Okay – first off, I wish to apologise to Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel
Schönberg and Herbert Kretzmer, and to Andrew Lloyd-Webber, T. S. Elliot
and Don Black. It's just a little joke, guys – not worth suing me over or
anything (not that we poor students could be sued for much). Secondly,
Baldur's Gate and all characters starring in this fiction that were
contained within the Baldur's Gate games are the property of those
exceedingly nice people at Interplay, Bioware and Wizards. Thirdly, please
R&R so I know of any areas that need improvement (or, heaven forbid, that
don't need it ;-) ): I am new to this, and any and all constructive
criticism is welcome. Lastly, I have no idea how long this tale will be –
it appears to be dictating itself, with myself serving as merely the typist
and proof-reader. I'm as curious to see how it ends as I hope you are. So,
with that in mind and with no further adieu, the saga continues...
A young woman sat in a small temple, dedicated to the goddess Aerdrie Faenya, and wept. She had done the same at least once a day, for almost three years. She would enter the temple, and those Suldenessallari who knew her would leave, quietly; likewise would those who did not, if only for the fact their fellows left. Once the temple was empty of all save the priests themselves, she would let out a heart-rending scream of anguish, and beg her goddess for forgiveness, and for knowledge. Knowledge of why her fair- haired, winged godchild had been taken from her. Knowledge of why his father, a god, had done nothing to prevent it. Knowledge of why that same god did not answer her prayers, though she prayed to him daily. And then, she would just cry – sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours. And she would curse the name, the heart and the very soul of one woman.
It had been HER fault... SHE was the reason that this woman had lost her world in but a few moments. The weeping woman herself was a priestess of Baervan Wildwanderer, a Gnomish deity, and Aerdrie Faenya, senior goddess of the Elven pantheon. She had been preaching at a Gnomish colony in the far west, among the mountains of Lantan Isle. The people here had long abandoned magic in favour of technology, and she had gone as part of a Gnomish Missionary movement from the township of Understone to remind the islanders that magic and gods still held a place in the world, even one graced with such technological wonders as they were capable of building.
It had been at dawn, on the fourth day of Eleasias, the eighth month of the Torilian calendar, almost three years ago, that the world, literally, had come crashing down around this idealistic cleric. She, and a group of Lantanian Gnomes interested in spreading the words of Baervan Wildwanderer, had met early that morning and headed up the mountainside to witness the sunrise across Faerûn. The sun had, indeed, risen. But shortly afterwards, the mountain fell.
The Gnomish scientists, some time later, once their grief had lessened, said it was what they called a Quake of the Earth Beneath. They had some theory about it being caused by big rafts of rock that the continents of Toril floated upon, but the woman had not wanted to hear it.
Imoen, the woman that this cleric despised with all her strength, had been on the island, as well – she and that imbecile, Minsc. They had said they would watch over her and her child, but had told her the night previous of some goblinoids in the mountains that were harassing the local townsfolk. The woman had allowed them leave to go and deal with the raiders. But they never should have GONE. Their DUTY was to protect her son! Her son, who had been in the underground complex that the Gnomes had hewn into the largest mountain on the island. Her son, who had been crushed under millions of tonnes of rock when Toril itself had shaken and collapsed that mountain.
Some two thousand gnomes had died in the disaster; most in the complex, several who were climbing back down the mountainside with the priestess after the sun had risen. As soon as she felt the ground tremble beneath her, she had used her wings – wings given to her by her husband once he had ascended to godhood – to fly high into the air. She saw what was happening, and flew as fast as she could to the complex entrance, only to be grabbed by a just-returned Minsc, who held onto her so she would not fly to her own demise. Imoen was trying to teleport the child to safety, but she needed to scry his exact position first. She had just located him and was readying the spell, when the view in her crystal ball showed a heavy rock land on the child. Minsc turned away and was violently sick; Imoen held her stomach, continuing the spell – maybe the boy was just injured. The view then blackened completely as the entire 'ceiling' gave way. What Imoen retrieved from the building was not a body. There was not enough left of the toddler to constitute a body.
The priestess had immediately set about a resurrection spell. It failed. As did every spell like it that the cleric knew. The children of the gods were just not that easy to save... She had cursed Imoen, truly, and Imoen had been forced to return to the mainland to find a priestess who could lift it. The woman had likewise banished the proud Rashemen warrior, Minsc, from ever coming into her sight again. Minsc followed Imoen, feeling somewhat responsible for the state that the Mage now found herself in. What happened to them after that, the woman did not know and did not care. They had ceased to exist in her own private universe, at least until now. She had taken the remains of her son, such as they were, to the Elves of Suldenessallar, whose clerics were much more powerful than she, and had remained there these past years despite their lack of success.
And now SHE comes back, thought the woman. She wishes a boon of me. What would you have me do, oh father of my child? You, who hath forsaken me and thy child, you would have me aid the witch and her fool in their quest. But as you turned your back on me five years ago, MY LOVE, I turn my back on you now. She shall not have what she seeks – not while I still have strength. Have your godhood, my love, and I shall have my vengeance...
With those thoughts in mind, the woman ceased her weeping and arose. She had but a few days to prepare, though that was more than enough. Her blonde hair, once long, had been cropped short. Her innocent blue eyes were now dark and cold, her cheeks red raw from years of tears. Her pretty face had lost much of its beauty, if only because the curious smile she had always worn no longer adorned it. The sight of this, and knowledge of her thoughts, made one god scream in pain and loss – his screams were heard across all of Toril that night. There was nothing left but bitterness within his Love-eternal; the woman for whom he had waited every lonely minute of every lonely day since the moment he received his divinity, for their reunion. His Aerie... Likewise, a small child sat on that god's knee cried out with grief and sorrow. "Mama..."
******
Winthrop spared no expense for the dinner that followed his young protégé's arrival. Before Imoen had taken up the Art, she had been a thief. Many of those abilities had been enhanced by tutelage from Candlekeep's former-adventurer barkeep. He realised that she was getting a bit too good when he had ended up chasing her around the grounds of the keep trying to recover four coppers she had snatched from his back pocket.
When she left after Gorion, it had been Winthrop who had caught her at the gates of Candlekeep. It had been Winthrop who had given her a quick hug, handed her a wand of magic missiles and a few healing potions, kissed her forehead and closed the doors after her so none would be the wiser 'till morning. It had been Winthrop who, upon her return after the battle with Melissan, had ensured she got her old room, which he had kept exactly as she had left it all those years ago. It had been Winthrop who stood with her before the marble statues of Gorion and Khalid, and held her as she wept. Winthrop was, if Imoen had a family, the overweight uncle with a heart to match; the type of relative who buys their nephews and nieces alchemy sets because firstly, he knows it's what they want, and secondly, it's not his carpet they'll set fire to.
Shortly after she left, he had moved north to an inn that had been willed to him by his late brother. It was fairly dilapidated, but it had a small theatre on the second floor, and, more importantly, his OWN nephew and niece needed somebody to look to them. His brother had married a Tiefling woman, though it was always said that there were fewer more decent and just people anywhere in the realms than she, breaking the stereotype of her race as thieves and rogues.
