Siblings
Part VII: Countercheck
6
Running, running, running, running... FAA—A—A-ST!
"Oomph!"
The golden-eyed boy she fell into picked himself from the floor. "Watch out where you're going, Imoen!" he declared, quite annoyed.
She stuck out her tongue at him. "No, you watch out where you're standing, Sarevok!" This was the perfect answer, she thought, self-satisfied.
He rolled his eyes at her – she couldn't quite understand how, given that his eyes were glowing (she could never understand how he could see with them; one day, she must really gather her courage and ask him about it); then, he sighed theatrically, and started to pick up the books and scrolls. "If that's how you like it," he muttered.
She hid her tongue. "What'cha doing, anyway?"
"I'm taking these to Irene," the boy, unmollified by the peace overture, explained.
"To Irene?" Irene was the only one around here who had a proper Dad, and she was always sitting together with him and studying. She was also a dwarf, although Imoen did not know anything about that.
"Yes," Sarevok confirmed. "She told me Gorion and she needed these. What are you doing?" he asked, with deep suspicion.
"Oh, nothing," she said, with her hands in her pockets. "Just chasing a cat."
"A cat?" The boy sighed, deeply offended. "Imoen, you know we're not allowed to run in the library! Besides, there's no cats in here."
She wrinkled her nose. "There was one. I'm pretty sure I saw it."
"No there wasn't," Sarevok disagreed. "There's no cats allowed in here. Ulraunt wouldn't allow it."
Ulraunt could go and... stuff himself. "Yes there was! And the rules are stupid."
"No argument from me about that," the boy muttered.
She blinked; for a moment, they stood in an uneasy agreement, before she ventured, "Aaa-nyway... wanna play Bandits and Heroes after you're done with that?"
The boy scratched his nose. "Depends. Are you gonna make me the Hero again? 'Cause I didn't really like that. Heroes are so stuffy."
She thought about it, for a moment. It really wasn't fair that Sarevok always had to play the boring parts. "I know! How about we rope Irene into that?"
The boy's eyes glimmered. They glimmered. "Deal."
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Irene let herself be convinced, after some minor grumbling and some admonishment from Gorion to "go play with her friends on fresh air"; she even showed them some cantrips she had learnt: the one to make light, for example, which Imoen thought was extremely cool.
After they were done, and tired, they sat out in the gardens of the Citadel, munching on apples and pears Sarevok had climbed the orchard trees to gather, watching the Chanters.
"What a stupid job," Imoen decided. "They just... chant... and chant... and chant. All day long."
"I agree," Sarevok said. "That is stupid."
Irene, judging from her pout, was less in agreement; but she was always harder to convince, even in such obvious matters. This, Imoen understood, came from her being a dwarf. "Who d'ya think yer gonna be once you're all grown up?" she asked, instead of insisting.
Irene beamed. "I'm going to be a wizard!" she said. "Like Gorion!"
Imoen rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows that, Irene."
Sarevok and Irene exchanged funny looks, as though they didn't think she could see them. "Well, who are you going to be, Imoen?" Sarevok asked.
She beamed at the attention. "I'm gonna be the Queen of Laugh and Beauty! Men from all over the Realms are gonna come and fight for me and..." She forgot the third one.
Irene seemed intrigued; but Sarevok seemed very much snickering. "And?"
She had to acknowledge her defeat. "And something. I forgot. Anyway, what're ya gonna do when you're grown-up, Sarevok?"
The golden-eyed boy frowned, and was about to say something, when she noticed something in the nearby thickets. "Look! There's that cat!"
"What cat?" Irene asked.
"That cat! That cat I told Sarevok about!" She turned to the boy, triumphantly. "You didn't believe me, and I told ya there was a cat!"
The cat was small, and grey with rosy points and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. What'cha doin'? it asked, moving its whiskers, offended. Stop goofin' 'bout. There's wor' t' be d'ne.
"What?" she asked, disoriented; everyone knew cats couldn't talk. They were not people.
Then, reality caught up to her, and she remembered. "Pangur? What'cha— What— What've I been doin'?"
The whiskers moved about cautiously. Y'tell me.
"Getting caught in an illusion, most like." She breathed deeply, closed and opened her eyes; the world before her suddenly went grey and still, and stopped mid-movement, as though she was between the ticks and tocks of time, and Pangur and she, the only ones actually alive. "And a very good one, at that." What had she been doing before she came here? Oh.
She turned to the Sarevok in the tableau. "My brother is dying, isn't he? His self-control must be slipping. That's why you are here."
