Siblings
Part V: Queenside Castling
9
Danger always strikes when everything seems fine.
Where were you with such wisdom when Ryan Trawl was riding to arrest me? Sarevok muses, without offence, as he is standing in the pleasant spot of warmth still keeping on the northern side of the holiest of Amaunator's altars, now set afire by the silent, brisk and bright sun of the late morning.
Far below him lies the temple's main courtyard with its cracked pilasters and fountains; beyond it is the forest; the yellow marble raft of the rooftop terrace is floating on a sea of fir verdure under a welkin of sheer azure. The scents and colours are strong and staggering, and, after the recent discreet, low-key monochrome, indescribably tawdry, tasteless, overdone and optimistic.
Himself, he had tanned somewhere on the sinuous way from Athkatla here, he has discovered, to his private delight; but then, he has always easily tanned; the proper high-born lady, Imoen is still pale. The beard—
Why worry about a beard when your head's about to be cut off, master?
What has got into your own head today, bard? he asks the eagle perched on his braced forearm, amused; and then, solves her riddle: The classic answer would be: because it is mine. I don't remember your ever complaining, bird.
The Edge of Chaos is with him, as always it should be; and the sibling is behind, still asleep with the rest of her party— The moment lacks perfection; yet he smiles, suddenly: Servant, for breakfast, I will have fish.
I am not a fishing bird, master, protests she at that, at last laughing; Learn, then, how to be one, pleasantly, he cuts the protests short. Fish roasted under a sauce of molten cheese, freshly ground pepper and wild berries; the way they serve it in Baldur's Gate, in the ducal palace—
He releases her, hence, and he flies her, and she flies, spreading her wings wide as she takes a deep plunge into the precipice below her master; today, she is imperial, and stately, and slow, and like an avariel who still has her wings; and he loves her.
Together, then, they soar high into the sky, to see far, to see a flow, to see a fish glistening in the sunlight; feeling the sun and the wind in her feathers, for a lengthy moment free of all fears and worries— She cries in joy, and this lasts, long enough; but then, Minsc's sad words filter into the foreground of Sarevok's consciousness.
"Boo likes the forest, and the purpose is great and glorious. But I have my witches to protect! Alas, Minsc cannot stay."
Frowning, the half-human makes himself perfectly invisible, and charily steals a look behind the triumphant golden chariot-riding idol, forever blessing the bodies of his faithful with his outstretched hand— The nymph who is walking with Minsc amidst the drained, lifeless husks; the scattered remnants of the blackened arrows; the cracks and holes in the yellow marble floor— She is slim and tall, queenly, evergreen with black eyes and a nest of long, black hair; she looks and smells like a fir, a spruce—or Sarevok's own wife; but she is even less human than Gudrun, and is beautiful and ageless.
"You will never finish your dajemma, Minsc," dressed in a long, thick-woven, elm-bark gown, harshly, in a rook's croak, the crone croaks; eyeing the Rashemi coolly over the high cheekbones of her gaunt, angular face.
"That may be so, if so it must be," the barbarian replies; his own eyes, in turn, are dull and mirthless, without much hope. "But I will not abandon my duty! Boo would never forgive me."
Mairyn, for it must be she, nods regally. "Such steadfast loyalty is commendable in a servant of nature, Minsc. I leave you until noon to decide— Now, you," she turns to Sarevok; who, amused, sees himself visible again, "I know of you, but you are not known to me. Young Vaelasa from the south sends her greetings and her gratitude—" Apparently, trees tell tales of his deeds; he does not like it. "—but Nilthiri told me that you are cast out from her lands, and my sisters from Cloakwood promise that if you ever set foot in Abela's forest again, you will dearly pay for it—"
"They need not fear," he replies lazily as, briefly, he recalls an acquaintance past, "Even though they did nothing when I was available for their vengeance."
Mairyn sizes him up and down, and ends her speech, "I am the heart and soul of this forest. Explain yourself to me. Have you come here as friend, or foe? Which—"
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"—is it?" Mazzy Fentan, in her golden armour, intercepts from under the idol, yawning; and the others of the party have awoken, and are quickly covering the short distance separating them from the men, the forest's spirit, and the party's leader.
