Chapter 17

As far as death's went; this was my favourite.

That had been my very last thought before I had lost consciousness.

It was most definitely not my first thought when consciousness returned. It was nothing quite so poetic, and nowhere near as gentle a thought. Where my last thought had been full of bittersweet longing — like a gentle sigh — this new thought was sharp and unexpected — like a sharp intake after submerging in cold water.

Holy fucking shitballs; everything hurts, was the vein of my first thought.

And then it was my second and my third.

But I couldn't put that thought to words — for the same reason I thankfully hadn't voiced my last thought. Instead, I silently swallowed the last of the healing potion that had saved my life; the cool liquid a chalky balm for my scorched throat.

Instead of voicing any of these thoughts, I spluttered indignantly. Coughing and gasping through the slowly — far too slowly — fading pain, as the potion's magic took affect.

I was indignantly thankful for the comforting hand on my back as Valen hovered over me, watching me with such intensity that it looked like he may very well have willed me back to health — potion be damned.

Breathing under control, and the pain reduced down a level to holy fucking shitballs; only some stuff hurts, I glanced away from his spectacular blue gaze, blinking slowly as I took stock of our dark surroundings.

I bit my tongue in surprise at the sight of Vix'thra's imposing body and then bit it harder again, at the mixed bag of emotions — relief, anger, thankfulness, betrayal — the sight of Nathyrra, healthy and whole, caused. She made no move to approach us.

"It is good to see you awake," Valen's voice drew my attention back, forcing me to ignore the clenching in my chest. He offered me a gentle smile, the soft curve of his lips contradictory to the concerned pinching of his eyes.

"Better to be it," I replied with a rasp — the comment coming off more glim than I intended.

The hand on the small of my back helped me forward but did not retreat, causing me to take stock of our intertwined position. My eyes snapped back to his own, and — realising just how close he sat, the blush creeping in — I dropped my gaze.

Without a word of warning, I pulled away, attempting to stand on my shaky legs.

Valen rose with me, hand hovering by my back until I was standing on my own. As soon as it looked like I wasn't about to keel over, he stepped away. His arms fluttered by his sides, ready to help should I need him.

I opened my mouth to talk — and I will forever be unsure what I was about to say next — because the troubled look on his face silenced the impulse.

His head darted back to peer at the body of Vix'thra, and — eyes wide — he pulled away, jogging past me.

My heart stuttered and I had a terrifying thought that the dragon wasn't truly dead.

It was only when I quickly glanced back over my shoulder that I could see that it was not the corpse of our recent enemy that had Valen so concerned, but the fallen form of our ally.

Nathyrra stood by the deva, watching Valen's hasty approach, her expression unreadable. She gave him a single, silent shake of her head.

I was too far to hear the words the two exchanged as Valen turned his potion's pouch inside out in explanation — broken glass falling to his feet.

I collected the resurrection rod with shaking hands, considering the cool metal and then the deva's still form once more.

'You could bring her back.' Enserric hummed carefully to me. I flinched at his words, bereft of their usual sly humour. 'You could bring her back and heal her the old fashioned way.'

I shook my head roughly as if I could shake the sword's very thoughts from my mind.

"We couldn't confidently heal her with anything but a potion." I voiced my fears with a whispered hiss. But that answer felt hollow.

It was far more likely than not that she'd used the last of her healing spells; her death was evidence of that.

But the most poignant fact of all, I left unsaid.

If I failed in healing her we'd have wasted both time and another precious charge on the resurrection rod.

We might be able to save her. But I wasn't risking what was left of the magical charges on maybes.

I felt a swell of shame knowing that my fears were laid bare to Enserric. Lifting my lip in disgust, I pushed the shame immediately aside with another sharp shake of my head, slotting the rod roughly back into my belt.

If only we had left with the phylactery! With the thought, my eyes found Nathyrra once more.

But then I caught the still shape of that poor young deva by her feet and I couldn't bear the sight a moment longer.