"Yes," the demon of lost innocence replied, in her childhood brother's guise.
"What do you offer?"
It rolled its hand about. "This."
She considered. "My brother," she said, decisively and angrily, "told me about his childhood. He escaped a slaughter at the age of six; killed his first man at the age of seven; at the age of eight, became a brothel-boy in Rieltar Anchev's establishment; at the age of thirteen, Rieltar killed his foster mother for cheating on him and turned Sarevok into his enforcer; at the age of sixteen, Sarevok met Tamoko; at the age of seventeen, in the tenth anniversary of his first kill, he received his demon-sword; by that time, he had already been having the Children's dreams for years."
"And do you think any of that is worth keeping?" the demon asked her. "Better than the alternative? Better than that he die in peace?"
It had hurt to think of the misery the time she heard the story; it also hurt hearing, from her mother, how close she and her brother had been to living each other's lives. "It is not my choice to make," she said. "But if I'm to decide... Yes. The last time we met, he was looking into the future, not into the past. Leave us. You have no rule over me, or him."
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The still world vanished; and she found herself in a dark forest, with Pangur and Altair by her side; and Irene.
The familiars barely exchanged a word of greeting— But she herself was the most alarmed by the dwarf. "Irene, Sarevok let you go, didn't he?"
"Yes," her sister replied, surprised herself. "As you said it yourself, his control is slipping. You needed me here, so I was able to come."
We need t'find'im. T'chick—
She agreed with the cat. "We'd better hurry. We need to find him before Father does." She looked around. "It may be difficult, in this thicket. I don't know where we are."
In the depths of the Master's soul. Be careful now. The demons here will want to slow you down.
She bit her lip. "Are these his demons or mine?" she wanted to clarify.
Both.
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They moved through the thick forest; until they came to a familiar clearing; and within it, a familiar figure.
Imoen nudged her sister gently. "I think this one's for you, Irene." The dwarf nodded, and, quite visibly, swallowed.
As they neared the figure, it spoke: "Halt. Go no further. I wish to speak to you, my old ward."
"Gorion," Irene nodded in greeting.
"Yes," the old man said, "Gorion. And you, Irene— Where have you come to, my ward? What have you done? Have you forgotten all that I had taught you, brought you up to be? Have you forgotten me?" He moved. "And you, Imoen... my second hope. You have turned into a conspirator to your own failure. All your potential... lost. How both of you disgust me so."
"Potential?" the dwarf frowned. "What are you talking about, Father?"
The old man sighed. "I tried to save you both from your destiny. I saved you. I hid you from those who would hunt you. I taught you and enabled you to become what you are. I died for you— I tried to turn you into a force for good. And what have you done? Carved a path of blood and murder wherever you go!"
"Well," Irene said. "We tried. I died trying."
"You are a disappointment, Irene! This animal, Sarevok, who is responsible for my and yours death? He is a slave to ambition, and yet you try to resurrect him and hail him as a comrade!"
Gorion had not had a very handsome face, Imoen thought; aquiline nose with bushy eyebrows; but it had been wonderful when it had been warm and gentle. It was good that she had had Winthrop, else she would have been jealous of the dwarf.
"So many bodies left in your wake," the demon of grief and regret meanwhile wailed on, "so much pain and destruction that you have caused. Why? Why? How many are dead now, because of you two...? What of your former companions?"
—Khalid and Jaheira and Xan and Kivan; Yoshimo the stranger, her brother Edwin and Viconia; the thieves in Mae'Var's guild, Zyntris and Mae'Var himself; Kyland Lind and other friends of Cernd; four paladins of the Radiant Heart; three dryads; half a tribe of orcs; three guilds of the Shadow Thieves; Anomen Delryn; a dwarf named Korgan; four years of Nalia d'Arnise's enemies; Illasera; Reirra, Sovalidaas, Elhan, Coran and Ellesime—
The list was far from complete, and, in the corner of her eye, she could see that Irene was making her own— The stalling must stop. "What do you offer, demon?"
The demon looked at her with empty eyes. "Release. Freedom."
She considered. "No," she said, decisively and angrily, "You are too late. You are simply too late. A long time ago, I would have fallen for this offer; but now, I know that it is simply impossible. My other self is a part of me, as my sister and my brother taught me."
"And how many more must come to grief?" the demon asked her. "How many must die?"
