obvious than the tabard Brelaina had expected her to wear, perhaps. But it had also been given to her, slyly, by Kana. That grated. It was evidently an item of higher status than her birth should have permitted, with little gold chains laced loosely at its neck. Her gloves bore the symbol of Neverwinter, as did the showy red cloak she had to display – it helped that it was fur-lined, and she could wear her mother's cloak unseen beneath it.
"Even now, beauty persists," Zhjaeve was saying, "And I see now that this is a world worth fighting for; and that what I have seen, what I have felt, and what I know are just a small speck in a far more complicated expanse of land, sea, peoples, cities and tongues. It is not surprising to me that our enemies seek to destroy this place with their blades and war.
"I once endured servitude, long ago, as did all of my people, under the Mind Flayers, the Illithid. What you have felt and heard of are just parts of a greater war, one almost as great as that which split my people on the sword of Gith many years ago. The divide remains though the sword in its original form is lost, a sword much like that which you may one day wield. It would seem both tragedies are tied to such a blade. There is a lord who dwells in Darkness, in the Shadow Plane, and he has fought on this Plane before against those who embraced Gith's hatred: the Githyanki."
"Why did they fight? Why here, on the Prime Material, and not on the Shadow Plane? Or the Giths' Astral Plane?"
"The King of Shadows did once attack the Githyanki; he tried to cast his shadow upon their fortress, and thousands died to drive him back. Without the great power of the sword of Gith itself, they could not kill his astrally projected form in time and he retreated; they were only able to destroy the portal through which he had travelled, cutting the cord to his land and thus making sure he could not return. Thus the war was forestalled, but it came about in the end, at the place where he first forsook the Weave and instead turned to the Shadow Weave, forever losing his reason."
"Then without the sword of Gith, with only the shard of a silver sword, I cannot defeat him? I can only stall him?" Isaviel felt the fear of that sinking deep inside her. Would this haunt her for all her days? Was this not a war she could win?
"I believe so. The King of Shadows was a creature created by an ancient empire, that of Illefarn, to which he was devoted millennia ago. That is, he was devoted to its protection and not to evil. But when the Weave failed he sought the only other alternative on your Plane, the Shadow Weave, which polluted his mind, and his increased power warped his reality. But he is still a creature of the Prime Material Plane, not the Shadow Plane, and any silver sword should be able to cut the cord holding him to the Shadow Plane, weakening him, cutting him away from the power that feeds him. And there is another path you must take; the Ritual of Purification."
"And what is that?"
"It was set up by his creators to grant him peace when his time of servitude is over; their empire fell before this could be completed. Their great capital, Arvahn, is long lost, rivalled only by Gauntlgrym in its underground splendour, but I believe I know the whereabouts of the key to the ritual. It is the Pool of Purification, standing in the Illefarn Ruins deep in the swamp which you once called home. It will be your memory that grants us safe passage there; I have agreed to combine my skill with that of Aldanon, and we have found a way of bypassing the wards and choking darkness veiling your old home from safe passage."
"This ritual is the only way of having a hope of success?" Isaviel could not help but show the disquiet and the fear in her tone – as well as her distrust. How could this Githzerai know so much?
The Githzerai watched her silently for a second and then shook her head, gesturing to the bag the Moon Elf wore on her waist.
"Show me the shards you carry, and I can judge for myself what manner of destruction we may dole to the King of Shadows."
As Isaviel took the bag off, beginning to lay the pieces out in a row on the ground between them, Zhjaeve crouched in front of her, watching intently. Once all six shards and their hilt glinted feebly before them, sparking tellingly at every touch from the Moon Elf, the Githzerai drew in her breath slowly, taking Isaviel by the shoulder firmly while they crouched opposite each other.
"It is not just the ritual but also the blade which will give you your only chance of success," Zhjaeve nodded, and it looked like she might have been smiling condescendingly, "You doubt me, and this is because you do not know me. You need allies, Kalach-cha, not more enemies and doubt to divide you. For in dividing your mind you divide the battlefield and cut your strength in half," she shook her head as though dismayed, "I am a zerth and I swear upon the Circle of Zerthimon that what I speak to you I know to be true."
