"Grandfather? What is this?" Ammon Jerro demanded as the others reeled.

Casavir had fallen to his knees in horror, his righteous fury faltering in his grief. Qara had managed to turn and stare in awe at the warlock's power, while Sand stood as one frozen, his sadness a still, mask-like thing. Neeshka looked as though she could barely see anything, her consciousness all but fled even as Elanee attempted to cast a healing spell upon her. Khelgar still had not moved, though he was evidently breathing, and Isaviel almost fell when she turned back, her vision distorted with tears. Still, she saw Mephasm facing the warlock, flapping his strong wings as he had in the Githyanki lair, keeping himself from descending through the portal which he had summoned for himself.

"It is truth, Ammon," the fallen Deva told him calmly, "And by such truths is one damned."

"I have no kin," the warlock denied flatly, annunciating every word with great emphasis, "All were killed during the war against the King of Shadows thirty years ago!"

"Blood finds a way, Ammon," Mephasm smiled slowly, glancing at the young woman, dead at the warlock's feet and by the warlock's hands, "Always."

"You lie!"

"No," the Deva denied, still with that wolfish grin, "You know only Jerro blood could have broken the circles in this haven…as her blood has now broken mine. There are laws, Jerro," his voice was suddenly stern, a frown distorting his features, "And when one carries such laws too far, they will take you to where I go now," he allowed himself to drop through the portal then, but the words he whispered into Isaviel's thoughts brushed coolly against her skin, like a breeze, "I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One."

Once Mephasm was gone Ammon Jerro fell to his knees by his granddaughter, his hand shaking as he reached out to touch her cheek. He was not crying, but there was grief enough in his expression. He did not bother to look up as Casavir approached him, hammer in hand. As the paladin took those ponderous steps, Sand knelt beside Isaviel, putting an arm around her waist and helping her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him in her weariness as they approached, Bishop stalking behind.

"Get up, coward," Casavir snarled, "Get up and face us."

Ammon Jerro did not move, and still did not look up. When he showed no further signs of attacking them, and the haven continued to shake and rumble, Casavir leaned over Shandra, grasping the warlock by the arm and dragging him to his feet, pushing him aside.

"I say we do to him what he did to her," Bishop growled, and the Moon Elf heard the hum of his bow behind her.

"No," she said firmly, and both the ranger and the paladin looked to her with angry disagreement, "Can't you see that he's broken? We need what he knows – and what he has."

She had seen the gleam of the large shard, and the red gem embedded within it which Zhjaeve had spoken of when Ammon had pulled open his pocket to drop the smaller shard within. He looked to her now, and his expression faltered when his eyes focused upon her – the look lasted for just a second, but he remained even paler than before.

"He must answer for his crimes," Casavir argued, but stopped when Isaviel glared at him.

"He will," she agreed, "But we need him if we are to have a hope of defeating our common foe, the King of Shadows. He will answer for his crimes. But he will suffer for them first."

"Kill me now and this place will collapse. We would all die," Ammon Jerro put in now, still sounding as angry and bitter as he had before, "In my blindness I have done a great wrong. Perhaps it is not too late to rectify it…and where one life was lost I still might save you all. My haven is all but destroyed without the powers holding it here, but enough remains to take us from this place."


They had arrived in the bailey of Crossroad Keep shortly afterwards, the magical burst of Ammon Jerro's spell sending guards scrambling back, though a few quick commands saw him being led away to the dungeons, helpfully not fighting back. Khelgar, Neeshka and Qara were hastily carried away for healing, though Isaviel refused this for herself, watching the priests of Lathander rushing across the yard – they were newly arrived for the morrow's New Year festival, but other rites awaited them. As they took Shandra's body, still so pale and limp, from Casavir, the paladin's arms hanging uselessly after that, the soldiers on duty around the night-time bailey began to stop and stare at the dead woman, now being carried over to the little temple. The stillness spread like a wave, until the whole bailey was silent, save for the fires crackling in the three giant braziers; one at the centre of the bailey, one to either side of the gatehouse. Most of the soldiers had known who she was, and from the horror and sadness on their faces, they had liked who she was as well.