"Mazzy!" Nalia, in her short blue cape, almost runs up the cracked marble stairs to hold close the halfling, and the image of Nalia jumps around in wild happiness; Aerie, stately in her white, gold and brown, follows smartly. "W-we were so scared about you, Mazzy!"
Mazzy smiles. "I'm so glad to see the two of you, too! And you, too, Imoen. And—Valygar. Minsc. Gudrun. I'm happy that you are all safe and sound! And this is… yours, I think, is it not, Anchev?"
His stone is still glowing with the muted, warm light of a latent promise; "Yes, it is," he replies, absently, easily, in the civil anticlimax, as he hides it; the dryad has disappeared in a whiff and whirl of fir needles, and the promise of a rematch. "Thank you, Fentan."
"You are welcome," replies the halfling, stiffly, in her best-mannered, clipped tone; before also briskly moving to this next point of business. "But who was it, Minsc? Who were you two talking to?"
The barbarian, smoothly, for him, lies, "Mairyn. The forest thanks the heroes!"
"This is not good?" Gudrun asks; "It doesn't seem to make you too happy, though," Imoen remarks; "Yes. What is it, Minsc?" Nalia adds.
"Mairyn wants me to stay," Minsc admits, looking now at Mazzy, now at Aerie, now at Nalia, and now at Gudrun— But it is the taciturn Valygar Corthala, of whom everyone has forgotten, who speaks out, loudly, suddenly, "The forest wants you to take Merella's place?"
"Mairyn does," Minsc replies demurely.
Beside her protector, Aerie smiles, brightly. "But t-that is wonderful, Minsc!"
"It is?!" Minsc and Nalia ask in concert, the former happy, the latter sceptical; "Why?" Mazzy Fentan demands.
The object of their joint offensive bites her lip and draws a deep breath. "B-because…" She closes her eyes; then, opens them, and recites, "Because I want to stay in Imnesvale, too. I-I won't go with you when you leave, Mazzy, Nalia," Aerie adds, unhappily, "I-I'm sorry."
Minsc beams. "My witch wants to stay in the forest?!"
"Can you, please, be silent for a moment, Minsc?" my lady d'Arnise, together with her patience, snaps; then, in a much kinder tone, she adds, "Aerie? Did I— Yes, I mean, of course, I heard you correctly, but… Why, little thing? What are you talking about?"
"Yes. I'd like to know it, too," Mazzy Fentan adds in her curt, clipped, factual speech.
Aerie makes a small mouth. ""W-well— I-I— I have to— I-I want to stay somewhere, Nalia. I-I'm so t-tired of moving from p-place to place… N-never staying anyw-where long… A-and there is Quayle…"
"…and I told you, Aerie, did I not?" Nalia interrupts the stutter with mild, no-nonsense reproach, "I will take you with me to my castle." "Excuse me?" a halfling asks; in the background, Valygar Corthala shakes his head and walks off, heading for the bodies scattered around the altar. Sarevok's own escape is arrested: Imoen lands a hand on his shoulder. Stay, brother, she tells him, with a look, without a word, without need.
He watches Aerie, instead, now herself eyeing wistfully a redhead. "I-I don't want to go w-with you, N-Nalia… I want to stay h-here."
"Here? In this—" The hopeful duchess looks desperately around the silent temple roof, the silent forest, the silent sky of the warm morning, "—place? In the middle—no, at the end of nowhere? What could it possibly—" Suddenly, her wandering gaze falls upon Sarevok. "Has he been telling you things again?!"
Even Gudrun, who cannot understand much of the proceedings, is now eyeing him darkly. "No." The redhead is gorgeous when she is furious; gorgeous and dangerous. "No?!"
"H-he hasn't been telling me anything! W-well, he told me about what y-you two want to do, and—" Aerie, with her fists clenched, falls silent; then, finishes, ferocious like a ferret, "I-I don't like it!"