They had borne children later in his life, but the Tiefling aged slower than he and both of them were born healthy. The girl was called Yrnaeris; the younger but most intellectual, she had begun study of the Art at an extremely early age, aided in no small fashion by the number of mages who frequented the tavern. Her brother, and senior by three years, was a bard and would-be author. He was also very involved with the writer of this history – namely, he is me.
An introduction of myself would not go amiss at this point. I am Kyrnor Winthrop, though you probably know me by my pen-name, Kyr Tanar'rikin, so chosen to acknowledge the Tiefling in my blood. At the time of writing, I sit in the same inn I tell you of now, my aging uncle still tending bar beneath me, and a team of mummers rehearsing a play of my own invention above me. The play they perform is the same play I petitioned my uncle to allow me to commission all those years ago, in front of what I believed to be another of the 'stuffy' mages that tended to visit him. Oh, how wrong I was.
"But uncle!" I pouted like the spoilt child I was back then – in my defence, however, I ask the reader to understand that I was but eighteen and barely adolescent in terms of my race, "It'll make us business, I swear! I've done dema- demi- domo-"
"Demographic." Imoen supplied between mouthfuls of roast beef.
"Thank you," I said, less than courteously and moderately annoyed at the assistance, "Demographic surveys that show the customers would like to have music on the stage."
"They think you mean Opera, not this new-fangled 'play-interspersed- with-songs' idea of yours. And can you not think of a better name for it?"
"I was thinking of calling it a Lyrical, because of the song lyrics. Or maybe a Thespo-Choral, since it contains both acting and singing."
"How about a 'Musical'?" Imoen asked, gobbling down roast potatoes.
"Don't be silly – that'll never catch on." I retorted. I turned back to my uncle. "Please, Uncle! Let me try! I know – I have my Lyre with me,"
"Oh gods..." My uncle inserted in my breath between sentences.
"I'll show the good people the opening song! The play is about an uprising of slaves in the Far East, which is tragically crushed by the armies of their oppressors." I must admit to being slightly impetuous when first I met the Archmage of Neverwinter. But I must also admit to being of some notable talent with the Lyre, an ability I unfortunately lost some time ago. I recited my song to those present; my uncle and sister, Imoen, Minsc and, of course, Boo. It went something like this:
Do you hear Rashemen sing?
'Tis the song of an angry land;
It is the music of Rashemi
Whose freedom is now at hand.
Centuries spent underfoot,
Slaves to the Red Wizards of Thay,
But the tyrants shall get the boot
At the break of day!
At this point I was interrupted by thunderous applause from the gallery. Minsc stood from the table and clapped as loud as a hundred critics. It was possibly the proudest moment of my youth.
"Bravo, little bard! Bravo! Minsc and Boo stand in the presence of a master! We love your little song! It will go down a storm in Rashemen."
Imoen sulkily placed her chin in her cupped hands, and murmured, "Yeah. A storm of ice, fire and lightning the first time a Red Mage hears it." It was more than a little childish a position for such an accomplished wizard to adopt, but Imoen had been feeling more and more her old self with each passing minute in my uncle's company, and it was beginning to show in her manner.
"They would not dare, surely! Oppression of the masses is one thing, but oppression of art? Pah! That would really display their tyranny to the world." It was a sign of my naïveté at that point that I could believe an organisation like the Red Wizards incapable of something so base as vetoing a play, and a sign of my conceit that I would judge the prohibition of a piece of theatre as a more heinous crime than the slavery of thousands. I turned back to Minsc, who appeared to be my only supporter, "That part works; the only problem I'm having is fitting in the dancers in the cat costumes and the mysterious masked man called the Spectre of the Opera, representing the death of old Opera and the birth of my new kind of play."
It was at this point that my sister spoke. She had been quiet most of the meal, quiet and thoughtful but now, when she spoke it was almost a scream.
"Where is Antoinette?! You've hidden her again, Kyr, haven't you!"
"No I haven't touched that flea-ridden moggie of yours!" I yelled, indignantly, safe in the knowledge that I had sealed the cat in the wine cellar once again.
"She is NOT flea-ridden! She's as fine and as smart and as clean a black cat as exists in all of Faerûn! I won't have you speak ill of my Familiar!" My sister's response only served to increase my own hilarity at the situation. I burst out laughing. She began to cry.
"She has a black cat?" Imoen asked of my uncle, a note of concern creeping into her voice.
"It is not what you think, Immy. She is a good girl, sweet as any I've ever known. She did not summon it to be her Familiar; she saved it from a drowning four years ago, when the blacksmith across the way decided that the creature was too scrawny to fetch a decent price, or even to give away. Antoinette was the only black cat of a grey-striped litter, and without a doubt she was scrawny, but Yrnaeris nursed her to health. When Yrnaeris began showing some prowess in the Craft, the cat chose to slip into the role of Familiar; it does not reflect on my niece."
Imoen raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Black cats tended to be taken as Familiars by magi of a chaotic bent, with no compunction to do good within the Realms. Such wizards were, in Imoen's opinion, one very small step from the evil mages she had fought most of her life. Of course, it was not entirely unusual for a family pet to become a Familiar; if a child had reared an animal from birth, then the psychic tuning required between Mage and Familiar was often already in place – it just needed a little supernatural push.
It was at that point I first caught a glimpse of the powers of Imoen Archmage. She looked at me, deeply, and her mouth moved in silent incantation. A few seconds later, she looked from me to the wine cellar's trapdoor. She waved a fleeting gesture toward it, the catch unlocked itself and the door swung open. Antoinette leapt out, cast me a reproachful glance, and hopped onto Yrnaeris' lap. She knew spells that could determine the thoughts of another being, a horrifying prospect to an amateur mummer and cutpurse such as myself.
The rest of the meal passed in virtual silence. I only dared look up from my meal twice. Both times, the icy stares of this strange wizard and my uncle forced my own back down in shame. At about a quarter to ten in the evening, my uncle sent myself and Yrnaeris to our rooms. He then talked to Imoen and Minsc until the small hours of the morning. I could hear the entire conversation through my floorboards, but it contained little that I found interesting.
"So why did you come here, then, if not to see old Winthrop."
"That's unfair – you know it's always a pleasure to see you. I head into town tomorrow, in the early hours, with Minsc. We will speak to your local Sage, Walthorn, and request the use of his Portal to Nashkel. From there, we'll make a set a brisk pace southwards through the Cloud Peaks, past the Twin Towers and out into the plains of Amn. We aim to reach Suldenessallar in three days at the latest."
"You would take the Cloud Peaks?! Are you mad, child?"
"No – it is the quickest way."
"And the most perilous! White dragons make their homes in those mountains, not to mention all other kinds of riff-raff; Gnolls, Kobolds, Hobgoblins, even Trolls at this time of year. Why risk all of that to get to Elven country?"
"To keep a promise." Imoen said, abruptly. She did not wish to be drawn on the subject.
"Well," Winthrop sighed, "If you intend on getting that old coot Walthorn's good will, I'd suggest not rousing him 'till at least brunch- time."