Tired and in pain, Isaviel looked around herself, at those gravely staring faces flickering in torchlight, before she heard Kana calling from across the yard, out of sight, for them to continue their work – the lieutenant had presumably been checking in with the smith. The Moon Elf wanted to weep as she watched Casavir trailing the priests of Lathander, heading for that little temple which had been made ready for them. Zhjaeve had presumably been praying inside regardless, for now she stood at the doorway to that round, domed building, watching with sad eyes. At least the Githzerai was not immovable then, though Isaviel realised that for herself, as captain of Crossroad Keep, she did not have such luxuries.

"I need a report on the status of the keep as soon as possible," she told one of the servants who came to take her pack from her, swaying only a little as she pulled out of Sand's grasp.

"Of course, Captain."

"And we need to make sure that Shandra's funeral arrangements are completed soon."

"Yes, Captain…if I might add, there is also the New Year festival to begin tomorrow eve."

"Then it will."

Though Bishop sneered at her 'dutifulness' and stalked away, she knew she was doing the right thing. She had to be strong, especially in front of all of these soldiers, men who might be dying for her soon. Kana was approaching at a ferocious pace, her face as hard as ever, and for once the Moon Elf did not feel anger or frustration towards the woman…she felt nothing at all. Grobnar had evidently witnessed their arrival, for he was following her, wide eyed and curious. The Gnome was grief-stricken at the news, his big, child-like eyes filling with tears, but he nodded solemnly as Sand explained.

"I have been working on an addition to our cause," the Gnome said at length, "It's not a replacement for Shandra – it can't speak, and it doesn't really think per se. But it can fight, and run…"

"Something to take a look at later," Sand smiled condescendingly down at Grobnar, shooing him away and looking to Isaviel, who had watched the entire interaction with a distant air, "Isaviel, you need someone to tend to your wounds, and then you need to rest. I will inform Zhjaeve and Aldanon of today's events, and I will keep you updated on how your friends' health progresses. But you need to bandage those wounds, at least."

Isaviel nodded absently, beginning to walk rather headlong for the keep, every step pulling painfully at some injury or another, her vision already foggy, bending at the edges dizzyingly. She made it past Sand's house, stubbornly insisting to him that he leave her to get some rest. He paused, unwilling, watching her pained gait and his eyes lingering on her face, but at last he nodded and pushed through his door. She heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs opposite that front door, heading straight for his bed. Looking back down the path back to the yard, snow shovelled into high banks to both sides of its black, muddy surface, she could see the glinting red of blood still right at the centre of the yard, where Shandra had lain. Someone was finally coming with a broom to attempt to disperse it.

Kana had returned Karnwyr to his master and was watching the wolf and the ranger with a confused and doubtful expression with which Isaviel could entirely sympathise. Bishop was crouched in front of it, ruffling the fur on its head and speaking some less-than-derisive words to the animal. Breaking the spell, whatever he said to Kana had her turning sharply on her heel, storming back the way she had come. His eyes found Isaviel then, and the smirk he sent her was not the look of one who cared for a friend who had just fallen. He seemed just as he always did, as cold and abrasive as ever.

Pausing to glare back at him, Isaviel began to turn, intending to make her way up the sloping path to the keep doors, but walked straight into Daeghun, knocking her off balance in her weary state, and he caught her automatically. The moment of imbalance brought all of her weariness and pain rushing back, and she lost her teetering battle against unconsciousness.


When Isaviel woke she felt rested, but a little stiff, and the many minor injuries she had sustained remained at the back of her mind, aching dully. She was in her own room in the keep, the fire flickering large and orange though dawn light shone down through the skylight above her head. She remembered someone helping her into a bath – was it Elanee? That had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. The girl felt compassion for loss and sadness as greatly as she seemed to suffer the lack of it from her companions. She had stayed and talked to Isaviel of their childhoods in the Mere, though the words had drifted past the Moon Elf, heard, listened to, and forgotten. They had been intended to keep her awake in the warm water, not as a geas, surely?