Confident my legs cold hold my own weight, I started back towards the dragon's horde.

I ignored the questioning glance Valen sent my way, disappearing down the hall and busying myself by stuffing my pockets, my satchel, my pack and my bag of holding with everything that wasn't bolted down.

It didn't take long for them to join me in my rampant looting, Nathyrra always just on the edge of my vision; silent and eyes on her work. Valen, unsure what to say, perpetuated the silence, his eyes darting between us.

And then the silence stretched into our trip from the crypt, it stretched through the temple and well out of Drearing's Deep. Yes, we alerted the villages that they were finally, finally free. But not even the gnome's good spirits could lift our own.

We spoke only when needed — in as few words as we could, to get our point across — and even then my eyes never quite found Nathyrra's own. Gone was the banter and camaraderie, as quickly as we had earned it. Gone was the understanding that I felt I'd finally struck with the drow. And gone was my trust in her.

The silence — filled with words unsaid — hung over us like a cloud that at any moment could choke the life from us. It seeped into our every pore, like a poison slowly paralysing us from both speech and sudden action.

And as this silence stretched to a point that nobody could possibly ever break it, I retreated further into myself.

The march back to Lith My'athar passed like thousands of camera frames with no context tying them together. In this time bubble, the sounds were distant, the coldness was inconsequential, and colours were duller. My insides felt as if there was nothing there, nothing to need feeding, nothing to have need of at all. I pushed my food around until it cooled, and I slept until I was woken, but I never broke that silence, and as time passed the tension grew thicker.

I marched towards my inevitable death, bearing the burden alone. The knowledge of our nearing defeat felt like an invisible force crushing me from every possible direction, forcing me further and further into myself.

And, much later, as my eyes skimmed the increasingly common purple glowing stones that marked our approach of the drow city — despair already turning to concrete in my veins — I didn't even blink twice when a drow darted from the wall's shadows ahead.

It was only when he spoke that — for a split second — my desolation was interrupted, the surprise of thoughts put to voice shocking me from my self-pity.

But as he told us that the Valsharesses troops were no more than a day's march from our walls, no thought came to me except that my fate was sealed.

We followed him into Lith My'athar, the gates clanging shut behind us and locking into place.

I let Valen update the Seer on our latest win — the word win a bitter mockery that immediately brought to mind the deva's still body.

And then, her voice urgent but ever gentle, the Seer updated us on the city's progress and their plans for the impending war. As she spoke, I pulled my shoulders back and felt the hollowness inside me filling with something more fitting for action.

Like I had when Deekin died, I let the anger take hold.

My chest tightened into a knot like a cramp, and a quiet rage began to burn inside. My fists were clenched and my jaw rooted.

And then finally the bubble popped and colour gained clarity, and the chill of the air set the hairs on the back of my neck on edge, and everything was suddenly just so very loud.

As the Seer finished outlying her plan with Valen and Imloth's regular input, I couldn't help but clench my jaw at gaps in our defences that could have been filled by — oh, I don't know — maybe a flying deva. I found myself wishing, not for the first time, that we'd simply left the dracolich with his phylactery and deva in tow. With the thought came another white-hot lance of anger.

My eyes found Nathyrra's, and stuck. She'd been watching me, her eyes hard, her stance still.

It hadn't looked at her — really looked at her — in days. Now that I was — my fists clenched by my sides — I felt like a stranger's face stared back at me. It very well might have.

I could read everything that Nathyrra thought of me and I of her in that one extended glare, and — with the Valsharess' army only a day away — forgiveness wasn't an option.

But neither was pettiness.

I forced myself to unclench my fists.

I involved myself only in what I needed for the battle plans, being a general only in name.

The only thing I changed was a contingency defence at our rear, lest the Valsharess' troops attack by way of boat. I felt Valen's immediate resistance to the plan, I saw the words forming on his lips — the Boatman was the only way in or out, and he was on our side — but then he seemed to think better off himself and conceded to splitting our already thin forces ever further. A nod and it was done.