"A pity I neither know what a 'zerth' is, nor what it is that you swear upon," Isaviel pointed out dryly, and Zhjaeve turned to face her fully, the imploring look in her eyes apparently intense.
"Your life is as precious to me as it is for the followers of Gith to end it. And this king…know that he threatens us all," she paused, breathing deeply, before continuing, "And know that you have been misled by expectation. That sword…I have seen those pieces before. I remember the power they held as one, and I feel its echo where it is sheathed in you, by your heart. It was said the sword of Gith, once drawn, would never find a scabbard again, but now it has…in you."
"What are you saying?" Isaviel demanded, bringing her hand up defensively over her scar, "That this sword isn't just a typical silver sword, whatever that's supposed to mean? It's the…original one? The most powerful one?"
"Yes. The sword of Gith; the greatsword of dread and tragedy. From what I have seen, as you have shown me, there are two key pieces missing, those which hold the two central gems. With those in your possession, know that you may well be able to re-forge the sword, and wield it against our foe."
"And how am I supposed to find two shards? Shall we take a shovel with us to West Harbour? Don't think I'm particularly enamoured by having to see Daeghun again…" she stopped, seeing the glimmer of something strange in Zhjaeve's expression. It filled her with momentary dread so great that she dared not ask what that look might have meant.
"You are the heart of the blade, and you carry several pieces as well as the hilt. They will find you, not the other way around, Kalach-cha. I make this pronouncement to you, greater than the bond of Two Deaths as One, with a strength that echoes the Pronouncement of Two Skies. I make the Pronouncement of Three in Darkness, Two in Light, as when the two of us shall meet the king in his fortress it shall become a battle of three. And when it is over, the two of us shall walk in the light and you will taste freedom for the first time. Just as Gith and Zerthimon did when they broke the will of the Illithid at Saragossa's End. It is my life I am giving to you, Kalach-cha, and I ask that you let me share your path with you."
"I…" Isaviel paused, withdrawing a step or two, those words ringing with enough magic that she feared this was some kind of geas, "J-just remember that I do not fight alone. I have friends who will fight with me, and all of them are more trusted than you."
"Not all of them will prove themselves worthy of your trust, I fear," Zhjaeve could have snapped those words, but the calm with which she delivered them was just as cutting, "Time will show you that, and when that time comes, you will know it was me in whom you should have placed your faith and trust."
"Captain, your place is here, with your men," Kana was protesting, "You do not need to go on such a dangerous mission; send one of your…friends instead."
"One of my friends?" Isaviel paused to snarl at her, ignoring the icy winds and stinging snow which assaulted her as she turned, almost blowing the hood from her head as they waited for the great keep doors to groan open, "What logic is there in sending others to do what I dare not? I am sure Sir Nevalle will be happy to take over for a few days."
They stepped through the small gap opened in the difficult doors quickly, stamping their boots and brushing off their cloaks to remove the layer of snow they had collected during their walk across the courtyard, but Kana was persistent. She stayed with Isaviel as one of the servants came to take away the Moon Elf's cloaks and gloves, items which she relinquished unwillingly, still struggling with the social change of her position.
"I won't hear any more. You are here to advise me on the keep, but what I do beyond here is my business," Isaviel told Kana firmly.
The dark-haired woman drew herself up to attention, the model of a dutiful soldier there with her rigid, muscular frame dressed in equally stiff leather armour, her black cloak slung over one arm. Still, her expression was hard, her mouth set in a line, and it was clear that she did not agree.
"As you will, Captain," Kana nodded sharply, "I shall inform Sir Nevalle."
"Oh," Isaviel laughed at her implication, "Don't think I'll stay here just because he tells me I have to. He needs what I could gain from this trip home, so does Nasher, and so does Neverwinter. So do I, and that's why I'm going. I don't have a choice."