By the time Elanee had gone, Isaviel had been so tired she barely registered who it was that tended to her wounds, adding soothing salve to the burn on her side, bandaging the cut on her arm, and one on her calf. Now, sitting up, blinking in the dawn light, Isaviel saw Daeghun asleep in the armchair by the fire, his bow unstrung across his knee. It must have been him who tended her wounds, then, and her first thought was to feel angry and frustrated. But then she remembered Shandra, the heavy guilt of seeing her lying there, still and cold, not blinking or breathing any longer. The first of her friends to die…since Amie in West Harbour those months ago. At some point today she would have to face Ammon Jerro, try to untangle the messy truth about who he really was, how he was alive…and how he could help them, even though he had killed the kindest of her friends. Not the best, but certainly the kindest, and Isaviel felt even guiltier realising that. Suddenly her anger with her father did not seem so important, and she slipped silently from the bed, shivering in her nightgown even with the fire, and gathered up some clothes, leaving the room in silence.

She was glad for the fur lining of her long grey tunic, and the thick fabric of her black leggings, finally relinquishing her worn old Mere boots for the snow shoes left by the door of her sitting room. Someone had left hot porridge for her, knowing her morning routine well, and she ate it quickly though it scalded her tongue. There was much to do today, and the longer she sat around thinking about it, the harder it would be.

The snows had fallen thick and long in the night and the soldiers were shovelling it out of the way when their captain passed by, pausing to salute as soon as they saw her long red cloak flapping in the breeze. She preferred to keep her mother's cloak wrapped around her; something about its make meant that it kept the cold from her remarkably well. Her hair had caught several large snowflakes on the brisk, if slightly more ungainly, walk out of the keep and down the path into the bailey, heading left past the workmen still toiling on the walls, just setting up at this time. The sky was thick with white clouds, the pale sun glinting only occasionally from the few gaps between them. It did little to warm the icy, windy air, and in spite of her attempts to dress for the weather the Moon Elf's toes were numb by the time she reached the newly consecrated Temple of Lathander at the far left corner of the bailey, past a neat little row of dead, planted trees. All the other winter-killed plant-matter had been 'tidied away', a baffling decision for Isaviel. The trees looked just as dead, their bare branches groaning in the wind, heavy with snow.

A symbol of Lathander had been hammered onto the new wooden door, coloured glass of dawn shades glinting in the morning light, making up for their lack in the actual sky. A round, golden sunburst was at their centre, of hammered bronze, so much more idealised than its real-life counterpart, which would barely show its face for days at this time of year. One of the red-robed priests must have seen her approach through the window in the curved wall, for he opened the door for her as she approached.

"Greetings of Lathander upon you, Captain," he told her with a sympathetic smile as she stamped the snow off her boots, stepping inside, "We are most grateful for your acceptance of our request to come here," the wind roared in protest as he pushed the door closed, the wood rattling against its hinges and requiring two thick bolts to be drawn across it to keep it closed, "And we are most sorry for your loss."

"I had a…friend once amongst your order," Isaviel told him, pulling her gloves off and hooking them in her belt, rubbing her hands together and feeling the gentle warmth of the room with relief, "It was a choice between Lathander and Tyr…I chose his god, because…"

"You understand now that you owe him more than you realised," the priest nodded, that smile remaining unsettlingly on his lined face, illuminated through the glass roof of this little square porch, snow melting on the tiles only to reappear under the door, "Such is the way of life and loss. Though Brother Merring has gone, his love has been reborn in you, and you have seen fit to aid Lathander's cause, though it is not your own."

"Wh-what?" Isaviel looked at the short, balding man in front of her with suspicious surprise – why did that fixed smile make her think of Mephasm? I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One. She shivered, and it was not from the cold.

"My Lady, I knew Brother Merring for many years. We trained together at the monastery near Neverwinter."

