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Dearest Readers, sometimes there are many lights, but all set aflame by a single candle.

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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿

Book Three: Meeting of Fires | Chapter 61: … And Started Burning

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"If you could dispense for me a double dosage of bloodpurge, please," Xan requested, tone controlled with effort to keep from grimacing. He squirmed and clasped at his belly but with grace only the Tel'Quessir could manage while beset by intestinal qualms.

Brother Karan cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, seemingly gathering courage to contradict his new patient's self-diagnosis. "Pardon me, Lord Cerlynradh, but I must respectfully disagree that your condition warrants something as potent as a curative for minor poisoning. Although I do agree with how Mister Winthrop is overly generous with the cooking grease." He gestured to the row of jars behind him. "Might I recommend instead a tonic of ginger and basil to ease the discomfort?"

Of course, bloodpurge might be a little overkill, no question on that. And Xan would know, for part of Greycloak training involved getting acquainted with substances capable of turning the tide of battle, prolonging one's survival under extreme conditions, or simply preventing honor-slighting outcomes that could spark a war between hostile factions.

On the other hand, the much stronger herb had been his last hope for a purgative for everything he had to force himself to consume for what passes as sustenance in these human lands. Conceding, Xan nodded, and the herbalist swept away from the counter to commence his work. From separate shelves the young man deftly retrieved an armful of small ceramic jars, followed by a moment of sifting through the tools in a drawer.

As he did so, another monk dropped by with a handful of lists. Brother Karan went over the instructions, shaking his head at some, murmuring his vexation over another, eventually sighing in reprieve at a few short ones. His fellow Avowed insisted on the urgency of all the requests to which Karan expressed his exasperated acquiescence. As soon as the other left, the herbalist resumed his task with a resigned shake of the head.

Seeing the young man's frustration prompted the memory of a curious detail. "You used to have an assistant, did you not? The serving girl at the inn told me so," Xan said.

Unlike Imoen, Brother Karan smiled, but it was a wistful one. "You mean- Irse? Yes, she would help me with work in the apothecary. Well, when she was still here."

"A daughter of an Avowed or another resident of the Keep?" Of course, Xan hadn't seen any other full elf in this human citadel. On the other hand, an intentionally incorrect assumption often proved effective in ferreting out the right details from an unwary interrogatee.

Brother Karan ground some cardamom, coriander, and black peppercorns, then chopped and peeled a piece of ginger. Into a saucepan of simmering water, he stirred in a bit of honey, added the spices, and crushed some basil leaves. As the herb released a sharp and earthy aroma, Xan inhaled as discreetly as he could, suppressing a sigh for the scents reminded him somewhat of the gardens and fields of his home. The herbalist boiled them for a fifth of a candle then let the tea steep for another tenth while fluttering about behind the counter for a vial and implements wherewith to distill the concoction. These tasks he performed as if by reflex even while speaking of his former assistant.

Of the circumstances of Irse's birth and parentage, none were privy to the knowledge, Brother Karan supposed, perhaps save the Keeper of Tomes and the First Reader, for it had been Gorion who took it upon himself to bring the child and raise her in this place as if she were his own. Hence, Master Ulraunt gave his grudging permission if it would mean Candlekeep could retain such a highly regarded sage in its employ.

Indeed, the man's unadorned gray robes were a paradoxical symbol of his esteemed station in Candlekeep. For as the appointed Guide, Gorion held near absolute authority over the instruction of the acolytes, those who are yet to attain the status of an Avowed, and even those who have already been ordained into their ranks. And as a foremost expert on the prophecies of Alaundo, his departure would have been a serious impairment to The Great Library. This, Xan had learned, when he previously requested for a consultation with an expert on the human seer's oracles. But as for the elven orphan -

"And no one thought to inquire into her background and question why Gorion would adopt the girl instead of seeking out her kin or an elven community to take her in?"

Karan fidgeted while straining the liquid through a sieve. "She was already past five summers when I joined the Avowed. I too, once asked but was told of Master Gorion's strictest instructions to never speak of it. Most of us simply believed she had been orphaned and was entrusted to him. But over the years, it never truly mattered to me and I believe what Master Gorion did was ultimately for the best."

Hardly. Will it ever be for the best to raise an elven child deprived of crucial spiritual communion with the People? Misguided charity with eventually tragic consequences, for certain. Xan feigned a sympathetic nod, but the wry skepticism on his face could not be disguised which the herbalist evidently caught, for Brother Karan cleared his throat and stiffly offered the finished tonic.