Plans made, we departed with a blessing from the Seer, and promise that we would find what sleep we could once we were prepared. Nathyrra hung back with her chin raised to talk to the older woman privately, a silent challenge in her eyes.

I forced myself to nod to them both in turn, before retreating. I felt their eyes on me as Valen tilted his head towards the door and I followed him wordlessly outside.

Once outside, I realised that the city felt different from usual. And nothing like I thought a city preparing on the eve of battle would feel like. Had it been this way when we'd entered? Or had I really been so distracted?

The chatter had increased, and I could hear none of the telltale sounds of the training grounds. People were not mulling about, but nor were they hurrying in preparation. Everyone that I could see walked calmly and with purpose, in one direction or another. Most were bereft of the leathers Imloth had been wearing, and instead wore fine silks and extravagant jewellery. Each drow was a kaleidoscope of colours and patterns, interrupted only by large expanses of ebony skin.

The guards at the doors of the temple were a new addition, and they wore no such finery. They greeted both Valen and I with a low nod at our passing. They looked beyond bored, watching the citizens with expressions of clear longing.

"It looks like the festivities have begun," Valen hummed.

I forced my eyes away from another drow — a woman who wore more jewellery than clothes — and met Valen's twinkling eyes. He was obviously enjoying the sight of the growing blush on my cheeks.

"Festivities?" I dared to ask him, pausing between one step and the next

And then, with a surprised frown, I realised that I'd forgotten to be angry.

"Come," Valen interrupted my line of thought as he continued down into the city. "Let us restock, and then we can grab a bite."

My stomach clenched in reply, and I was surprised to find it grumbling in agreement.

When we got to the market, Gulhrys wasn't at his usual stall. In his place stood a young drow in wizards robes, robes that were nowhere near as embellished as the older wizards had been. He recognised us immediately and without preamble, and I was again reminded how much a tiefling and human stood out in an Underdark city.

We said nothing as he sold us the last of his healing potions at a fraction of the usual price, but I dreaded to think what the poor apprentice's punishment would be for his mistake. That didn't stop me from buying him out.

'The old cad's been ripping you off since you got here,' Enserric assured me, assuaging stone of my guilt.

As we finished lightening our packs of the dragon's horde, I smiled at the pouches of gold we now owned — more than I'd ever had at any one time, maybe ever.

I was tossing one such pouch in my hand thoughtfully as Valen reshuffled his pack, considering the young apprentice's nervous half-smile.

With a sigh and a quick glance at the top of Valen's head, I took the apprentice's obvious lowball offer for our final suit of armour, without any of the usual haggling. The young drow's eyes widened into surprised saucers as he hastily dropped the gold into my waiting palm with shaking hands. He greedily reached for the armour before quickly placing it behind his bench with a smile.

The guilt immediately disappeared, like the unclenching of a fist.

'Soft.' My sword huffed in accusation. If Enserric had eyes I had no doubt he'd be rolling them. "That could have gone towards an upgrade on — oh, I don't know — maybe your magical sword?" This he said out loud, causing the apprentice to jolt with surprise.

I could hear Valen's quiet chuckle as he strapped his pack in place, but he said nothing.

Next was Rizolvir's forge, but the usually jovial blacksmith was nowhere to be seen. He too had been replaced by his usual apprentice, more soot-stained than the last time I'd seen the young wiry man.

"Rizolvir too?" I expressed my surprise at our approach.

Valen offered me a small smile, hands already unbuckling some of the straps on his damaged emerald armour, as we approached the warmth of the forge.

"Like I said," he gave another shrug. "The festivities have begun."

I shook my head at the absurdity of his statement.

"The city has had time to prepare," he explained at my incredulous look. "One more night isn't going to make a difference."

"No, but a city full of hungover drow might potentially tip the scales, yes?" This from Enserric, who had — quite literally — lit up at our approach of the forge.

"Who said anything about hangovers?" Valen chuckled.