"He never told me much," Isaviel admitted, but did not ask any more, looking away from the priest, who moved to push aside the yellow curtain ahead of her without offering to answer, its golden threads shimmering in the light which seemed so much greater in here than outside.

The Moon Elf drew in her breath as she stepped through, seeing that the domed roof had been replaced with a glass replica, letting in more sunlight than was offered outside, reflected by the white marble floor, shot through with hints of pink and yellow gold. In one of the adjacent rooms she could hear the Song to the Morninglord; most of the priests would be joining in the choral welcoming in of the dawn, so this main, circular hall was empty. But for the paladin, kneeling at the centre, his head bowed, his palms hovering just above the colourful sphere of stone before him. Snow had settled in his black hair, drifting down through the oculus above along with a pale shaft of light, washing out the radiance of the hammer beside him, its metal head a pale blue.

Beyond him, as Isaviel approached upon silent feet, the priest leaving them discreetly, she could see the closed wooden coffin laid upon the large altar, upon a semi-circular platform of stone. Someone must have worked through the night adding the decorative wreathes of Chauntea across it surface, something which Isaviel found more gruesome than thoughtful.

"Shandra would have been glad to know that she would rest at last in the light of Lathander. Her goddess was Chauntea, but these two gods love each other well; they are man and wife," Casavir said softly when Isaviel knelt beside him, his hands coming to rest by his sides, "I do not know much of your own god, my lady, but I am glad that you had the sight to allow the priests of Lathander here."

"Though you carry the light of Tyr at your back?"

"I feel I am losing his guidance every moment of every day, my lady," the paladin shook his head, still not looking at her, his shining blue eyes glittering with unshed tears and fixed ahead upon the coffin, his pale face a cold mask, his voice as steady and deep as ever, "I still believe, because I see the power he permits me in that hammer, I feel the strength of his healing magic when I aid those who have fallen. But I could not help her."

"We did not have time…"

"As much as it pleases me to hear you attempting kindness, my lady, and please do not think that I rebuff it, we did have time. My strength gave out," his voice became a hard growl as he spoke now, "I should have at least had the power to grant death to the worthless, blackened soul of her grandfather, of Ammon Jerro."

"Now you really don't sound like yourself," the Moon Elf sighed – in truth she had expected this kind of reaction from the paladin; she had seen it in his eyes as Shandra died, "I know you're angry, and you're grieving…"

"This is not grief, or anger, my lady," he denied suddenly, looking around at her sharply, one tear trickling over his cheek, "This is guilt. I am guilty of injustice. I failed Ophala in my youth, when perhaps I could have been forgiven my foolishness, and now again, after thirty-four summers in this world, I fail again, because I could not love the one I was meant to love."

"For you to have such a belief was the intention of the devil we faced, Casavir," Isaviel reminded him softly, putting a hand on his strong shoulder and seeing him turn away, so incongruously weak, "She implied that, she forced us to think that we felt things that we did not…"

"No. Lies never can wound so deeply as truths, not in the course of time – the devil we heard spoke truly. This reality will only burn the worse, as my life wanes. This guilt is born of truth that overshadows any lies the evil creatures we met could have woven. The Erinyes's pull on mortality is her ability to see one's greatest desires and fears. She saw them all, in all of us."

"You can't know that. And no one ever loves exactly as they should," Isaviel suggested, "My foster-father and I never loved each other as strongly as we should, and I never saw Merring's honesty until I saw him dead at my feet. These things that our enemies do to us to scare us, weaken us, divide us…they shouldn't make us react this way. We lash out in anger because we're afraid they're right. Of course they're right, but the truth of our feelings is not necessarily bad. If we thought that, then we'd all be lost. Love comes, it goes, and it's an idealistic lie to think that we'll keep it forever. I think Shandra knew that. I don't think she begrudged you, and I don't think it stopped her from trying to get what she wanted."

As she spoke, she felt a pang go through her heart that she had not expected. Love. Why did that word pull at her so much? A shiver ran over her skin, a cold breath of wind and her throat constricted for a moment. Bishop. Why did she think of him now?