It hurt to think of the deaths that had come of her taint; but dying now would not bring the dead back, or hamper her Father's plans. "I regret the deaths and cry for the dead," she said. "I strive to restrain myself and restrict my victims. But I do accept the chaos I have wrought. As I have accepted my brother, and as he accepts himself. Leave us. You have no rule over me, or him."
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The forest vanished; and she found herself in a grey desert, under a killing moon.
We must hurry.
"Yes, I know, Altair," Imoen snapped. "The problem is, where to? Sarevok travelled a lot, and if this place is as big as the entire Sword Coast, he can be anywhere."
Irene made a small move with her mouth. "Actually... I think I may have an idea. Remember that temple in the Undercity?"
"The one where you—"
"Died, yes. I... met Sarevok several times in there, again, after that."
"You know, Irene," Imoen said, "It's a good thing that I know exactly what you mean— Altair, can you tell us which way it is to Baldur's Gate?"
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The sky was changed when they appeared in the cavernous place, and was now blood red; the huge, double door opened before them, silently.
"This one... can be difficult," Imoen noted.
"Yes," Irene replied, and a bone dagger appeared in her hand. "We'll see for whom."
Her sister started slightly; but the dwarf already moved on.
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Sarevok was waiting for her in the back of the temple, by the altar, in his armour and with his sword.
She stepped on the emblem of her Father, the grinning skull surrounded by tears, producing her challenge; and so he spoke:
"So, we meet again, sister. How fitting that our reunion should be in this place of retribution."
Her heart skipped a beat; but there was very little recognition in his face, yet. "Is that really you, brother?" she asked.
"It is I..." he replied, "Or an echo, perhaps. My essence joined that of our Father after you murdered me, after all... In the end, all Children of Bhaal end up here."
She looked around. "I don't think I have murdered you just yet, brother. You're exaggerating. Stop it."
He measured her with his gaze. "What a pathetic worm, a snivelling little cretin you are, Imoen. Do you not remember how I relished spitting our sister on my blade?"
"Sarevok," she warned. "Even if you're a demon. Stop it."
He basked in her gaze. "Ah, yes. Stoke that infernal wrath of yours. I can feel the anger within you, coldly boiling like a pit of sulphur in the crevices of your heart. You feel it, do you not? Your taint, the taint that surrounds your soul like a serpent, squeezing it, spreading its venom— You have seen the Slayer, have you not? The avatar of our dead father. The blackest expression of murder... I see it behind your eyes. You have seen it."
"I can teach you how to reach deeper within yourself," the demon of temptation spoke. "You can already control the taint, direct it, summon it at will. You could become the Slayer at will and become the weapon of murder that you were meant to be!"
It hurt to think how she was missing out; murder was, after all, the one thing, the one beloved thing, the one thing she had been born to be— "I was wrong," she replied, not even bothering to be angry anymore. "This one's easy. No. I may take up the offer one day, but not from you and not like this. And, for what it's worth, I think I'm speaking here as well for Sarevok. He really doesn't like his mind being controlled, these days. So: leave us, demon. You have no rule over me, or him."
She turned around and tried to think of which place she should try out next, when she heard from the behind, a familiar bellow:
"THEN YOU WERE NEVER WORTHY OF BHAAL'S BLOOD AND I SHALL CRUSH YOU WHERE YOU STAND!"
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This way.
Pangur led them to a small crevice in the wall, barely enough to fit Imoen through; he went into it, and Altair went into it, and Imoen went into it; but Irene stopped. "I'll stay here," she said, "Delay him."
"Delay him?" Imoen asked; fighting Sarevok in his prime was not a thing she would dare to do alone.
"Yes," Irene said. "Don't worry. I'll just delay him, I won't stake my head on it. Besides," she laughed, "it fits. This is where I died, isn't it? I don't even have memories of what's past this place."
"You have my memories," Imoen protested. "My memories. I have shown them to you."
The dwarf shook her head. "No. Go!"
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Slowly and carefully, she made her way towards the exit through the upwards winding tunnel in the company of the familiars; for a moment, she wished she had an invisibility potion, surprising herself— Could she not simply make herself invisible, these days?
The small green slice of the sky that was the outside was crisscrossed almost constantly by magic projectiles and discharges, going, unfortunately, both ways— She remembered that day; and, in that moment, realised that she was not alone.
He was thin now, and malnourished, and scarred, and with a hungry look in his eyes and thin, hollowed cheeks; dressed in a tarnished elven chain and the helmet of the man he had once killed; but with the sword on his back; always the sword; even if it was almost too big for him now— He laughed at her when he realised that she had finally noticed him:
"I... live! Flesh and blood and bone! I am alive! Ha-ha! I swore I would scratch and crawl my way back into the world of the living... and I have done it!"