"I have money enough to buy the Sage's good will a thousand times over."
"Yes, but Walthorn has reached an age where he doesn't really care for money, my girl." Winthrop spoke as he had done so many years, when teaching her the 'do's and 'do not's of burglary – a tutor's tone. "He won't let you use his portal if you wake him from his rest, and that's a certainty; best to wait until eleven in the morning, at the earliest. Three hours either way shouldn't be too much of a bother, no matter how urgent your task is."
"Very well – you know him better than I, so I shall defer to your judgement. So, my teacher, how does life in the big wide world sit with you after the relative calm and dreary sameness of running the tavern in Candlekeep?"
As to his response, I did not listen. I was too busy thinking what amazing plays I might right about a journey through those mountains. I went to sleep some minutes later, dreaming of the beautiful, graceful terror that is a Great White Wyrm in flight...
******
My sister and I woke up early that morning, both thinking along similar lines. Yrnaeris had long spoken of leaving the Tavern and seeking Apprenticeship, maybe with old Walthorn, or maybe at Candlekeep with a reference from her uncle. I had long spoken of seeing foreign lands to give me more subject matter for my plays and stories, not to mention making some small fortune on the way.
We sat for some time, discussing it, negotiating. Eventually we came to an agreement: we would leave home together to seek our fortunes, with Imoen Bhaalspawn; I would not in any way, shape or form harm her kitty and she would not bother me with her incessant whining while I wrote or recited. It was a mutually beneficial settlement. All we had to do was talk to our uncle about it. Oh, and get the good will of Imoen.
Imoen herself was roused fairly late in the morning at ten of the clock. Minsc had been up for some time already and was helping my uncle, in the kitchen, to fill the bellies of the breakfast-time customers. When there was a lull in the proceedings, which tended to occur at about half past ten, we collared our uncle and told him of our intentions.
Imoen, by this time, was readying for her departure. That morning was the coldest day of the summer so far, and indeed the coldest summer day I can remember since. Imoen had donned her burgundy robe, gathered her packs and replenished her spell components from her stores within the Bag of Holding she carried. My uncle had given them an old antique bottle of his from his adventuring days; one enchanted such that never ran dry of water.
They were out onto the street when I, in my leather jerkin with a pack slung over my shoulders and carrying my mother's long-sword, and my sister, carrying her spellbook in the crook of her arm, a pack on her back and her cat clinging onto the hood of her gown, ran up to them. We overtook them and turned to face them head on, stopping the two adventurers in their tracks.
"Has your uncle forgotten something, child?" Imoen asked of me, not unkindly.
"We want to come with you." I said, slowly and deliberately.
"Very funny, boy. Now let us pass; we have much to get done today and we are already behind schedule."
I was about to respond when my sister, a full eighteen inches shorter than I, barged in front of me, clasping her spellbook to her chest. "I want to be your Apprentice, My Lady, if you will have me." I had never seen such conviction in my sister's eyes. Though I was often accused of being a dreamer and a silly heart in my youth, she had always been the flighty girl with a head too full for her own good.
Minsc, to my surprise, turned to Imoen. "Boo does not think they jest with us, my Witch. He, and Minsc, think they be earnest and strong hearts that say these words, not those of silly children. Boo would urge you to give them a chance..."
At this, Imoen smiled. "You, my faithful warrior, would have me take these children through the Cloud Peaks? If we were just going back to Neverwinter Forest then I might think differently, but the road we take is harsh and dangerous. It is not for amateur playwrights and their sisters." Her face hardened. "You would run away from your uncle?"
At this point, I noticed that my sister's eyes were no longer on Imoen. They were fixed on a first floor window of the tavern: our uncle's bedchamber. He was sat at his desk, crying. Imoen noticed, too, and followed both of our lines of sight. She stood for a few, long moments, then turned back around, dabbing her cuffs against her eyes to dry them.
"Very well, then, if you have already broke the topic with your uncle, and he has consented, then I can do little out of duty to him other than take you. But there is a price." She added, glancing back up to the window. "You shall take what monies you have to the magic shop in town. You shall buy two matching Mirrors of Seeing, and shall give one to your uncle. And once a week, without fail, you shall speak to him through the mirrors and tell him of what you are learning. Understand?"
"Those things cost a fort-" I began, but my sister elbowed my stomach, winding me into silence.
"At once, my Mistress." Yrnaeris said, and dragged me off to the town's magic shop. As it turned out, she had been working for the old mage who ran it whenever she used to 'go out to meet friends', the only social intercourse the young teenager had – or at least, had seemed to have. She had worked for a pittance; just to hold such magical items would have been payment enough for her, truth be known. But it meant that she could haggle the shopkeeper down to a reasonable price for two of the Mirrors – she knew exactly how much they cost to make. Pooling our lives' savings, a whole two hundred and fifty-one gold pieces, three silvers and five coppers, we bought the mirrors and quickly ran back to the tavern. We handed a mirror to our uncle, said our goodbyes – properly, this time, with no hurried farewells – and went back out into the street, as Travelling Companions of the famed Imoen Bhaalspawn.
Our chests swelled with pride as we walked, being out on the road for the first time. I even felt kinship with my sister – for probably the first time in our lives. We had always been opposite sides of the coin, she and I, always squabbling to see who came out on top. Now, that coin had been thrown up into the air so high it might never come down, and who landed face-up did not seem important any more.
Yrnaeris showed her skills as a diplomat once again upon arrival at the home of the Longsaddle Sage, Walthorn. As we approached, she turned to Imoen and said, "I know the Sage, ma'am. I used to tidy his house some evenings in exchange for scrolls of simple spells, so I might copy them into my spellbook."
"I see. Do you think you might be able to shave a copper or two off our transportation costs, then?" Imoen asked, smiling to her new Apprentice.
How Imoen felt about getting an Apprentice was something she only told me some considerable time after the event itself. It had, at first, been a moderately elating sensation. The idea that a child may wish to be taught the Art by her, barely more than a child herself, caused her pride to swell to enormous proportions. After that, the novelty of having an Apprentice slowly wore off; it was replaced by the knowledge of having a true and good friend at her side, and one of those, she always said, was worth a hundred indifferent Archmagi.
"I may be able to get us travel for free, my Lady, if you will let me try." The young maiden smiled, her tail sweeping arcs behind her.
A description of my sister may be of help at this point, because there is no 'generic' description of Tieflings, taking for example 'Shorter, skinnier humans with pointy ears' as being a 'generic' description of Elven. My sister had our mother's over-large eyes, sapphire and sparkling of iris and jet black of pupil. She had a ponytail of chestnut hair that reached her ankles when she stood upright; the side- length of her hair reached her elbows and held a natural kink.
She had pale, almost snow-white skin, not that you would notice with the 'Very Proper' sage-green velvet gowns she tended to wear, which closed at her chin and ran long enough to trail on the ground. Aside from the large eyes, there was little to afford her as being not of Elven stock, since her ears came to pointed tips. Aside, that is, from her tail. Children had mocked her in school for her little tail, with its little green bow strapped at the tip. They soon learned to stop mocking when they realised that it was as effective a flail as any a blacksmith could forge, and her 'flail' was, so-to-speak, closer to hand.