"Isaviel," the paladin whispered, another tear falling now, "I did not love her, though I persuaded myself that I could. And I cannot love Elanee, though she has told me that is how she feels for me."

The Moon Elf stared at him, but tried not to see, or to understand. Her goal was to help, for once in her life – in honour of Shandra and Merring, who died believing in her as no one else had. Her own words surprised her, and they had certainly shocked Casavir, but she did believe them, and she needed her belief to help him now, so she continued.

"To let guilt divide us, and doubt destroy you…of course that's how they want you to feel, to make you think all that you do is worth nothing. But you know better really, and Shandra understood that about you. We might think that you're paladinic honour is a little…overbearing at times," she smiled to him as much as she could bring herself to, "And not everyone I keep around me gets on all that well, but we do fight together well – and we've succeeded so far, albeit not without cost," she agreed when he began to interrupt, "Even though she died saving us, she succeeded in defeating Ammon Jerro as well. We can't be hasty about him, because we need him."

"You do not sound like yourself anymore, my lady," the paladin smiled weakly, "You sound like her."

"I'm glad," the Moon Elf laughed, though tears fell as well, "I've been trying really hard here."

They knelt in silence then, though the gravity of the situation felt painfully alien to Isaviel, her fingers drifting down Casavir's arm and closing around his hand, gripping tightly. He did not move away, and they remained that way as dawn rose fully over Crossroad Keep, cold and barely seen beyond the white clouds of midwinter.


"Highcliff has not yet been attacked. It should be safe enough over the next few days to get the cart to her old home. I would not linger however," Daeghun warned two hours later when Casavir, Elanee and Khelgar, bruised but conscious once more, stood at the gates, armed, armoured and wrapped in furs.

Shandra's coffin had been placed upon a cart, ready to leave; the paladin and the Dwarf had insisted upon going with the small contingent of guards heading down the High Road to take the woman's body back to her old home near Highcliff. It was a six day journey there and back on horseback in this weather, not daring to take the less travelled – but more direct – roads in such dangerous times.

"We will endeavour to travel swift and true, Daeghun," Elanee responded as the others nodded goodbye, wheeling their horses around and heading through the gatehouse after the cart and its guards, "When we return I would dearly wish to hear what you have to tell me of the Mere."

"And I shall, good druid," the Elven ranger responded fervently – as fervently as Daeghun ever did respond, at least – and nodded to her once; she responded in kind, looking to Isaviel as well, and then followed the others.

"Your friend was a great loss," Daeghun noted softly as the gates had been brought down after the travellers, and Isaviel turned to look at him, assuming he meant something more leading with his words, but there was nothing to be gleaned from his sharp-featured face, appearing tanned even in this weather.

"Many of us will miss her," Isaviel agreed.

"But not all?"

"Neeshka is too pragmatic about the lives of others to care overly much, and Mae'rillar never knew Shandra. I can't imagine much other than 'duty first, sense later' from someone like Kana or Sir Nevalle, though he did give her that armour. And Sand…well, you know him. He's been so caught up in his studies and his spells I'm surprised he's not killed himself with exhaustion by now."

"You are needlessly judgemental, and deliberately misleading," Daeghun admonished coldly, turning and beginning to walk away back towards the keep, knowing Isaviel was bound that way as well and would therefore follow him, in spite of herself, "You do understand the service Elanee does you this day by riding out with your two warrior friends?"

"Not really," Isaviel shrugged, frowning at his abrasive tone, "She knows the lands near Highcliff. And she won't be second best in getting Casavir's attention, not even to a corpse."

"She is travelling on the day of the new year festival when by her rights she should stay here and observe them. She worships the gods of nature; Silvanus, Chauntea, Mielikki. It is her duty to celebrate this time for them, though she might grieve. She is showing to all of you her devotion to this cause by helping those who would fight in it."

"Then all the better for us," Isaviel dismissed his words utterly as they stepped inside the keep, and as the doors closed the Elf turned to face her, frowning deeply.