She turned on her heel and stalked away from her lieutenant then, moving through the busy central hall. They all agreed that the men's morale might improve with a little more decoration, so Neverwinter's banners had been hung on both walls, while a great rug, showing a green and gold shield, the flag of Crossroad Keep, ran the length of the room, up to the balcony stairs. Someone had unearthed the great chandelier which hung above them now, though at this time all of its candles were unlit, the last few hours of daylight easily illuminating the hall through the large horizontal window above the front doors. Four desks had been set up in there, and workers or soldiers were reporting to the clerks seated there, giving information on building progress, the state of the lands and the roads, disciplinary issues, complaints and the like. Servants were always dodging through the building, with food, brooms, and books. Peace and quiet was hard to find.
Isaviel saw Sand waiting for her by the right wall, just by the door which led to the library. He wore his typical embroidered tailcoat over a plain, stained shirt, a little twisted and poorly tucked into his black trousers. There were bags under his eyes, and alarmingly Isaviel thought she could make out a few new streaks of grey in his black hair where there never had been any before.
"You look tired, my dear," the wizard noted as she reached his side, and that made her laugh and arch an eyebrow.
"You try dealing with Kana. And this entire keep is one great, never-ending chaos," she paused, watching his grey eyes, seeing sadness there, and on reflex placed a hand against his shoulder, "And if I look tired, what does that make you?"
It felt so strange to be worrying about someone else, but nowadays she found herself always thinking about so many other people all at once that the thoughts came unbidden and out of habit. He noticed the atypical gesture as well and his eyes flickered.
"An old wizard with too much to do, I'm afraid," he sighed, squeezing her hand and then reaching for the door beside him, opening it and gesturing to the quieter corridor beyond, "Might we have words before we go to see Aldanon and Zhjaeve?"
"Alright," Isaviel could not help but sound a little anxious as they stepped through, closing the door behind them.
Here the corridor was bare grey stone, a chill draft swooping through it, and voices could be heard coming through the door ahead, that of the library, as well as the one behind them. It sounded as though Aldanon had come upon some particularly exciting information, for he was fairly shouting. Sand, in contrast, leaned closer to Isaviel and spoke in hushed tones, pausing on the first word as a servant hurried past with a pale of water.
"Isaviel…I would council that you listen to the Githzerai. She is of a group of people who have a reputation for honesty and loyalty; she wears the robes of zerth and even goes by that title herself. As a Githzerai she is quite opposite from the Githyanki you have met; she will not lie, and since she says she will help I believe that means she truly will, and unswervingly so. Her ways of doing things are strange, just as is the way she talks, but Aldanon trusts her, and I trust Aldanon. He knows a great deal, and he agreed that the Ritual of Purification is the first step in winning this war, if we can reach the appropriate place."
"Don't tell me you got me all worried just to give me a few lessons on who to trust," Isaviel sighed, folding her arms, but that only made Sand look wearier.
"Now you sound like Bishop," the wizard complained, "It does not become you – or him, actually. But no, I could have just as happily spoken those words for the whole hall to hear," he put a hand on her arm, his eyes staring into hers intently, "You must know…I have to tell you before we leave for West Harbour, and the Illefarn Ruins Elanee can so kindly guide us to…I have not been able to contact Tarmas for some time. There has been no contact with anywhere between Highcliff and the Mere for many weeks. I have tried, I promise you I have tried, but I can find nothing and hear nothing from your old home."
"You think it is lost."
"I fear it is, my dear," his words were so soft, so full of concern, she felt the blood rush to her face at his endearment, "Just…do not expect anyone to be there when we arrive. They have probably joined the refugees at Highcliff."
"Duly noted," Isaviel managed a smile, "But please tell me you'll be changing into some more appropriate travelling gear before we leave? That shirt has wine stains on it…and you've not even put it on properly."
"Oh," Sand looked down at his dishevelled state and nodded in surprise, "Of course. I'll meet you in the courtyard shortly."