The effect was completed by the small reading-glasses that hung at her chest from a cord about her neck. She had been cursed with weak eyes, a curious mind and a father who believed in 'lights out' time. The eventual result was a mage who, through self-imposed eye strain, needed reading- glasses to read her scrolls and spellbook.
And it was this young woman, in a Very Proper sage-green gown, who knocked on the Sage's door while the rest of the party stayed a respectful distance back. What happened next surprised me to say the least – my sister dropped to the dusty cobbles. The door was opened a little and a staff prodded through the gap, at about 3 feet from the ground, for a few moments. Hearing no pained noises from the far side of his door, a slightly disappointed short Human, so short that he might have been mistaken for a Gnome in a bad light, opened the door fully. My sister got up off the ground and dusted herself down.
"Ah, child – do come in." The man's voice was throaty and weak, a sign of his age.
"I have some friends with me, Walthorn – heroes of Baldur's Gate and Athkatla. One is a mighty Ranger and the other is," My sister leaned down to whisper into the old man's ear. A few moments later she stood up straight once more. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded.
"You have been apprenticed by an Archmage of Candlekeep?"
"Aye, Sir. But only if I can convince you to do me this one favour..."
My sister batted her eyelids. I could not see, from where I was, but I could tell; whenever she batted her eyelids at a male of any race, they tended to blush, just as Walthorn was doing now. When he spoke again, it was with a flustered, but agreeable tone. "Very well, bring them in. But be quick about it – I ain't getting any younger!"
The Sage turned around and walked back into the pitch blackness of his home. The building was set apart from those around it – an interesting fact, given that even the few stately homes of Longsaddle were terraced. I had always assumed that the doddery old fool had blown up his house once, and when it was rebuilt his neighbours insisted it not touch their walls.
The outside walls of the house were painted duck-egg blue, with tiling on the roof to match. The inside walls were decorated with nothing. The inside floor, however, was decorated with ancient tomes of magic, papered with scroll cases, and carpeted with something that may have been 'shag pile' but smelt to me suspiciously like a fungus of some sort. It was pitch darkness in the room which though it caused me very little difficulty due to my race's inherent darkvision, caused Imoen and Minsc some very amusing problems.
CRUNCH! "Minsc and Boo are sorry, little man, but we appear to have stepped on something little and breaky."
"Don't worry about it – nothing I can't fix, I'm sure."
"Will you be careful where you're going, you big lummox?" Imoen asked, laughing, "Try to be- Oh gods above what HAVE I stepped in?"
I glanced down at her feet and grinned. "You don't want to know. I just hope you're carrying spare shoes, My Lady."
"Less of that, Squire, or I'll leave you in Nashkel." She joked and continued on; making sweeping arcs with her feet just off the ground of the areas she would step in before she stepped in them.
Eventually, after a few minutes, a blinding light appeared before us – or rather, before me. My sister had expected the man to light a lamp and had shut her eyes. Imoen and Minsc found the light a relief. Only me, with my dark vision staring straight at the light found myself blinded.
"Now, we're about to the portal." The man said, hooking the lamp to his staff.
"Where are we? Is this building transplanar?" Imoen asked, fascinated. The house had looked little more than a fifteen-yard square from outside.
"Always looking for the complicated answer, you Southerners. No, it's not transplanar – we're underground. If you paid attention, you'd notice we were walking down a slight slope all the time."
"Ah." Imoen replied feeling slightly embarrassed. She had gotten so used to High Magicks that she had overlooked something as simple as a RAMP.
A few more minutes along this tunnel, Minsc let out an accented grunt of pain. "Ow! Little man, your tunnel may be tall enough for you and Boo, but it is too short for the likes of Minsc!"
The Sage chuckled. "Just duck, Rashemen, and be thankful you aren't making the walk to Nashkel instead."
Minsc sighed, mumbled a bit to Boo, and continued along. Eventually, they reached a door. It seemed to distort the space around it, looking about twenty feet high while fitting in a five foot tunnel.
"Now this," the Sage said to Imoen, "Is transplanar."
Imoen stepped forward, looking at the door closer. It was constructed of gold, that much was obvious. The door was bisected, with a handle at either side of the middle. Runes were inscribed about its edges in a language that Imoen wished she had more time to study. It did not even look like it belonged on Toril.
"This is amazing! I had heard there was a portal here, but I had no idea..."
"You had no idea that it was a portal that originated in another plane. It surprises most people." The Sage paused. "Well, actually, it doesn't surprise many people, because most of them wouldn't know an extraplanar rune if it stood up and beat them about the head. Fairly impressive head on your shoulders, for a Southerner."
Imoen smiled and traced her fingers across the runes, only to pull her fingers back as though they had been burnt, though they were unharmed. "It's beautiful, but at the same time-"
"Eerie beyond all reason. That's because it is an Abyssal Portal – one of those they use to steal souls from the Fugue Plain. It found its way into the ground beneath this terrace, instead. The devil that came through burrowed all the way along to my house. I slew it, but my home was almost entirely destroyed in the process. After I rebuilt my house, I tried to manipulate the portal myself – I thought it might make a useful private route to Baldur's Gate. Closest I could get to the city, unfortunately, was Nashkel. Still, it shaves about two months off the journey for me. And it'll shave the same off for you."
Imoen nodded to the Sage. "I thank you, Sir, and am in your debt. Know that Imoen of Candlekeep owes you a Favour."
The Sage nodded, understanding the 'code'. Imoen owed him a Favour. With Archmagi, Favours did not mean a half a pint of milk from a neighbour. If he ever found himself battling another Devil, he could call upon her for support; or if he needed an errand run that was too dangerous to be performed by a mere wizard.
"As you would have it, Lady Imoen." The little Sage said as he clutched the handles of the door and heaved backwards. The doors gave way and swung apart, creaking and groaning as they went. "Might I present the Longsaddle Portal." The Sage panted with the effort, and then smiled at us.
All of us stood agog at what stood before us. What I saw there, I shall never be able to describe; some things are too beautiful to be confined to paper. Just know, ye reader, that I have never seen such a display of colour, shape and form as I did when those doors opened; I was awed by an eternal sunset.
"There you go. Now go through quickly, and once you're in Nashkel take a few steps to the right. It'll stop you falling on top of each other. You first, Lady Imoen." The Sage stepped back and pointed at the Portal.
"Okay..." Imoen swallowed back her fear, patted Swift who was hiding in her pack, and stepped through.
"Rashemen – now you."
Minsc kissed Boo's nose, then hid him about his person and stepped through.
"Miss Yrnaeris. May the gods be with ye, lass. Come back to us safe, and an Archmage, and with every other good thing." The Sage leaned forward and hugged my sister; an amusing sight, given that she stood a foot taller than he, but I did not laugh. The Sage then stepped back and patted Antoinette, who hopped into my sister's arms atop her spellbook, ready to face whatever lay beyond the portal, with her Mistress.