"Do not pretend to be so callous, Isaviel, I heard your words to the paladin in the temple."

"You listened in on my conversation?" Isaviel balked, then her tone became mocking, even as she noticed Sand, and the newly conscious – and apparently unharmed – Qara approaching across the busy, rowdy main hall with Zhjaeve following, "Isn't that supposed to be a holy place? Or did you bribe the priests?"

"It is my duty to learn if you will be a good captain of this keep. If you are not, then I will advise the leadership of the city against you – should they fail to listen, then I will give aid to someone else more worthy," Daeghun responded so coldly, his eyes momentarily flashing with such anger, that Isaviel forgot all about how he had dressed her wounds, and how he had fallen asleep in her armchair.

"Always such a loving father," Isaviel spat, "Your trust is astounding."

"Know that now is not the time to argue," Zhjaeve interrupted, stepping between the pair, "The one we have in the dungeons is not the King of Shadows, but he certainly has information we need."

"At least we made sure that Ammon Jerro was dead before we blundered into his haven," Bishop threw in sarcastically, just stepping through the closing gates, eyeing Daeghun with a sourly distrustful air, "Saved us all a lot of trouble, that did."

"Yes, yes," Sand sighed, smirking when Isaviel rolled her eyes, "We all know he's alive now, Bishop. Too much of that 'wit' of yours in the wrong places and we might start to think that you are utterly stupid."

"Oh really," the ranger sneered, looking the wizard up and down once, then shrugging and stepping past them, "Maybe that's what I want you to think."

"Wouldn't take much effort," Qara added derisively, "I saw what you did in the battle. One of your pathetic arrows isn't going to kill me."

"I wouldn't say that if I were you," the ranger snarled suddenly, doubling back and leaning closer to her, enough that some of the guards nearby bristled automatically, "My arrow won't miss when I mean it for your throat, little girl."

"I think the important thing to remember here is that he's more powerful than we'd ever imagined, after all that 'helpful' information Aldanon showered upon us," Isaviel pointed out, finally stepping away from Daeghun and moving for the large double doors in the left wall.

"More powerful than some wizard, anyway," Qara sniffed, looking pointedly at Sand.

"More powerful than you, Qara," the wizard responded sharply, "And you would do well to believe me before you learn that a warlock's fires will burn you just as easily as they would me."

"Alright then, if he's so tough, what do you think we should do about him, high and mighty wizard?" the sorcerer demanded and Isaviel ground her teeth in frustration at their open bickering, right in front of all the guards, gesturing pointedly towards the doors.

"We could imprison him, and let the Watch have him after we've learned what we can from him," Sand shrugged, but Daeghun stepped up to them, shaking his head gravely, only for Bishop to get a word in first.

"Tell me you're joking, wizard," the ranger demanded, "He would blow up the whole city just for fun and then come back for us. I say we get what we want for him and kill him. To the Hells with 'justice'. He gave Shandra a hard death…I'd enjoy giving him one."

"We could just tie stones round his ankles and drop him off the docks," Qara shrugged, looking about almost innocently when everyone looked to her incredulously, "What? You didn't look at Bishop like that. And anyway, the water would put out his fire before he'd have a chance to free himself…or…something."

"Gods, will you all just shut up?" Isaviel exclaimed, "We have to learn what we can from him. It might be that we need more from him once we've found out the truth," she shared an uncomfortable glance with Zhjaeve, "I think I might know why, too."

"He murdered Shandra Jerro," the Githzerai put in softly, "And he must answer for that. But we cannot answer murder with murder – I think our leader understands this."

Everyone looked to Isaviel now, and the expectant looks made her more than nervous, her hands balling into fists. Daeghun had stepped up to join them at a short distance, watching closely – no matter how angrily she looked at him, he did not back off, those sharp eyes taking everything in, judging everyone just as closely as he had told her she should not.

"I say we let our 'leader' handle Ammon," Bishop nodded at last now, as acidic as ever, but his expression was serious, dark eyes staring at her with an intensity that made her shiver a little, "Something tells me she'll straighten him out."