As the wizard hurried away, Isaviel headed towards the library door, preparing herself for gathering together Aldanon and his wits. She was frustrated enough that several of her friends had commitments – which she had given them – that meant they could not join her on this trip south. Casavir and Qara, as well as Grobnar and Neeshka, all had duties to fulfil in training the soldiers, and Bishop was out on a ranging. That left her with Shandra, Khelgar, Elanee, Zhjaeve and Sand. She was also relieved – to be leaving Crossroad Keep for the first time in weeks.
Isaviel had promised them that the Mere would not be as cold as Crossroad Keep or any of Neverwinter's surrounding lands, but Shandra was taking no chances. Beneath her fur-lined cloak and her fur jerkin she wore a shirt of Casavir's and felt very risqué for it, although she suspected he was gallant enough to lend one if his spare shirts to any woman who might ask. Zhjaeve's complete disregard for the cold made her feel rather over-dressed, but 'better safe than sorry' were words her mother had ingrained in her from a young age. Around the same age she had first told stories of Haven and its demon-filled halls.
Aldanon looked rather ludicrous dressed in his layers of white fur and cloth, taking Shandra's method of cold-prevention to extremes. For the past while he had been reading from the appropriate book while the others waited in some kind of arcane circle created by Sand. Zhjaeve was seated at its centre, cross-legged, her eyes closed and her hands resting lightly on her knees. Otherwise this spare room in Sand's house here at the keep was deserted – he had even cleared it of furniture, or just never bothered to fill it.
In truth, Shandra was growing tired of waiting for this spell to be over, and she could sense that Khelgar was becoming shifty beside her as well. The others seemed more relaxed; Sand and Isaviel were casting each other glances, but Shandra suspected that had nothing to do with the spell, and Elanee was entirely still, her eyes closed like Zhjaeve's. There was a little smile on the druid's face, though – the Mere was home for her, just as it was for Isaviel, after all, and she had been gone a long time.
Eventually, there was a change, a humming rising in Shandra's ears, and as she looked about herself she saw the room darkening – when Aldanon lowered the book, smiling at the group in triumph, he spoke some good luck message, but his words were no longer audible. The room span away into darkness and all Shandra could sense was a great rushing in her ears, her whole body weightless, her feet anchored to nothing…until she stumbled on soft mossy ground.
"What…" she started to ask, but her eyes were already adjusting; she caught herself on a bare branch of a mouldering dead tree, seeing the others looking about themselves as well.
The air was still and thick, and it hung heavy in the gloomy world. She could see the vague forms of trees much like the one she clutched, dotted around the area, pools of water numerous and complicatedly interwoven with each other for as far as the eye could see. The sky was grey, unending clouds, and the air smelled of rot…of death.
"Where are we? This doesn't look much like a village," Shandra pointed out.
Her words died to a whisper when Isaviel, Sand and Elanee did not stop staring beyond her. There was a great deal of fear and horror in their eyes, and the woman suddenly had no desire to look behind herself.
"We aren't far," Isaviel told her softly as Zhjaeve stood, her eyes flickering tellingly over at Elanee, who looked just as stricken, before the Moon Elf's mouth set, and though tears twinkled in her eyes, none fell, "It's just behind you."
Swallowing hard, Shandra turned to see what the others were staring at. Khelgar did the same, and his gormless expression of wordless shock quite successfully conveyed Shandra's emotions as well. So that was where the smell of rot was coming from…and why the town was so silent that she had not thought to look behind herself.
The village of West Harbour was a skeleton of charred wood, the odd wall or doorframe still standing, but nothing much else. Dead bodies littered the ground, some looking unsettlingly small and unarmed, and none of them had been burned like the buildings. Though the air stank of death, they were still whole and recognisable.
"Retta, Georg…" Isaviel murmured the names as she began to step towards the town, her eyes locked on the village ahead of her as if there was no one with her, and she began to approach slowly, unerringly.
"Isaviel!" Sand moved to try to stop her, but then his eyes locked on something – on someone – and he grew pale, moving past the Moon Elf at a rush, "Great Mystra, let me be deceived," he gasped.