At this juncture, what brief detente there was between a halfling and him must be over; Mazzy Fentan's gaze now rivals a beholder's. "Anchev?"
He smiles down on her, coolly. "The duchess, Fentan, has employed me to retrieve her fee. The minutiae are, I believe, up to her discretion."
Imoen looks at him, surprised; Aerie, with confused betrayal; "Exactly!" Nalia d'Arnise lets out the breath which she has been holding. "This is it. I'm sorry, Mazzy, but it's—it's as well you learnt this now. I really can't stay with you. I have learnt much from you—and I really am grateful to you—but it's high time I returned to my proper station. There is so much to be done—"
Mazzy Fentan puts a small hand on her forehead, and sighs deeply. "I… see," suspicious, distressed, unconvinced, she replies, "I see. Yes. But why didn't you come with it to me first, Nalia?"
That one looks at her bitterly. "I tried, Mazzy. Believe me… I tried."
For a moment, silence reigns; until Mazzy Fentan, awakened from her dream, suddenly, sharply, still holding Nalia's gaze, speaks up, "Someone has to pick the jewellery and the personal things from the bodies, if there are any, for the families. Minsc, Gudrun, can you go help Valygar? Imoen, Anchev? We…" A brief look at Aerie. "The three of us have to talk. Alone."
Yes: technically, a remote part of his mind remembers, this is what the party are here for. To deal with the source of Imnesvale's problems.
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Valygar Corthala is finishing looting the bodies: hiding into a gem bag a long lock of dark female hair. The villagers, now proud owners of a gold-filled temple, are not yet aware of fortune's corrupt attempt to reimburse them for their losses.
"Here. This should fit you," he says curtly as soon as the four of them catch up with him, and he pushes towards Gudrun a suit of ashen-coloured mail. "Perhaps less people would take your wife for an orc if you dressed her properly," he almost throws at the half-orc's husband.
Between the earlier quarrel and the current impudence, Sarevok finds himself distinctly not amused. "You are not making friends here, Corthala," he rather growls.
"I think I agree," Imoen, standing by his side, suddenly, pleasantly, adds. "If this was supposed to be an apology, you should have tried a bit harder."
The man's face pales. "Damn. That went completely wrong. Look." He rises from the ground. "I'm sorry. I'm not good with words. I'm sorry. It was Merella's," he adds, looking from the dead woman to the half-orc.
Gudrun is watching her husband expectantly; he shrugs. "Take it, wife, if you want to. Perhaps the man has some sense, after all." And the ashen scale is superbly crafted. ("Look, Boo! These are wyvern scales!" Minsc gushes in the background.)
Gudrun nods, once; and then, stiffly, she turns to the man. "Thank you."
That one eyes her oddly. "No. Thank you. You saved my life, after all. For what it is worth."
"I'll help you fit it, Gudrun," Imoen offers; and the two women disappear.
Master?
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"—because you were so… so wrapped in yourself and your own importance!" Seen through Altair's eyes, heard through Altair's ears, Nalia d'Arnise is fuming.
"I am worried! My witch is unharmed, but Boo says nothing good can come of a witches' quarrel!" Minsc says, perhaps following his gaze; Sarevok, starting upon filleting the fish his eagle has brought, admits, sincerely, "And truer words have never been uttered by a hamster, I believe."
"I still can't believe the hamster talks to him," Valygar Corthala mutters.
"Boo is my friend and companion, and more than he seems," Minsc replies with good-natured cheer. "He has been with me ever since my h-h-head wound, and has never failed to guide me well! But he tells me that a hamster, though always a very good comrade in arms, is not the best choice of a friend for every man of the forest. Your disposition, for example, is more suited to a hound."
"I am not a man of the forest as you are, Minsc," the other man replies curtly.
"Nalia… you know how it is between my sister and me, don't you? After Patrick died—"
Sarevok, over the fish, considers. "But you are a woodsman, Corthala? Has either of you by chance seen edible fruit in this forest? I will need some for the sauce." As much as a sauce it will be and it will be called for, under the circumstances, he thinks, darkly—
"I have never been around here before," says the stranger. "But, given the season, there should be some wild berries."