"Here, it's done. You need not do more than drink this tonic straight, Goodsir. No mixing or shaking required. One bottle should suffice to settle your stomach."

Taken aback, Xan reached out and took the bottle. "Forgive me. It wasn't my intention to pry nor insinuate a lacking on anyone's part. It is only customary for anyone of my People to be concerned with the welfare of our young," he said, genuinely contrite.

"And more so would a father who loved his child and tried to do what he thought was best and right. Wouldn't you agree?" Brother Karan answered back curtly.

Xan offered a conciliatory but strained smile. Silence hung awkward between them for a few breaths, mercifully dispelled by the clangor of the bells. Somber despite the brightness of day, they tolled and heralded the beginning of the Endless Chant – the daily chorus of the remaining unfulfilled prophecies of Alaundo. Just as they did the day before and the days prior, and since time uncountable, the Chanters carried out their solemn ritual as they meandered a circuitous path from the Emerald Door, to the east among the grounds to mid-levels of the towers. Then it was north to the granaries, west to the ascending pathways close to the ramparts over the cliffs, descending southwards to complete the course.

Even through the walls of the apothecary, those brooding words resounded. Xan glanced at the window. "I was told by an Avowed - for each prophecy that comes to pass, it is struck out from the Chant," he said in absent recollection.

Some humor returned to Brother Karan's face. "Obviously, we'd rather none of those foretold scourges come true at least within our lifetimes. But if there's any for which most of us feel dread, it is the one about the Children of the Lord of the Murder."

Not a surprise that the denizens of Candlekeep attributed a rightful apprehension over any divine meddling in the mortal realm. After all, only a decade has passed since the godswar and the havoc it wreaked across the realms left a lasting scar upon the providence of mortals.

"Though strangely, one of our visitors from a good while ago seem to have taken quite a liking to the verses. I came upon the man gazing out of the window of the necessarium, mouthing the words along with the Chanters as if he knew them by heart."

"A fascinating character," Xan murmured, eyes darting to the side with mild interest. Perhaps another like him, cursed with an indecipherable dilemma, driven to search the prophecies to avert an unfathomable disaster?

"Some Sembian merchant's son, I heard from one of the Gatewarden's men. Quite an unforgettable fellow, I mean, so impressively tall and imposing, yet spoke like a scholar in a warrior's frame. I even saw him talking seriously with Master Gorion one day, perhaps discussing the prophecies as well. But the elf accompanying him, on the other hand-"

As described by Karan, the Sembian's elven companion appeared to be a mage based on his attire. Never venturing out of his room but in the rare occasions that he did, the man always appeared to be seething in his robes as if disgusted with having to be surrounded by humans. Prior to their departure, the pair had come to the apothecary to purchase a few healing draughts for the increasingly troubling roads. Evidently out of courtesy for Brother Karan and others, the Sembian spoke to his cohort in the Common tongue, but the companion only ever replied in elvish. Angry-sounding elvish. Otherwise, he appeared to be submitting to the Sembian in other things.

"In some way, he reminds me of you, Lord Cerlynradh, from his manner and bearing. I'd have wanted to make conversation with him about the healing and herbal craft of the elves, but he had the look of one willing to violate the peace of this place just to disintegrate anyone who dared invade his personal space."

Xan raised a curious brow. Intriguing - a Tel'Quessir disdainful of humans but willingly deferring to one?

Brother Karan started putting away the implements. "Not again," he suddenly exclaimed, dismayed. For there upon the counter, what used to be a pair of scissors was no more but a pile of dust.

"Oh, this is not good. Not good at all," the herbalist stammered.

For as Brother Karan explained, the Keep had already stopped sourcing its implements directly from Nashkel, an arrangement which used to save them a good amount of coin better spent on far more important things. But this pair of scissors and a host of tools had been bought from the Gate, if only to ensure they couldn't have been infected by the tainted iron. A proposal to quarantine all steel coming from outside had been put forward to the Keeper of Tomes, but the idea had been shelved for its impracticality.

Weapons from visitors were already being confiscated at least temporarily by the Gatewarden, but what of ordinary implements in their belongings? Now it might seem that even the simplest of items - a belt buckle, a button, bifocals, walking canes, would have to be searched or impounded as well. And if the iron plague is never resolved and spreads uncontained within the Keep, how might it impact on their work in preserving the works and artifacts of learning? Brother Karan lamented how because of rumored tensions between Amn and the Gate as well as troubles in the road, several benefactors already postponed their visits.