"Goodbye, Wally. You watch yourself, okay?" My sister smiled, and stepped forward into the swirling psychedelic sunset.
"And now you, boy. Look after your sister, you hear?" The old man smiled.
"I will, Walthorn. Count on it." I smiled, coiled myself back and stepped forward with a spring into what had to be the most beautiful sight in the Realms. I was therefore not unreasonably disappointed when I instantly appeared in the town of Nashkel...
A young woman sat in a small temple, dedicated to the goddess Aerdrie Faenya, and wept. She had done the same at least once a day, for almost three years. She would enter the temple, and those Suldenessallari who knew her would leave, quietly; likewise would those who did not, if only for the fact their fellows left. Once the temple was empty of all save the priests themselves, she would let out a heart-rending scream of anguish, and beg her goddess for forgiveness, and for knowledge. Knowledge of why her fair- haired, winged godchild had been taken from her. Knowledge of why his father, a god, had done nothing to prevent it. Knowledge of why that same god did not answer her prayers, though she prayed to him daily. And then, she would just cry – sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours. And she would curse the name, the heart and the very soul of one woman.
It had been HER fault... SHE was the reason that this woman had lost her world in but a few moments. The weeping woman herself was a priestess of Baervan Wildwanderer, a Gnomish deity, and Aerdrie Faenya, senior goddess of the Elven pantheon. She had been preaching at a Gnomish colony in the far west, among the mountains of Lantan Isle. The people here had long abandoned magic in favour of technology, and she had gone as part of a Gnomish Missionary movement from the township of Understone to remind the islanders that magic and gods still held a place in the world, even one graced with such technological wonders as they were capable of building.
It had been at dawn, on the fourth day of Eleasias, the eighth month of the Torilian calendar, almost three years ago, that the world, literally, had come crashing down around this idealistic cleric. She, and a group of Lantanian Gnomes interested in spreading the words of Baervan Wildwanderer, had met early that morning and headed up the mountainside to witness the sunrise across Faerûn. The sun had, indeed, risen. But shortly afterwards, the mountain fell.
The Gnomish scientists, some time later, once their grief had lessened, said it was what they called a Quake of the Earth Beneath. They had some theory about it being caused by big rafts of rock that the continents of Toril floated upon, but the woman had not wanted to hear it.
Imoen, the woman that this cleric despised with all her strength, had been on the island, as well – she and that imbecile, Minsc. They had said they would watch over her and her child, but had told her the night previous of some goblinoids in the mountains that were harassing the local townsfolk. The woman had allowed them leave to go and deal with the raiders. But they never should have GONE. Their DUTY was to protect her son! Her son, who had been in the underground complex that the Gnomes had hewn into the largest mountain on the island. Her son, who had been crushed under millions of tonnes of rock when Toril itself had shaken and collapsed that mountain.
Some two thousand gnomes had died in the disaster; most in the complex, several who were climbing back down the mountainside with the priestess after the sun had risen. As soon as she felt the ground tremble beneath her, she had used her wings – wings given to her by her husband once he had ascended to godhood – to fly high into the air. She saw what was happening, and flew as fast as she could to the complex entrance, only to be grabbed by a just-returned Minsc, who held onto her so she would not fly to her own demise. Imoen was trying to teleport the child to safety, but she needed to scry his exact position first. She had just located him and was readying the spell, when the view in her crystal ball showed a heavy rock land on the child. Minsc turned away and was violently sick; Imoen held her stomach, continuing the spell – maybe the boy was just injured. The view then blackened completely as the entire 'ceiling' gave way. What Imoen retrieved from the building was not a body. There was not enough left of the toddler to constitute a body.
The priestess had immediately set about a resurrection spell. It failed. As did every spell like it that the cleric knew. The children of the gods were just not that easy to save... She had cursed Imoen, truly, and Imoen had been forced to return to the mainland to find a priestess who could lift it. The woman had likewise banished the proud Rashemen warrior, Minsc, from ever coming into her sight again. Minsc followed Imoen, feeling somewhat responsible for the state that the Mage now found herself in. What happened to them after that, the woman did not know and did not care. They had ceased to exist in her own private universe, at least until now. She had taken the remains of her son, such as they were, to the Elves of Suldenessallar, whose clerics were much more powerful than she, and had remained there these past years despite their lack of success.
And now SHE comes back, thought the woman. She wishes a boon of me. What would you have me do, oh father of my child? You, who hath forsaken me and thy child, you would have me aid the witch and her fool in their quest. But as you turned your back on me five years ago, MY LOVE, I turn my back on you now. She shall not have what she seeks – not while I still have strength. Have your godhood, my love, and I shall have my vengeance...
With those thoughts in mind, the woman ceased her weeping and arose. She had but a few days to prepare, though that was more than enough. Her blonde hair, once long, had been cropped short. Her innocent blue eyes were now dark and cold, her cheeks red raw from years of tears. Her pretty face had lost much of its beauty, if only because the curious smile she had always worn no longer adorned it. The sight of this, and knowledge of her thoughts, made one god scream in pain and loss – his screams were heard across all of Toril that night. There was nothing left but bitterness within his Love-eternal; the woman for whom he had waited every lonely minute of every lonely day since the moment he received his divinity, for their reunion. His Aerie... Likewise, a small child sat on that god's knee cried out with grief and sorrow. "Mama..."
******
Winthrop spared no expense for the dinner that followed his young protégé's arrival. Before Imoen had taken up the Art, she had been a thief. Many of those abilities had been enhanced by tutelage from Candlekeep's former-adventurer barkeep. He realised that she was getting a bit too good when he had ended up chasing her around the grounds of the keep trying to recover four coppers she had snatched from his back pocket.
When she left after Gorion, it had been Winthrop who had caught her at the gates of Candlekeep. It had been Winthrop who had given her a quick hug, handed her a wand of magic missiles and a few healing potions, kissed her forehead and closed the doors after her so none would be the wiser 'till morning. It had been Winthrop who, upon her return after the battle with Melissan, had ensured she got her old room, which he had kept exactly as she had left it all those years ago. It had been Winthrop who stood with her before the marble statues of Gorion and Khalid, and held her as she wept. Winthrop was, if Imoen had a family, the overweight uncle with a heart to match; the type of relative who buys their nephews and nieces alchemy sets because firstly, he knows it's what they want, and secondly, it's not his carpet they'll set fire to.
Shortly after she left, he had moved north to an inn that had been willed to him by his late brother. It was fairly dilapidated, but it had a small theatre on the second floor, and, more importantly, his OWN nephew and niece needed somebody to look to them. His brother had married a Tiefling woman, though it was always said that there were fewer more decent and just people anywhere in the realms than she, breaking the stereotype of her race as thieves and rogues.
They had borne children later in his life, but the Tiefling aged slower than he and both of them were born healthy. The girl was called Yrnaeris; the younger but most intellectual, she had begun study of the Art at an extremely early age, aided in no small fashion by the number of mages who frequented the tavern. Her brother, and senior by three years, was a bard and would-be author. He was also very involved with the writer of this history – namely, he is me.