"Yes," she said, looking at him not without compassion. "You have done it, brother." Whether demon or her brother, he deserved it. She smiled. "I— don't think I have actually ever thanked you for getting me out of this place, Sarevok, haven't I?"
He ignored her point; giving her instead a sideways look. "So. I yet remain at your side. I am surprised. But from your constant wary glances it seems that you do not trust my presence, yet."
What did this one want? "We made a pact, Sarevok," she reminded him, "and then you swore an oath. I'm fine with that."
"Yes... the oath," her malnourished brother said. "But still... I am curious. Regardless of any oath, you have no remaining grudges from our earlier matches?"
"No, not really," she decided. "You paid for what you did."
He started. "Paid? How paid?" Another sideward glance— "It appears the seeds that our sire sowed long ago are about to come to fruition. For good or ill, the issue will be finally resolved very soon."
"Yes," she replied. Then, she laughed. "This isn't exactly how you thought it would happen, right?"
Her brother rubbed his neck. "No. Still, the time of the prophecy draws near, sister. What do you intend to do with me, then?"
She shrugged. "You'll be free to go, as you wish, of course."
Deep suspicion. "You would allow me to leave? We would just part ways, and I would be free to carry out whatever plans I wish, no matter what they might be?"
"If that's what you want. It's not my decision."
And mistrust. "But I am evil, sister. I intend to gain power for myself. Did you assume I would do otherwise?"
"Oh, bullshit!" she finally snapped. "You saved Suldanessellar. You recognised Ellesime from those clones, down there—" she pointed at the tunnel they both had come from, "—and you helped her save her city. She died, but most of them survived, you know. And the Tree. It was worth it."
The demon of mistrust and lingering doubts eyed her calmly. "And all that I did, I did for purely selfish reasons. The wizard and I are alike in that. We cannot be caged. We cannot be controlled."
"You control yourself well enough," she retorted. Then, she looked at the demon and said, decisively and angrily, "My brother is ambitious, proud, cruel and superior. He is smug, and he is brilliant. And he is also different. He was never raised with any knowledge of human attachments. He was never raised to trust. He would, in a matter of fact, have made for the perfect Lord of Murder. What do you offer?"
"Anything but that?" the demon of lingering doubt said. "A life away? Among good people? Without the burden?"
She looked at him with cold fury. "I made that choice, once," she admitted. It hurt to think about. "But now— Leave me. And leave him. I made that decision a long time ago, in Windspear and Umar Hills and Trademeet and Athkatla. We made that decision. We were making plans when—"
She gazed into the eyes of the understanding demon; when she felt the cold nose of a cat on her ankle. Go on. I'll keep this 'un 'ere.
She awoke from the dream; outside, the battle stopped. "Yes," she said. "I... I'm moving on."
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She took a deep breath as she climbed out of the tunnel onto Waukeen's Promenade, now only with Altair by her side. This had been a long journey, from Candlekeep to this place; a long, obstinate, obstreperous, oppressive, plodding journey— The next step.
The scaffold was already rebuilt by the time she resurfaced; and the solitary figure was already sitting up there, alone in the utter darkness. Altair spread her wings widely and flew, gracefully and majestically, straight up to the top, in the silence; Imoen sighed, picked up her bottle of moonshine, and started climbing.
Her brother, now wearing the restored golden elven chain and his dragon helmet—and the sword; always the sword!—frozen in the tableau when she had for the first and ever time in his life heard him beg—looked up at her as she approached. "Sister," he repeated. "Help me."
She froze, herself. "That's why I'm here," she said as she sat down, next to him, with all the artificial geniality she could muster.
"Are you?" he asked, not looking at her. "Are you? Are you not sure that you do not want to return—there?"
She knew what he meant; Nalia, Valygar and Mazzy and Aerie, and the Shadow Thieves, and the paladins, and the wizards, and the dregs of the society, and the nobles; all that; humanity— She shook her head. "No. I have tried that, tried my best to be that, and I'm— It's not my place. Not now. Not anymore."
He laughed lightly. "And how long did it take you to learn this lesson, sister?"
"Four years," she admitted, harshly. "Four years, brother, while you suffered under Irenicus' yoke. And no, I did not tell anyone what the price of that luxury was. Not until Ellesime, and she was a stranger. Not Nalia, not Aerie, not Aran, not Ryan Trawl, not Valygar, not Irene, not Mazzy."
He inspected her, calmly. "Is that why you are alone?"