Xan could only nod his head in grave agreement. It would seem even knowledge itself might also fall casualty to the iron plague.

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Xan poured some of the tonic into a cup, ventured a cautious sip, dared a swallow, waited a good while, then raised a brow in mild astonishment. Well then, it would seem the N'Tel'Quess were capable of concocting something agreeable with his stomach, after all. He emptied the rest of it into his teacup, the liquid's sloshing echoing in the empty common room.

Earlier, the innkeeper remarked how normally the place should be full at this hour, past dinner but not yet moondark. Yet despite the fair weather and season, Candlekeep received fewer visitors than usual. Just like when the gods made all that sodding trouble for everyone, the innkeeper had jested.

No, not the gods this time, but something closer to the earth – tainted iron. Unfortunately, the strange plague compounded with the sudden hike in banditry made it unattractive for journeys not involving the most basic of necessities.

Xan peered into his cup. Officially and technically, he was still on furlough and Cathfaen had generously avoided putting him on any hard deadline. Perhaps he might make his way south to Suldanessellar which should have its fair share of scholars and seers. After all, their zealous warding of Cor'Etriel Elessime and the Tree of Life might make them take his forebodings more seriously. But then, the journey would take him too far from home. And likely closer to a tragic and ghastly demise.

Furiously he wagged his head. At this juncture, voyaging further north appeared more plausible. But then he squirmed, already nauseous at the thought of wading through the metropolitan morass of Waterdeep or Neverwinter just to confer with anyone in what passed for elven communities there. On the other hand, Silverymoon might prove a more palatable destination for research given its predilection for the Art, and hospitality to the morally upright. Not to mention that as the Gem of the North, it was said to echo some of the beauty that had been lost with the fall of Myth Drannor.

His eyes fell upon his thick logbook wherewith he dutifully recorded even the most minute observations, which Father often unwelcomingly and affectionately referred to as Sad Xan's Clamoring Complaints and Leaden Lamentations. Next to the journal lay the vial containing a sample of the corroded iron dust that used to be the herbalist's scissors. Xan picked it up, shaking the bottle slightly, turning it over the candle if perhaps the humble flame might shed some light on this strange condition. Hued like rust regardless of its prior solid form. Hued like the corrosion coating the chains bounding the elven woman in his vision.

Abruptly he put it down, slid the ampoule under the journal and looked away in denial. No. One ought not to grasp at straws, or seek for signs where there were none, nor sweep for clues where there was naught but cobwebs and dust. And yet –

Xan picked it up again, absently uncorking the mouth, inadvertently spilling the iron dust. Frowning, he ran a finger over the grains, scattering them from a small pile to cover more of the paper, some even falling into the hinge between the pages. Huffing with mild irritation, he tried with a fingernail to pry the iron grains out of the fold, fumbling with woeful effort.

Like this russet dust wandering across the once pristine pages, what if this iron plague didn't remain within the boundaries of the Sword Coast, and instead evolved into a contagion finding its the way to Evereska? What if this corrosion was a symptom of more terrible things to come- the tainted ore a precursor to a blight of the land, corrupting everything in its path until it creeped its way into their cherished home? Or what if it all erupted into conflict between rival states attracting those who would upset the balance and peace? Indeed, never underestimate the propensity of mortals for opportunity and chaos.

And what if somewhere and somehow, tangled among the intricacies of this exigency lay more clues to his vision?

Xan exhaled, defeated. Duty has made its demand and the decision lay crystal clear.

But also clearly unpleasant. Like broken crystal fragments beneath one's bare soles.

Forgetting himself, Xan groaned, knuckled his temples, and blurted out, "Leha le col rumar!"

But I'm not a field man - his mind and lips had wailed in united despair.

And where do you think you are right now, his conscience fired back. Xan flinched and glanced around at this place that was certainly not his beloved home. Behind the counter, the innkeeper merely raised a brow in his direction before slipping back into the kitchen.

"Hmph, elves," muttered the portly man with a chuckle before his considerable girth had fully gone through the door.

Past him, Imoen squeezed through with the needless haste of one so young, a bucket in one hand and a rag in the other. She headed for one of the windows at the far end of the room, pausing to throw a grin and a wave at Xan. He replied with a curt nod then looked away. Best not to invite further conversation and ruin the precious silence so rarely afforded to him.