An introduction of myself would not go amiss at this point. I am Kyrnor Winthrop, though you probably know me by my pen-name, Kyr Tanar'rikin, so chosen to acknowledge the Tiefling in my blood. At the time of writing, I sit in the same inn I tell you of now, my aging uncle still tending bar beneath me, and a team of mummers rehearsing a play of my own invention above me. The play they perform is the same play I petitioned my uncle to allow me to commission all those years ago, in front of what I believed to be another of the 'stuffy' mages that tended to visit him. Oh, how wrong I was.
"But uncle!" I pouted like the spoilt child I was back then – in my defence, however, I ask the reader to understand that I was but eighteen and barely adolescent in terms of my race, "It'll make us business, I swear! I've done dema- demi- domo-"
"Demographic." Imoen supplied between mouthfuls of roast beef.
"Thank you," I said, less than courteously and moderately annoyed at the assistance, "Demographic surveys that show the customers would like to have music on the stage."
"They think you mean Opera, not this new-fangled 'play-interspersed- with-songs' idea of yours. And can you not think of a better name for it?"
"I was thinking of calling it a Lyrical, because of the song lyrics. Or maybe a Thespo-Choral, since it contains both acting and singing."
"How about a 'Musical'?" Imoen asked, gobbling down roast potatoes.
"Don't be silly – that'll never catch on." I retorted. I turned back to my uncle. "Please, Uncle! Let me try! I know – I have my Lyre with me,"
"Oh gods..." My uncle inserted in my breath between sentences.
"I'll show the good people the opening song! The play is about an uprising of slaves in the Far East, which is tragically crushed by the armies of their oppressors." I must admit to being slightly impetuous when first I met the Archmage of Neverwinter. But I must also admit to being of some notable talent with the Lyre, an ability I unfortunately lost some time ago. I recited my song to those present; my uncle and sister, Imoen, Minsc and, of course, Boo. It went something like this:
Do you hear Rashemen sing?
'Tis the song of an angry land;
It is the music of Rashemi
Whose freedom is now at hand.
Centuries spent underfoot,
Slaves to the Red Wizards of Thay,
But the tyrants shall get the boot
At the break of day!
At this point I was interrupted by thunderous applause from the gallery. Minsc stood from the table and clapped as loud as a hundred critics. It was possibly the proudest moment of my youth.
"Bravo, little bard! Bravo! Minsc and Boo stand in the presence of a master! We love your little song! It will go down a storm in Rashemen."
Imoen sulkily placed her chin in her cupped hands, and murmured, "Yeah. A storm of ice, fire and lightning the first time a Red Mage hears it." It was more than a little childish a position for such an accomplished wizard to adopt, but Imoen had been feeling more and more her old self with each passing minute in my uncle's company, and it was beginning to show in her manner.
"They would not dare, surely! Oppression of the masses is one thing, but oppression of art? Pah! That would really display their tyranny to the world." It was a sign of my naïveté at that point that I could believe an organisation like the Red Wizards incapable of something so base as vetoing a play, and a sign of my conceit that I would judge the prohibition of a piece of theatre as a more heinous crime than the slavery of thousands. I turned back to Minsc, who appeared to be my only supporter, "That part works; the only problem I'm having is fitting in the dancers in the cat costumes and the mysterious masked man called the Spectre of the Opera, representing the death of old Opera and the birth of my new kind of play."
It was at this point that my sister spoke. She had been quiet most of the meal, quiet and thoughtful but now, when she spoke it was almost a scream.
"Where is Antoinette?! You've hidden her again, Kyr, haven't you!"
"No I haven't touched that flea-ridden moggie of yours!" I yelled, indignantly, safe in the knowledge that I had sealed the cat in the wine cellar once again.
"She is NOT flea-ridden! She's as fine and as smart and as clean a black cat as exists in all of Faerûn! I won't have you speak ill of my Familiar!" My sister's response only served to increase my own hilarity at the situation. I burst out laughing. She began to cry.
"She has a black cat?" Imoen asked of my uncle, a note of concern creeping into her voice.
"It is not what you think, Immy. She is a good girl, sweet as any I've ever known. She did not summon it to be her Familiar; she saved it from a drowning four years ago, when the blacksmith across the way decided that the creature was too scrawny to fetch a decent price, or even to give away. Antoinette was the only black cat of a grey-striped litter, and without a doubt she was scrawny, but Yrnaeris nursed her to health. When Yrnaeris began showing some prowess in the Craft, the cat chose to slip into the role of Familiar; it does not reflect on my niece."
Imoen raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Black cats tended to be taken as Familiars by magi of a chaotic bent, with no compunction to do good within the Realms. Such wizards were, in Imoen's opinion, one very small step from the evil mages she had fought most of her life. Of course, it was not entirely unusual for a family pet to become a Familiar; if a child had reared an animal from birth, then the psychic tuning required between Mage and Familiar was often already in place – it just needed a little supernatural push.
It was at that point I first caught a glimpse of the powers of Imoen Archmage. She looked at me, deeply, and her mouth moved in silent incantation. A few seconds later, she looked from me to the wine cellar's trapdoor. She waved a fleeting gesture toward it, the catch unlocked itself and the door swung open. Antoinette leapt out, cast me a reproachful glance, and hopped onto Yrnaeris' lap. She knew spells that could determine the thoughts of another being, a horrifying prospect to an amateur mummer and cutpurse such as myself.
The rest of the meal passed in virtual silence. I only dared look up from my meal twice. Both times, the icy stares of this strange wizard and my uncle forced my own back down in shame. At about a quarter to ten in the evening, my uncle sent myself and Yrnaeris to our rooms. He then talked to Imoen and Minsc until the small hours of the morning. I could hear the entire conversation through my floorboards, but it contained little that I found interesting.
"So why did you come here, then, if not to see old Winthrop."
"That's unfair – you know it's always a pleasure to see you. I head into town tomorrow, in the early hours, with Minsc. We will speak to your local Sage, Walthorn, and request the use of his Portal to Nashkel. From there, we'll make a set a brisk pace southwards through the Cloud Peaks, past the Twin Towers and out into the plains of Amn. We aim to reach Suldenessallar in three days at the latest."
"You would take the Cloud Peaks?! Are you mad, child?"
"No – it is the quickest way."
"And the most perilous! White dragons make their homes in those mountains, not to mention all other kinds of riff-raff; Gnolls, Kobolds, Hobgoblins, even Trolls at this time of year. Why risk all of that to get to Elven country?"
"To keep a promise." Imoen said, abruptly. She did not wish to be drawn on the subject.
"Well," Winthrop sighed, "If you intend on getting that old coot Walthorn's good will, I'd suggest not rousing him 'till at least brunch- time."
"I have money enough to buy the Sage's good will a thousand times over."
"Yes, but Walthorn has reached an age where he doesn't really care for money, my girl." Winthrop spoke as he had done so many years, when teaching her the 'do's and 'do not's of burglary – a tutor's tone. "He won't let you use his portal if you wake him from his rest, and that's a certainty; best to wait until eleven in the morning, at the earliest. Three hours either way shouldn't be too much of a bother, no matter how urgent your task is."