"I was planning to ask Mazzy, Aerie and Valygar to come with me to Suldanessellar, if that's what you're asking," she replied. "Only that I got detoured— briefly—"
He inspected her, further, and took a swig of the moonshine. "So why did you come at all? To find out what happens to overindulgent pride?"
"No," she said. "Because the prophecy is upon us, and you— For what I did to you— Look, brother. I release you from your oath. Or I can swear an oath to you— There is magic in this place that will enforce it; you can feel it, and I can feel it, both— Oaths are binding when made in such a place— Take it, kill, become the Lord of Murder, if you wish— I had my chance, and I— I—"
What do you think you are doing?
"Making amends," she said, harshly.
Like this?
"Yes."
And you think it is so easy? Just lay down your life and create a Lord of Murder in the process?
She clutched her head. "Altair, stop it. Stop it. Stop it—"
The man before her watched her. "Is this your offer?"
"My—?" She blinked, in incomprehension. "My offer? I'm not a demon. Wait, but—"
"I reject it," the man said, picking up the bottle, standing up from the scaffolding and looking away from her.
She felt the universe slip away from her. "STOP IT!" she shouted out; the soul, falling to pieces around her as she was falling down herself, stopped all motion, mid-move, mid-air.
I'll— I'll keep him occupied, for a while. But you, hurry. There really is not much time, now.
She grimaced. "But where will I find him? We've tried everywhere."
Then, it hit her. "Spellhold."
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Brynnlaw was a port city, azure sea, golden sand and green, palm-like palm-leaves under a clear sky; Spellhold was a collapsed dungeon. Her brother's body lay there on a cold slab, lifeless and golden; and untouched, even after the four years.
"Sarevok," she told it. "Sarevok, get up. Hurry up. We need to hurry up, until Father comes here— He's searching for you. Even now. You can feel it, brother. You can think it. He's searching for you, and once he finds you, it's golden dust for you. So stop playing around, and get up, brother. I've seen you come back from worse things."
There was no response; and she got to thinking.
She tried healing him, first; but there was nothing obvious wrong with her brother's body, save, naturally, for the lack of the soul that she was now in; then, she tried convincing, cajoling and yelling again; and even crying; that, too, failed. She wished Altair were there to support her—
Altair; her brother's body was lying on the slab in a mockery of a knight's burial pose, with his enchanted mail, and his winged dragon helmet, and his cruel sword alongside him; Altair— She had only ever seen her brother call two things his: the eagle, and that sword— She clutched her own necklace.
The Edge of Chaos was his; he had made it so, through years upon years of tender insistence— Her brother stirred. "Sister?"
"Hello, doofus," she replied; and then, as he frowned, "Hurry up, brother," added. "Father's coming—"
He clutched his head, briefly; and changed to a sit, in one fluid move. "Sister," he said, flawlessly, "he's already here."
She looked behind; the Slayer.
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They fought it then, the mass of death and shadow; she with her silver arrows and he with his cruel sword; halfway through the fight, Pangur and Altair appeared and helped; though not Irene—
The shadow fell, and they remained alone, within the collapsed Spellhold dungeon.
"Well," Imoen said, looking around.
Cleaning his sword, he cocked his head at her. "Well?"
"I—" She wanted to say; but there was so much to say—
He shook his head. "You don't need to."
"But I want to!" she disagreed; then, "What was it like, brother?"
"To die?" he asked. "An eternity of suffering. Layer after layer of torment, each level bringing new tortures."
She blinked. "You are serious."
"Yes," he nodded. "It made me rethink... some things."
She frowned. "Not too many, I hope?"
He smiled, lightly. "No— What was it like for you, sister?"
"Being human?" She shrugged. "I told you— Or I think I did. It was... a good thing to try. Nalia was... different in Arnise. But— It's not for me. At least not until this is over. And I'm not even sure if afterwards."
Sitting on the slab next to her, hugging her, he cocked his head again. "'Go then, there are other worlds than these'?" he quipped.
She considered. "Possibly. But this all has to end here first. The prophecy."
She looked around; Pangur and Altair had disappeared again, possibly to finally make their belated salutations; she laughed. "Now that you have a pocket plane of your own, brother, you're really, really overdue for some redecorating, don't you think?"
He looked at her, amused; and then, finally, finally—
—laughed, his deep, rolling laughter; and then—
—then, they were falling; falling impossibly fast down a shaft of light; down an impossibly deep well, surrounded on all sides by tiers upon tiers of an impossibly high tower; and on each tier, the statues of the siblings.