"Berries?" Minsc frowns. "I can ask Mairyn for some good berries to aid the heroes! If Khelliara wills, Mairyn will grant—"
"—my daughters to me—" "Yes, Mazzy, but even children grow up some day, don't you think?!" "S-sometimes, I w-wish…" "I think, Nalia… I forgot— Or, better said, didn't want to remember—"
The purple ring of the tribal markings on Minsc's face almost seems to turn in concert with his throaty whispers, the beating of the hooves of the wild horses running across the steppe; then the world becomes the steppe, and the ice dragons, and the harsh winters, and the scorching summers, and the wild horses in run; and the Wychlaran, the true Rashemen hathran who tattooed the runes into the Rashemi berserker's skin— And there is a huntress there, too; and she is Mielikki.
"Here we are. The best of forest's berries for the forest's saviours!" Minsc intrudes proudly; and Sarevok, frowning, distressed, blinking, disoriented, must return to Amn. "See them, Boo?! Go for them, Boo! Meanwhile, I'll clean the fish."
"Can you, Minsc?" Valygar Corthala suddenly asks. "I have something to show you," he turns to Sarevok. "Since Mazzy is busy."
"An explanation, not an excuse, Nalia. That is all. Of course I will help you."
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The bodies scattered around the altar used to be, once: Merella the ranger protector of the Umar Hills; Lilah Willet's mother; Groos' son and Groos' wife; Johanna's daughter; and— He kneels to inspect the nobleman. "I saw such emblems in Sir Jamis' army. In Tethyr."
A soldier, then; was he in the north? "A Tombelthen."
"Yes. This was his." A fine mithril medallion. "He must have heard a story about a gold-filled temple, came here to check, broke the seals and released this… thing."
"But, Nalia… I-I— When we first met? Y-you told me about the Crying God, remember? Took me to that shrine on Waukeen's Promenade?"
"It took just this one cretin for them all to die," Valygar Corthala says now in his dull, heavy voice, and Sarevok is amused: the man is yet unaware of his interlocutor's exact identity. "Him, and the original one," Corthala spits. "Amuana's, or what's-her-name's, killer. Will you wizards ever learn?"
"Yes, I remember. But what does this have to do with anything?"
Save for the bodies; the arrows; the altar; the party themselves— There is no trace of yesternight's debacle; unlike his own, this nightmare vanished with the dawn. But Corthala has his friend in mind. "Amaunator took care of his own, I believe;" this is, perhaps, the promise the stone hides.
"And the rest of them?" Corthala accuses still in his grave, gravel tone, "Kelemvor will sort them out? I don't believe in gods."
"You are faithless?"
"Ilmater helped me a lot, but y-you… You, too, have ch-changed a lot, in these six months! I'm not sure even y-you noticed how much. I don't know why… Or maybe I do. A bit. B-but, even so, I mean, Mazzy is right… I-I almost don't recognise you! Do you still want to help people? I really must know…"
"Yes, I am. Can we end this conversation now?"
"As you wish." The Wall of the Faithless is the one place which no Bhaalspawn needs fear.
"Come. I'll show you Merella," the silent man abruptly offers.
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The two men halt again; the ranger protector of the Umar Hills was a human, a blonde, tall, thickset and plain; waxen-faced under her tan. Her eyes are closed, and the barbed arrow is no longer in her stomach. "I met her in the army."
"Were you two—" "No. I came here on… family business. An… ancestor of mine… spent much time in the Umar Hills."
"—Yes, as a matter of fact, Mazzy, the whole system! All the things we're doing here, they— They will be useless otherwise! What's so wrong about having a bit of ambition, pray tell me?"
"Did he."
"If you must put it this way, then… nothing, of course. Not if it is used in a good way, for a good purpose. I only wish you remembered that the ends—"
"Yes. I came here in search of… his trace. And instead—" Valygar Corthala looks at Merella's body again. "We fought together, in more places than I can now remember. That, of all things, it should be the undead who got her in the end." The hatred is pure and plain.