The wizard came to a stop by the ruins of the closest house, staring down at a fallen man while Isaviel walked on, and on, looking unblinkingly at the destruction and death all around her. But Sand fell to his knees by the man who he recognised, a wild sadness in his eyes, and in spite of Zhjaeve's warnings he dared to reach out to touch the corpse.
"Tarmas," Shandra heard him saying as Khelgar reached his side, placing a comforting hand on the wizard's shoulder, "How could this happen? How could I let this happen?"
She saw tears glinting on his cheeks, and it made a lump rise in her throat, too. She did not know this place, or its people, but the horror was great and the scene desolate. Shandra 's legs were shaking as she trod the dark earth towards where Isaviel had stopped, at the centre of the town, blinking down at another corpse. She looked around at Shandra when the woman reached her side, her eyes still full of unshed tears, her expression one of fury and not of sadness, her voice bleak and void of emotion.
"Everyone is dead. West Harbour is dead."
"S-surely not everyone," Shandra tried to sound hopeful, and her words sounded so faint and weak in this gloomy landscape of silent death, "There must have been people who got away…"
"Merring taught me how to fight," Isaviel interrupted.
The Moon Elf sounded so detached as she stared down at the man at her feet; he was balding, with grey whiskers, dressed in the red and gold robes of a priest of Lathander, their colours still visible though they were sodden with blood and the damp of the swamp air. His eyes were foggy white, staring up at the dark sky, and he was clutching a box in one hand and a sunburst-shaped shuriken in the other; the Moon Elf bent and took it from his grasp, turning it over in her hands.
"He taught me how to use these," she continued, her eyes wide, her words reminiscent of a little girl explaining about a family friend, "And he taught me how to meditate, and he cared, though I never did. He should have hated me like the rest of the village, but he never did. I have repaid him with negligence enough to kill him…fitting, really."
As if acting on reflex, the Moon Elf dropped the shuriken into the pouch on her belt for the others of its kind, and stepped away from Shandra, heading past the other central houses and towards the black river ahead. Beyond that stood a tall, derelict house, its roof gone, its front door smashed, and its walls rotting in the damp air. It had not burned so thoroughly as the others, and now it was Isaviel's focus. Shandra had to rush to keep up with her, the others extricating Sand from Tarmas and following.
They crossed the bridge over the river, and before anyone could think to stop her, Isaviel vanished inside the house. Sand came up to Shandra's side where she stood peering through the empty doorframe into the gloomy house, his face stained with tears, but his expression composed. They waited in silence; he seemed to understand something which Shandra did not, and when Isaviel returned, a dark shadow forming out of the gloom in the house, she held out a necklace. He took it, staring down at its pendant, depicting two crossed swords, before looking up at her.
"Shayla's amulet," the wizard nodded, "The symbol of Arvoreen."
"Tarmas and Merring are dead," Isaviel spoke flatly, "And Daeghun left that behind. But his bow and his cloak are gone. There's no sign of him in there…"
"And if he had fought and died, we would have seen his body with those of the others," Sand added for her, his expression brightening just a little, though Isaviel's did not.
"Know that those men, women and children met their deaths many weeks ago," Zhjaeve warned, "There is foul magic at work here and it is unsafe to stay longer than we must."
Both Isaviel and Sand gave her furious glares, and the Moon Elf looked so angry that Shandra brought a comforting hand up to squeeze her shoulder – anything to distract her from that murderous intent. Isaviel only glanced at her, her expression wavering, and then she stepped away from her old home, nodding quickly and striding towards Elanee and Khelgar, who had remained on the other side of the bridge. The druid looked fearful, and a little green from what they had all just seen. Sand managed a feeble smile when Shandra patted his shoulder too, as if he understood that the woman was trying to help in her own awkward way, even if she could not really comprehend the scene.
"Alright, Elanee," Isaviel began sharply, her lip curling when she beheld the tears on the druid's cheeks and the quivering of her slender form, "Pull yourself together. This was my home, not yours. Do you see me crying? We're here for a reason, and you're the only one who knows the way there."