They were falling impossibly fast; but, feather-light in a place where gravity was a matter of naught but convention and habit, when they landed, they landed effortlessly, on the feet, and with neither sound nor harm.
She looked around: a wind, now chill, now dry and scalding hot, swept across the empty void, screaming in his ears its keen salutation. Glittering dust of emerald ichor swirled and danced over ivory bowls set in the shadows of opaque nothingness; the pools were nearly filled, and would soon become so completely. Space itself was alien and inhuman.
She looked at her brother in wonder.
Home.
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"We can't stay here long," he was saying as they sat together on the cold ground amidst the pools, watching the aurora above them. "I wanted to show this place to you, sister, and, after we defeated Father today, he is weak. But with the essence gathering, he will come back soon—"
"—And redouble his efforts to destroy us," she finished, with a sigh. "Or turn us against each other. By the way, brother, I wasn't lying earlier about an oath."
"I think, sister," Sarevok frowned, "That if you wanted to destroy me, you would have rather done that already— Tell me. What is happening in Faerûn?"
She smirked. "Nalia has become a member of the Council of Six, brother."
His eyes glimmered. "Has she."
She put her hands behind her head. "Yeah. I helped her. A teeny, tiny bit— Although most of that, she did on her own," she added hurriedly, just so that he did not think that she was boasting.
"Hmm," he said.
"Yes— Aran is still the Shadowmaster, and Ryan Trawl is now the leader of the Order. He has some problems—" She snorted. "After Jan blabbed, your stunt with the oath against Helm became public knowledge. Half of the paladins of Helm now want to call themselves the Disciples of Anomen. And, of all the possible people, they want to follow you."
He laughed, lightly, but without much derision. "Fools. Do they want to fall?"
"Well," she pointed out, "If you ever do become a god, brother, you'll apparently come with a ready-to-made Order. The Prelate Wessalen was Anomen's relative on his mother's side."
"Hmm," he repeated, "If that's their will. I won't forsake my vengeance. What else?"
"You did manage to snag Irenicus—but I suppose you already know that—"
"—Sister."
She sighed. "Fine, brother— I've gathered most of the remaining siblings in an enclave I created in Saradush, for their protection. There are two major threats to them... barring Father, of course. One is a half-orc called Gromnir Il-Khan. Gudrun is infiltrating his camp right now. The second—"
She took a deep breath. "The second is a group called the Five. Or, more correctly, the Three, now that I've killed one of them, and that one killed the other... Anyway, brother, the first point about them is, they pinched your plan to selectively cull the siblings. In fact, I think they are the ones who filled the most of—" She waved her hand about. "—these."
He looked at the ichor-filled bowls, promising a reckoning. "And the second?"
"One of the Three is Balthazar, who is the current leader of the Saradush Enclave."
Her brother looked at her ponderously. "I take it that you trust him nonetheless, sister?"
She held his gaze. "Completely. It was he who asked me to learn the identity of the only one of them that he could not pinpoint himself."
"And—?" Her brother considered. "Abazigal is one of the remaining two, I take it? And the other?"
"Sendai. Sendai, from Ust Natha. A drow. The entrance to the Underdark used to get there is actually fairly close to Suldanessellar, in the Forest of Tethir. I think that we should make that our first step, brother."
He nodded. "The endgame is coming."
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They spent a happy eternity more in the place that was their home— But in the end—
"I think we should return," Imoen finally said. "They will be worrying about us. Well," she considered. "Me, anyway."
Sarevok smiled wondrously to the comment. "What do you think Fentan will say when she sees me? Or Ryan Trawl?"
She wondered that he cared; then, considered the matter. "That you're like a bad penny, I'm afraid? Always coming back? Always bothering? Always a thorn in the side? Impossible to get rid of?" She laughed; then, she frowned as she remembered. "Only that, um, brother— Not to exaggerate, but I think that your body is still in Brynnlaw, in Spellhold, and mine is in Suldanessellar—"
Her brother gave her a look of cool superiority. "And why do you think I should be bothered by that, sister? For that matter, why should you?"
And it was then— Then, as she was standing on the Abyssal plain, with the ethereal wind that was the dream of a dead god tousling her hair, listening to her brother's words, that the realisation finally came on to her; with all the force of an epiphany.
"Sarevok," she asked, looking up to her golden brother, "We are becoming gods, aren't we?"
No doubt; no valuation; no self-loathing; no pride; only amusement.
"Yes, sister."
End of Part VII: Countercheck.