"Very well – you know him better than I, so I shall defer to your judgement. So, my teacher, how does life in the big wide world sit with you after the relative calm and dreary sameness of running the tavern in Candlekeep?"
As to his response, I did not listen. I was too busy thinking what amazing plays I might right about a journey through those mountains. I went to sleep some minutes later, dreaming of the beautiful, graceful terror that is a Great White Wyrm in flight...
******
My sister and I woke up early that morning, both thinking along similar lines. Yrnaeris had long spoken of leaving the Tavern and seeking Apprenticeship, maybe with old Walthorn, or maybe at Candlekeep with a reference from her uncle. I had long spoken of seeing foreign lands to give me more subject matter for my plays and stories, not to mention making some small fortune on the way.
We sat for some time, discussing it, negotiating. Eventually we came to an agreement: we would leave home together to seek our fortunes, with Imoen Bhaalspawn; I would not in any way, shape or form harm her kitty and she would not bother me with her incessant whining while I wrote or recited. It was a mutually beneficial settlement. All we had to do was talk to our uncle about it. Oh, and get the good will of Imoen.
Imoen herself was roused fairly late in the morning at ten of the clock. Minsc had been up for some time already and was helping my uncle, in the kitchen, to fill the bellies of the breakfast-time customers. When there was a lull in the proceedings, which tended to occur at about half past ten, we collared our uncle and told him of our intentions.
Imoen, by this time, was readying for her departure. That morning was the coldest day of the summer so far, and indeed the coldest summer day I can remember since. Imoen had donned her burgundy robe, gathered her packs and replenished her spell components from her stores within the Bag of Holding she carried. My uncle had given them an old antique bottle of his from his adventuring days; one enchanted such that never ran dry of water.
They were out onto the street when I, in my leather jerkin with a pack slung over my shoulders and carrying my mother's long-sword, and my sister, carrying her spellbook in the crook of her arm, a pack on her back and her cat clinging onto the hood of her gown, ran up to them. We overtook them and turned to face them head on, stopping the two adventurers in their tracks.
"Has your uncle forgotten something, child?" Imoen asked of me, not unkindly.
"We want to come with you." I said, slowly and deliberately.
"Very funny, boy. Now let us pass; we have much to get done today and we are already behind schedule."
I was about to respond when my sister, a full eighteen inches shorter than I, barged in front of me, clasping her spellbook to her chest. "I want to be your Apprentice, My Lady, if you will have me." I had never seen such conviction in my sister's eyes. Though I was often accused of being a dreamer and a silly heart in my youth, she had always been the flighty girl with a head too full for her own good.
Minsc, to my surprise, turned to Imoen. "Boo does not think they jest with us, my Witch. He, and Minsc, think they be earnest and strong hearts that say these words, not those of silly children. Boo would urge you to give them a chance..."
At this, Imoen smiled. "You, my faithful warrior, would have me take these children through the Cloud Peaks? If we were just going back to Neverwinter Forest then I might think differently, but the road we take is harsh and dangerous. It is not for amateur playwrights and their sisters." Her face hardened. "You would run away from your uncle?"
At this point, I noticed that my sister's eyes were no longer on Imoen. They were fixed on a first floor window of the tavern: our uncle's bedchamber. He was sat at his desk, crying. Imoen noticed, too, and followed both of our lines of sight. She stood for a few, long moments, then turned back around, dabbing her cuffs against her eyes to dry them.
"Very well, then, if you have already broke the topic with your uncle, and he has consented, then I can do little out of duty to him other than take you. But there is a price." She added, glancing back up to the window. "You shall take what monies you have to the magic shop in town. You shall buy two matching Mirrors of Seeing, and shall give one to your uncle. And once a week, without fail, you shall speak to him through the mirrors and tell him of what you are learning. Understand?"
"Those things cost a fort-" I began, but my sister elbowed my stomach, winding me into silence.
"At once, my Mistress." Yrnaeris said, and dragged me off to the town's magic shop. As it turned out, she had been working for the old mage who ran it whenever she used to 'go out to meet friends', the only social intercourse the young teenager had – or at least, had seemed to have. She had worked for a pittance; just to hold such magical items would have been payment enough for her, truth be known. But it meant that she could haggle the shopkeeper down to a reasonable price for two of the Mirrors – she knew exactly how much they cost to make. Pooling our lives' savings, a whole two hundred and fifty-one gold pieces, three silvers and five coppers, we bought the mirrors and quickly ran back to the tavern. We handed a mirror to our uncle, said our goodbyes – properly, this time, with no hurried farewells – and went back out into the street, as Travelling Companions of the famed Imoen Bhaalspawn.
Our chests swelled with pride as we walked, being out on the road for the first time. I even felt kinship with my sister – for probably the first time in our lives. We had always been opposite sides of the coin, she and I, always squabbling to see who came out on top. Now, that coin had been thrown up into the air so high it might never come down, and who landed face-up did not seem important any more.
Yrnaeris showed her skills as a diplomat once again upon arrival at the home of the Longsaddle Sage, Walthorn. As we approached, she turned to Imoen and said, "I know the Sage, ma'am. I used to tidy his house some evenings in exchange for scrolls of simple spells, so I might copy them into my spellbook."
"I see. Do you think you might be able to shave a copper or two off our transportation costs, then?" Imoen asked, smiling to her new Apprentice.
How Imoen felt about getting an Apprentice was something she only told me some considerable time after the event itself. It had, at first, been a moderately elating sensation. The idea that a child may wish to be taught the Art by her, barely more than a child herself, caused her pride to swell to enormous proportions. After that, the novelty of having an Apprentice slowly wore off; it was replaced by the knowledge of having a true and good friend at her side, and one of those, she always said, was worth a hundred indifferent Archmagi.
"I may be able to get us travel for free, my Lady, if you will let me try." The young maiden smiled, her tail sweeping arcs behind her.
A description of my sister may be of help at this point, because there is no 'generic' description of Tieflings, taking for example 'Shorter, skinnier humans with pointy ears' as being a 'generic' description of Elven. My sister had our mother's over-large eyes, sapphire and sparkling of iris and jet black of pupil. She had a ponytail of chestnut hair that reached her ankles when she stood upright; the side- length of her hair reached her elbows and held a natural kink.
She had pale, almost snow-white skin, not that you would notice with the 'Very Proper' sage-green velvet gowns she tended to wear, which closed at her chin and ran long enough to trail on the ground. Aside from the large eyes, there was little to afford her as being not of Elven stock, since her ears came to pointed tips. Aside, that is, from her tail. Children had mocked her in school for her little tail, with its little green bow strapped at the tip. They soon learned to stop mocking when they realised that it was as effective a flail as any a blacksmith could forge, and her 'flail' was, so-to-speak, closer to hand.
The effect was completed by the small reading-glasses that hung at her chest from a cord about her neck. She had been cursed with weak eyes, a curious mind and a father who believed in 'lights out' time. The eventual result was a mage who, through self-imposed eye strain, needed reading- glasses to read her scrolls and spellbook.