The tiefling removed the rest of his battered armour, passing it to the apprentice. No explanation was required at the sight of the warped metal.

I relinquished both Enserric and my bow, along with the majority of our gold. I opted for fire-based enchantments where possible, thoughts drifting ever back to Cania and what we would inevitably face there.

Next was a set of leathers in my size, new from the dragon's horde. I passed them over with the request of enchantments that would give resistance to frost. This Valen raised a brow at, taking in the scorched leathers I currently wore.

"I would have thought fire," he mused wryly.

"Obviously I can deal with the heat," I replied with a hand on my cocked hip, motioning down at the burnt leather with the other.

The apprentice took down our requests on a small sheet of parchment, thoughts already on the work ahead.

With the help of someone whose name didn't ring a bell — probably the wizard's apprentice we'd traded with earlier — he assured us that our items would be repaired and upgraded within a matter of hours.

So, hungry — and somewhat aimlessly — we wandered in companionable silence to the beer garden.

On the way, I couldn't help but gawk at two young drow women. They held each other's arms as they laughed, their eyes crinkled in glee and they were — quite literally — glowing. A white glow silhouetted the two of them, throwing drastic shadows across the streets.

A magical enhancement of some kind?

'Faerie fire,' Enserric helpfully provided.

As we passed them they fell silent, watching us — no, watching Valen — with hooded eyes shadowed heavily with kohl.

He did his best to ignore their open interest, but I could clearly see a blush rising on his cheeks, despite the low purple light.

Upon passing them a snort escaped from one of them before they dissolved into another fit of what could only be described as giggling.

Even Valen looked surprised at the very un-drowlike sound.

As we approached the beer garden it became increasingly apparent that it was not open — something that had never happened in all of my time in the city.

I mean, it was practically the kebab shop of the Underdark, minus the HSPs.

My stomach rumbled in complaint, and I gave it a soothing pat.

Looking around in surprise, it was then that I realised the two young women from earlier weren't the only people that had been glowing. Beacons of light poked the darkness all around us, lighting up drow — both men and women — as they travelled from one place to the next.

Two young boys, white light accentuating the glee on their faces, ducked down a street, chasing something that skittered down an alley with shrill laughter.

Further away a woman that wore only a skirt and a necklace walked alone. Her face was expressionless but her skin was flushed from alcohol and activity, obvious due to the glow of the spell.

And, not too far from us, in the alcove of a building, the magical glow afforded us a very clear view of the back of a man and woman, the latter of which had her skirts bunched up around her waist. The blush was back on Valen's cheeks, but I could feel the warmth on my own and knew I must look the same.

Looking anywhere but at that alcove, I realised that not everyone had been touched by the magic.

A man bereft of the so-called faerie fire ducked past a small group of soldiers — who were glowing, themselves — before disappearing into the public house. The door opened, pale purple light spilling out onto the streets along with the distant sound of music. And then, just as suddenly, it slammed shut and the music was gone.

"I think that's where we'll find food," I slowly said, still a little in awe.

I nudged the tiefling from his stunned thoughts with a gentle elbow. He scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably, his cotton tunic pulling taught with the movement.

Valen then motioning to the public house. "After you then, my lady," he insisted, all mock formality.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help the smile, my curiosity well and truly peaked.

Besides, we had a few hours to kill before our armour and weapons would be ready…

What was the harm in checking it out?

NOTEBOOK EXTRACT

The following page is in Jane's usual writing style.

Nedeirra

A dancing competition where drow who make the wrong steps are marked with harmless faerie fire.

Illiyitrii

A formal dance involving costumes. And when none are present, exchanging clothes, with the intent of acquiring items above your status.

Spider Hunting

A game of hide-and-seek played by young drow as a kind of courting ritual during festivals.

Below all of this jovial lore is a seemingly unrelated illustration of a large man, coloured all in red with long black horns protruding from his head. His human legs bend backwards at the knee, becoming immediately hairier, before ending in black hooves. He bears a trident and a sinister smile.

Mephistopheles.