"That is for the best," Zhjaeve agreed, "The will of Ammon Jerro is broken and that makes him dangerous, but also of use to us."

The Githzerai waved for the guards to open the doors, and the others stepped through while Isaviel watched the ranger curiously, raising her eyebrows when he smirked at her, stepping forward once the others had moved on. He stepped closer, not quite touching her, his body so close as he continued to step past that she could feel its heat. Staring in his wake before following, Isaviel bit her lip and shook her head in frustration, wondering at why he was treating her like that now when he had been so distant after their little run in with Hezebel. Glancing back, she saw Daeghun glaring at her and rushed after the others to hide the red colouring her cheeks.

The stairs down to the dungeons, opposite the banquet hall of all places, had been refurbished with a new polished rail, and the door had more locks and wards on it than before – a strange set-up really, given that the pantry lay on the floor below, above the dungeons. This was a familiar path, though the corridor was now lit, dusted and covered in a long woven carpet, the din of the officers off duty in the banquet hall behind them, the smells of the kitchen around the corner. They had taken it when descending to the very bottom level of the keep to face Black Garius.

One armed soldier led the group down the spiral stairs, fixed so that they were broader than before, with shallower steps, carrying a torch to light the way. There were guards stationed at the door to the pantry, and another pair deeper down, in front of the dungeon door, now tellingly locked. They pull aside the bolts and undid the three heavy padlocks, but the door only opened when Sand spoke the appropriate phrase, breaking the wards. A glow of purple light fizzed up the doorframe, and then they were free to pass. As they did so, Isaviel did not fail to notice a twisting set of wooden ramps had been set up to allow passage to the basement where she had fought Garius. No doubt this was from the effort the soldiers had been forced to make to remove the Luskan wizard's corpse, and those of his acolytes. For all the good it had done them. He had been far harder to kill when she had met him in death, and her skin crawled at the memory. The marks he had left on her neck would add to her collection of scars, large and red and terribly visible.

There was no natural light to be had in these ancient dry dungeons – which were far from extensive; only three doors, of thick oak reinforced with iron, stood in the grim stone room ahead. Again, the central door was warded, and Sand had to speak several phrases to break these glyphs even before the soldier with them could unlock it. He nodded and saluted then, his eyes nervous, placing the torch in a sconce in the walls and stepping outside.

"Why did you bring her back to my haven?" Ammon Jerro's gruff voice greeted them bitterly through the deep darkness, and it took a moment before Isaviel's eyes switched to darkvision, the torchlight too feeble to reach the corner in which the old warlock sat, slumped on his hard sleeping tablet, "Although she was of my blood you knew that she did not have the strength to survive there."

He stood then, stepping forward into the light, his eyes, shining white-grey, were just as luminous as the orange tattoos across his lined face. His beard was red, shot through with grey and silver, though his head was bald, and he had been given a plain brown robe to wear in his imprisonment. He was looking at Sand, not Isaviel, as if assuming that the wizard who had broken the wards must be the one to lead the group before him. His expression became hard when he saw Zhjaeve.

"We were told you were dead, that you died shortly after the war with the King of Shadows…but we were also told you were a humble, eccentric wizard. A jester wizard, at that," Isaviel told him coolly, looking him up and down disdainfully, "And she still defeated you, though your power was so great."

"She died to defeat me, and set the most powerful monsters of the lower planes free. That is not victory, that is stupidity," he shot back, but his expression dropped as soon as his eyes fell upon Isaviel, looking at her with some significant level of uncertainty – that made little sense.

"We did not come here to learn more about your greatest regrets. We need to know what you know about the King of Shadows, and about the silver sword. Oh…" the Moon Elf paused, her smile hard, holding a hand out towards him, "You were allowed to keep some of your possessions in there with you, but I'd very much like those shards. I've a collection, you see."