"Fentan's husband died to the undead, too, I'm told."
"Yes. She told me that, too. It cost her much to come here. Determined woman."
"—I failed you."
"She is a halfling, after all. Still, I do wonder how she will manage to reform her company this time."
"Tell me, how does Anchev mean—"
"She's looking at us. Does she want anything from us?"
"Not yet, I believe."
"—hasn't told me yet. But with him, and Imoen, and Aerie, and you…" "B-but, Nalia…"
Nalia d'Arnise is holding Pangur on her knees, scratching the cat behind a rosy-pointed ear; "Sibling. Wife. The armour fits, I see."
Valygar Corthala takes Gudrun and Minsc and leaves to hide from the merciless heat the bodies of his friend; a Tombelthen of Tethyr, wizard; the noble's escorts; and the villagers of the village Minsc would protect and Aerie would stay in.
"No, Nalia. I-I'm so sorry, but no…"
"You know, brother," Imoen says, sitting down by Sarevok as he eyes the skilfully gutted fish, "I'm impressed. It took you all of three days to completely wreck the lives of three adult women."
"The Rule of Threes strikes again," he muses: the fish looks rather like salmon out of spawning time. He cherishes his ignorance of its exact identity, and puts it to roast, instead. "The Rule of Threes, brother? What's that?" "Broadly speaking, sister… things come in threes."
He looks up at her amused disbelief, and smirks. "However, I do agree, sister: it is curious what an inherent talent and a bit of village gossip will do."
"You planned it," she accuses him, for some odd reason.
"I planned nothing, sister," he replies pleasantly as he takes the Imnesvale cheese out of his bag and starts to cut it into small cubes, "I merely acted on my best instincts."
"Then you have terrible instincts, brother. I mean—"
"—your way of helping people, Mazzy has hers, a-and I— I have mine? The people here don't even have a decent healer, and I'm really good with t-that, and Uncle Quayle taught me h-how to make potions, too—"
"—I mean, you did manage to drive a wedge between Nalia and Aerie, I'll give you points for that. But then, you failed to fill the gap."
"You filled the gap, sister."
"In fact, I expect that Nalia will be rather angry at you."
"So, you want to be some kind of a village witch in this… this dump? You'll waste yourself here! You deserve better—"
"She has a healthy instinct for politics, sister. We will recover."
"Alienating your future employer, sibling—"
"—is never a good move, I concur, sibling. Feel free to treat the exact circumstance as my express alibi."
"Oh, well," he hears a deep sigh. "In threes, you say, brother? As in—let's see: how would Minsc put it?—Boo saw no Evil, he heard no Evil, you did no Evil?" The triumphant smirk is unbearably smug, he finds; he smirks back. "Precisely."
"—of Quayle… How will you live alone, little thing? On your own? With a child? I'll take you—" "T-take me to a city? T-to your hold? I'm an elf, Nalia… I— I-I don't really like human cities! T-they are so crowded, and… well, dirty, and people l-look at me a-and—"
"I will be going to Athkatla, sister."
"Yes, I know," Imoen replies seriously. "I will be going with you, brother."
He looks up at her, again, surprised rather than irritated. "There is no need. All I—"
"I know how the geas can be dissolved, brother."
He freezes. "You do."
"—is nice. A-and there is the Understone, a-and Min, and Elence, in the barter post… And if Minsc stays here— Mazzy, tell her, p-please—!""Elves live long lives, Nalia. Aerie—"
The cheese is cut; all that remains is to grind the pepper. "Is Nalia coming with us, sister?"
"No," Imoen replies vehemently. "No. This is a sibling matter, brother."
"Nalia… I-it may not be the best choice. But this will be my choice… d-don't you understand? And I will not regret it. Oh, please understand!"
"She will need her company, sister."
"Yes. I know."