And it was this young woman, in a Very Proper sage-green gown, who knocked on the Sage's door while the rest of the party stayed a respectful distance back. What happened next surprised me to say the least – my sister dropped to the dusty cobbles. The door was opened a little and a staff prodded through the gap, at about 3 feet from the ground, for a few moments. Hearing no pained noises from the far side of his door, a slightly disappointed short Human, so short that he might have been mistaken for a Gnome in a bad light, opened the door fully. My sister got up off the ground and dusted herself down.
"Ah, child – do come in." The man's voice was throaty and weak, a sign of his age.
"I have some friends with me, Walthorn – heroes of Baldur's Gate and Athkatla. One is a mighty Ranger and the other is," My sister leaned down to whisper into the old man's ear. A few moments later she stood up straight once more. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded.
"You have been apprenticed by an Archmage of Candlekeep?"
"Aye, Sir. But only if I can convince you to do me this one favour..."
My sister batted her eyelids. I could not see, from where I was, but I could tell; whenever she batted her eyelids at a male of any race, they tended to blush, just as Walthorn was doing now. When he spoke again, it was with a flustered, but agreeable tone. "Very well, bring them in. But be quick about it – I ain't getting any younger!"
The Sage turned around and walked back into the pitch blackness of his home. The building was set apart from those around it – an interesting fact, given that even the few stately homes of Longsaddle were terraced. I had always assumed that the doddery old fool had blown up his house once, and when it was rebuilt his neighbours insisted it not touch their walls.
The outside walls of the house were painted duck-egg blue, with tiling on the roof to match. The inside walls were decorated with nothing. The inside floor, however, was decorated with ancient tomes of magic, papered with scroll cases, and carpeted with something that may have been 'shag pile' but smelt to me suspiciously like a fungus of some sort. It was pitch darkness in the room which though it caused me very little difficulty due to my race's inherent darkvision, caused Imoen and Minsc some very amusing problems.
CRUNCH! "Minsc and Boo are sorry, little man, but we appear to have stepped on something little and breaky."
"Don't worry about it – nothing I can't fix, I'm sure."
"Will you be careful where you're going, you big lummox?" Imoen asked, laughing, "Try to be- Oh gods above what HAVE I stepped in?"
I glanced down at her feet and grinned. "You don't want to know. I just hope you're carrying spare shoes, My Lady."
"Less of that, Squire, or I'll leave you in Nashkel." She joked and continued on; making sweeping arcs with her feet just off the ground of the areas she would step in before she stepped in them.
Eventually, after a few minutes, a blinding light appeared before us – or rather, before me. My sister had expected the man to light a lamp and had shut her eyes. Imoen and Minsc found the light a relief. Only me, with my dark vision staring straight at the light found myself blinded.
"Now, we're about to the portal." The man said, hooking the lamp to his staff.
"Where are we? Is this building transplanar?" Imoen asked, fascinated. The house had looked little more than a fifteen-yard square from outside.
"Always looking for the complicated answer, you Southerners. No, it's not transplanar – we're underground. If you paid attention, you'd notice we were walking down a slight slope all the time."
"Ah." Imoen replied feeling slightly embarrassed. She had gotten so used to High Magicks that she had overlooked something as simple as a RAMP.
A few more minutes along this tunnel, Minsc let out an accented grunt of pain. "Ow! Little man, your tunnel may be tall enough for you and Boo, but it is too short for the likes of Minsc!"
The Sage chuckled. "Just duck, Rashemen, and be thankful you aren't making the walk to Nashkel instead."
Minsc sighed, mumbled a bit to Boo, and continued along. Eventually, they reached a door. It seemed to distort the space around it, looking about twenty feet high while fitting in a five foot tunnel.
"Now this," the Sage said to Imoen, "Is transplanar."
Imoen stepped forward, looking at the door closer. It was constructed of gold, that much was obvious. The door was bisected, with a handle at either side of the middle. Runes were inscribed about its edges in a language that Imoen wished she had more time to study. It did not even look like it belonged on Toril.
"This is amazing! I had heard there was a portal here, but I had no idea..."
"You had no idea that it was a portal that originated in another plane. It surprises most people." The Sage paused. "Well, actually, it doesn't surprise many people, because most of them wouldn't know an extraplanar rune if it stood up and beat them about the head. Fairly impressive head on your shoulders, for a Southerner."
Imoen smiled and traced her fingers across the runes, only to pull her fingers back as though they had been burnt, though they were unharmed. "It's beautiful, but at the same time-"
"Eerie beyond all reason. That's because it is an Abyssal Portal – one of those they use to steal souls from the Fugue Plain. It found its way into the ground beneath this terrace, instead. The devil that came through burrowed all the way along to my house. I slew it, but my home was almost entirely destroyed in the process. After I rebuilt my house, I tried to manipulate the portal myself – I thought it might make a useful private route to Baldur's Gate. Closest I could get to the city, unfortunately, was Nashkel. Still, it shaves about two months off the journey for me. And it'll shave the same off for you."
Imoen nodded to the Sage. "I thank you, Sir, and am in your debt. Know that Imoen of Candlekeep owes you a Favour."
The Sage nodded, understanding the 'code'. Imoen owed him a Favour. With Archmagi, Favours did not mean a half a pint of milk from a neighbour. If he ever found himself battling another Devil, he could call upon her for support; or if he needed an errand run that was too dangerous to be performed by a mere wizard.
"As you would have it, Lady Imoen." The little Sage said as he clutched the handles of the door and heaved backwards. The doors gave way and swung apart, creaking and groaning as they went. "Might I present the Longsaddle Portal." The Sage panted with the effort, and then smiled at us.
All of us stood agog at what stood before us. What I saw there, I shall never be able to describe; some things are too beautiful to be confined to paper. Just know, ye reader, that I have never seen such a display of colour, shape and form as I did when those doors opened; I was awed by an eternal sunset.
"There you go. Now go through quickly, and once you're in Nashkel take a few steps to the right. It'll stop you falling on top of each other. You first, Lady Imoen." The Sage stepped back and pointed at the Portal.
"Okay..." Imoen swallowed back her fear, patted Swift who was hiding in her pack, and stepped through.
"Rashemen – now you."
Minsc kissed Boo's nose, then hid him about his person and stepped through.
"Miss Yrnaeris. May the gods be with ye, lass. Come back to us safe, and an Archmage, and with every other good thing." The Sage leaned forward and hugged my sister; an amusing sight, given that she stood a foot taller than he, but I did not laugh. The Sage then stepped back and patted Antoinette, who hopped into my sister's arms atop her spellbook, ready to face whatever lay beyond the portal, with her Mistress.
"Goodbye, Wally. You watch yourself, okay?" My sister smiled, and stepped forward into the swirling psychedelic sunset.
"And now you, boy. Look after your sister, you hear?" The old man smiled.
"I will, Walthorn. Count on it." I smiled, coiled myself back and stepped forward with a spring into what had to be the most beautiful sight in the Realms. I was therefore not unreasonably disappointed when I instantly appeared in the town of Nashkel...