Her own voice betrayed her unstable emotions quite clearly, however, breaking on the last word, but she paused only briefly, rubbing a hand against her forehead and pulling away from Khelgar's attempts to pat at her elbow. Shandra could definitely feel sympathy for the Dwarf in this situation, even if the emotions of Isaviel were beyond her.
"Now lead the way," the Moon Elf commanded, and the druid gave an unhappy nod, her bottom lip quivering.
Elanee led them back the way they had come, and Shandra had to force her eyes to stay fixed upon the young woman ahead of her, lest they wander over to the half-seen corpses she could still make out in the corners of her vision. She realised she had to keep herself under control for the sake of the others, though her stomach churned and her hands were shaking. She and Khelgar brought up the rear of the group, making sure Sand did not waver – the half-Elf was evidently tough, but Tarmas had been a friend of his since childhood, and if the realisation of his friend's death had not already sunk in, it would soon. Zhjaeve walked a little in front of the wizard, talking endlessly to Isaviel, but it was clear the latter was not listening. She was looking around, her golden eyes hard as she seemed to be making sure to remember every part of the destruction and death at West Harbour. The hatred there unsettled Shandra deeply, and it was especially hard to take given the circumstances.
Just when Shandra was beginning to think that they were leaving West Harbour, the buildings and the corpses now all behind them, they stopped suddenly at the top of the small hill at the far side of the village. Both Isaviel and Zhjaeve had halted, Elanee almost out of sight down the opposite slope before she noticed. They were staring at a dark section of earth – though the soil here was almost black, its grass dry and grey in death, still this was darker, and more barren. The Moon Elf was holding a hand against her chest, over her heart, wincing as though in pain, and the Githzerai was watching her intently.
"Isaviel?" Shandra asked concernedly, reaching her side.
"What is it?" Sand sounded just as worried, but when he joined them his still-watery eyes took one look at the ground, and one look at Isaviel, and he spoke for her, "The scar in the land. This is where you were found after the Battle of West Harbour."
Shandra noticed that Isaviel was crying now – or, at least, there were tears streaking down her emotionless face, dripping from her chin. She was clutching Sand's arm hard, and though he grimaced he did not try to stop her.
"I hear the wailing of a child…the clamour of a great battle," Zhjaeve said softly, "And the shards you have with you – they are singing. There is strong magic here. Know that we may need to return here in search of other answers, but first we must reach the Illefarn ruins. We…"
"…do not have much time. I know," Isaviel agreed through gritted teeth, and just like that they were all moving again.
"It's not far," Elanee called as softly as she could over her shoulder, almost invisible ahead of them through the thickening fog as they came closer to the marshland proper, "The gates are solid stone, though. I do not know how we will get inside."
The marshes were so silent and still in the grey gloom, the air thick and lifeless with not a glimpse of the sun, while the scenes of death were so close behind them, that Shandra almost shouted in fear when she felt Isaviel's hand on her shoulder. The Moon Elf materialised by her side in the dimness; the woman had not even noticed her double back.
"Be on your guard," Isaviel hissed, "We are being followed. I've told the others. We might need to run, but we can't get separated…"
The water behind them shifted, and Shandra felt the air growing cold. Isaviel's eyes grew large, glinting with impossibly reflective qualities in the low light, and her head whipped around, staring intently in the gloom. Then she gave Shandra a hard shove, unsheathing her daggers almost in the same motion as she sent a pair of shuriken flying into the fog.
"Run!"
"What?" Shandra heard herself demanding, even as she tore her own shortsword free, almost slipping on the muddy ground as she turned, struggling to speed into a run as quickly as Isaviel, "Didn't Aldanon give us some…protective…shield…"
"Evidently you weren't listening," the Moon Elf sighed, giving Shandra another push so that she stumbled on an unexpected stone step, invisible in the thick fog ahead – the others could be heard just beyond, "Here are the ruins. And this is the only place he can promise us protection. Now get in. I'm not dying because you weren't listening."