"—Haer'Dalis t-taught me a bit, too…"
"—yes, whom to avoid," he mutters; the little sister looks at him oddly. "Paladins, for one thing," he adds smoothly as he starts to warm the nascent cheese-and-berry sauce; and, though he does not, Imoen does laugh. "Do you miss him still?" she assaults, once again.
And this time, he replies, "No sister; no more."
Imoen laughs. "I'll give her my potion book," she decides, suddenly.
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"You have prevailed, then," he speaks as he folds his arms, leaning against a pilaster. "How does victory taste, elf?"
The fountains of the grassless marble courtyard of the solar temple are no longer frozen still, but are running with cool, clear water; standing in a spot of pleasant shadow, the elf and he are watching Nalia d'Arnise and— "Imoen!" the redhead duchess complains; Imoen has spattered her friend with a spray of small silver water droplets.
"I'm terrified," Aerie, pensive, says, not tearing her eyes off the picture. "Nalia—" She halts; Nalia did not speak much when the two of them met with Imoen and with him; she had eyes only for Imoen, and hasn't looked at Aerie since; and even her laughter now bears a trace of desperate, artificial longing for genuine mirth. He wonders, in passing, if the duchess had not loved the elf, after a fashion, his fashion, after all.
Aerie sighs, and looks at him at last. "B-but Mazzy said she would come to see me if she's around, and t-there's the forest, and I-I will have Minsc, and… Um. You wouldn't let Gudrun stay with us, would you, Sarevok?" she inquires, politely.
He eyes her critically from the vantage of his height. "Do you think you are fit to deal with her, elf? She will not be nice to you simply because you will be nice to her. She is in half an orc. She was raised like an orc. She thinks like an orc. She calls you her enemy."
"I-I know," the elf sighs quietly again. "I just t-think that… she may need Minsc as much as I do? And they may need her in the village… And," she giggles, suddenly, "she c-can knock out Minsc, if he gets too excited!"
"She is also rich, and knows orcish cures and the rudiments of bone-setting," he provides, coolly, mildly offended. "Their women all know them, in between the constant tribal warring. However, this is not what I asked you about, elf. Even assuming that I agree, and that she agrees, Minsc alone will be inadequate company for her. She will need a counsellor and an advocate. And you are about to have a child."
Aerie frowns and considers. "I think," she cocks her vixen-like head, and, for a moment, light reflexes jump from Altair's feather in her golden hair, "t-that you came here just to ask me this, didn't you, Sarevok? I-if I wouldn't take care of her?"
He shrugs. "To put matters more clearly, elf, to shift my responsibility to you and burden you with my wife at the outset of your independent life. Yes. This is a question."
Aerie bursts into unfeigned laughter, and despite herself, a duchess looks at her, for a moment, before angrily turning her head away. "The Broken One always h-helps those in need," the little creature declares when her merriment at his expense is over. "Remember?"
"Exactly," he replies; after all, this is, to an extent, part of the problem. "You are not your god, and Gudrun is not in dire need; I merely have no further need for her, either. She may benefit from your presence, I believe; you must think of yourself, elf."
Aerie makes a small mouth. "I-I told you already, Sarevok. If you agree, and she does, I'll try to help her. I p-promise you that."
He smiles. "Yes. And thank you."
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"It is said that, sometimes, if in childhood a sentient individual suffers chronic trauma, the mind dampens the perception and comprehension, though not the production, of emotions. Since fear and aggression are the most vital for survival, the capability to identify them, discern between them and process them persists the longest. If the deprivation does not subside, this, too, is eventually lost. The mind freezes; certain terms, like love, or happiness, alter or lose their connotations; so do lose their meaning certain physiological reactions.
You, Child, have found in your taint an outlet for your accumulated aggression. With this one exception, however, you are nothing short of a blind, deaf and mute fool wandering blithely through a world simply beyond your understanding. This will change. You will learn separation, analysis, interpretation and control. This will take time. We have time."
The spell of silence let go at last; but only one parched word managed to surface in the cage stinking of the madness of a human body.
"Why?"
No answer. There never was.