"So we face the same foe, and seek the same goals," the warlock grunted, handing the items to her from a shelf on the wall without a second thought, careful not to touch her skin as he did so, "I can sense the power of the blade which you carry with you – the blade that I once wielded against our common foe, at the Battle of West Harbour. A cursed blade, if you ask me, but it will serve your purpose, as I once intended it to serve mine."

"You fought in West Harbour?" Isaviel gasped, "Then…you wielded the sword when it broke…"

"And a piece lodged inside you. Then I would deduce it was your wails I heard all those years ago," Ammon shrugged, gesturing towards her, "That would explain why the shards gain power in your grasp…although that power should not be so great," he watched her with strangely nervous eyes, searching her face, watching her expressions as she glared at him distrustfully, as if trying to deduce an answer from her very being.

"How did you not destroy the King of Shadows before? How do you still live?"

"The…sword broke before I could kill him, but his armies were defeated by my demons and Neverwinter's soldiers – at the last the Githyanki even joined their side to drive him away, though I do not doubt that they sought me fiercely after the fighting was done. I still live, girl, because I am damned," he spoke the words so calmly, but there was a flicker of ancient anger in his eyes, "Because a Pit Fiend dragged me to the Hells and there I suffered for these past thirty years, tormented for attempting to defeat the King of Shadows…and failing. I did not know of the Ritual of Purification before, the rite which will allow one to push past the power with which the King of Shadows shattered the Sword of Gith decades ago."

"Then it really is the Sword of the Gith?" Isaviel stared down wonderingly at the two new shards in her hand, one tiny and plain, the other as large as her palm, a red jewel beneath its surface.

"Kalach-cha," Zhjaeve agreed in a whisper, earning a disbelieving glare from Bishop, "And note his words. He knows of the Ritual of Purification…you must know that it is he who has carried it out, as well."

"Yes, your pet Githzerai speaks truly, though she goes about it as tidily as Zaxis might have feasted upon you. Those shards are indeed part of the original greatsword of Gith; I wielded the original weapon, whole, but it will not require every piece to be remade again. You need just one more, the other central red stone, before you can attempt to re-forge it, and to wound the King of Shadows as I did," Ammon Jerro told Isaviel sternly, and she gripped the pieces hard when she looked up at him again, "I can be of more use to you in the world above, in the battle to come, than I can be here in this cell. You cannot defeat the King of Shadows without the Ritual of Purification…nor can you defeat the Shadow Reavers, for to my knowledge there is no other living being left with the understanding to decipher their true names in the Tome of Iltkazar."

He nodded a quick, sharp nod, as if of encouragement, when he saw the determination in Isaviel's eyes. Though it hurt her to admit it, it would seem that he was right. She needed him to fight with them – and one of his power would certainly be useful. He seemed to be brutally pragmatic, and so tired of life, that she knew Zhjaeve was right – his will was broken, at least for himself, but he did seem determined to defeat their common foe.

"Then you are free to join us," Isaviel agreed at length, to the surprised exclamations of both Bishop and Sand – the grin that spread across Qara's face was perhaps more worrying, "Though you are not free to go."

"Agreed," Ammon Jerro nodded more forcefully, and not a hint of a smile came to his lips – to his credit, he did not gloat at this victory against his captor, "You will need aid to understand the workings of the sword - and whether you like it or not you are now that weapon. I have seen you fight, and you fight like one who is used to winning – or running. There will be no running from this battle with the King of Shadows. He can see you like a silver beacon against his darkness, for you carry a piece of the sword in your chest. Should you flee this keep, and the city which holds you here, he will hunt you down, and when you do not have an army at your back you will be no match for him."

Sand ceased his hissed disagreements when he heard those words, his shoulders slumping, and when he looked to Isaviel now he lowered his sad eyes; she understood what that look meant. He was agreeing, though he did not wish to.

"I will pay for my pacts and crimes for millennia when I die. There are places reserved in the Hells for ones like me," Ammon told them at length, glaring first at Sand and then at Bishop before looking to Zhjaeve, "And I know you doubt me, but I am your only hope in this war, and it is time you agreed. There is much to be done, and little time left."