Finally he managed to funnel the iron dust back into the vial. Exhausted, Xan leaned back and retrieved the teacup, peering into it as it were a scrying mirror. Hopefully, one that might affirm the stupidity of his decision and advise him otherwise. So intent he had been with questioning his tea that he paid no heed to the creaking of the common room door as it opened.

"If I am not intruding?"

Xan looked up. Gorion. He waved to the seat across him, and the sage made himself comfortable. What business could the old man still have with him? Given the inclination in his nonexistent luck, perhaps something completely unrelated to Alaundo's prophecies.

"I was informed you're no longer fulfilling the tenday allotment. I apologize if my counsel hasn't been helpful in any way."

"Far from it," Xan said. "Your insights were nonetheless invaluable, and I shall ruminate on them. But I'm afraid this inquest is postponed as I must attend to other important matters."

The sage leveled a delving eye at the elf and leaned forward.

"Theur ath akh'faen?" Gorion suddenly enquired.

Summoned by a life of duty? The old man's gaze flitted to the moonblade on the table, sheathed and seemingly in slumber between them. Xan regarded the other before him, a slight uptick of the brow to indicate, not surprise, but acknowledgement. After all, it should be no impossibility for a learned human to be versed in the elven language.

About to open his mouth in response, a slight movement not too far caught his eye. Apparently, Imoen had moved closer to them, now merrily scrubbing the windows, whistling and humming to herself. A little too loud and excessively off-tune.

"Yes, a matter concerning The People," Xan replied cautiously in elvish. "But while I perceive you are a trustworthy person yourself, Sir, still I'm not at liberty to speak of our affairs to N'Tel'Quess."

Her humming rising in pitch, Imoen carelessly wrung the rag, seemingly unmindful of the water drenching the floor. Xan let his eyes remain unfocused, his sight hovering somewhere on Gorion's shoulder, and waited for the girl to move on to the windows farthest from their table. Instead, Imoen surreptitiously edged nearer, settling upon an already spotless window but closer to them. On the other hand, the old sage remained motionless in his seat, obviously deliberate in paying no heed to the girl behind him.

"My friend, be assured. Of your own dealings I seek no knowledge," Gorion continued likewise in elvish. "I only wish to bid you better fortune in your pursuit of answers. Though I'm intrigued myself – what will you do when you've found them at last?"

Not an off-the-mark query at all given this man's own lifelong attention to Alaundo's oracles. But something in the way Gorion eyed him, the inflection in his words, something of his querying paralleled a breadth too close to a more urgent question. Xan inhaled deeply and returned the old man's pointed gaze.

"When I've found them, regardless of the outcome and if I must act," he replied, though more resigned than proud. "My deeds must be grounded on what is fair and right, beyond what is convenient to the self, even if in contrast to the dictates and mores of The People."

For even in his rather short life so far, he had already seen and learned much from his forbearers. Mother's singular persistence in following her intuition against every obstacle whether from a stubborn vine, a hired hand who erred in judgment and caused much damage, a human business contact who cheated out of greed. Father's unprejudiced observance of antiquity and knowledge of yesteryears which imbued him with the temperance to look to the longer horizon than the slights of today. Cathfaenlian's emphasis on principle rather than rules, and decency over decorum.

That the world is not so black and white, that convictions are hollow until tested true.

Gorion smiled, seemingly satisfied. "Then hearken to this small seed of wisdom, Wielder. When your code bids you to always act for the welfare of the People, duty can be as the river, roaring and relentless. But sometimes, the right thing to do might not be so easy, and even then you might find that you must swim against the very tides."

"Wise words, and I shall heed them," Xan said, bobbing his head in deference. "But given the inverse nature of my usual fortuity, I am more likely to drown in the attempt and my pitiful corpse becoming food for eels before pathetically washing up into some foul estuary."

"Ah, lest you forget, the intangible will can outlast the physical body, the fiber of the character hardier than the sinews of the muscle," Gorion countered. "Thusly, I have faith that you will do just fine," he added then laughed, shoulders easing as he looked upon the elf with fatherly indulgence.

For a moment, Imoen seemed to be gazing at the old man with equal warmth, as if such displays of genuine mirth were rare and fleeting for him. Xan blinked, a curious detail flashing within his recollection. Of course, Gorion would have reason to be so pensive all the time because -

"I remember now – the serving girl here at the inn and the herbalist mentioned your fostering of an elven child in this place," Xan ventured more cautiously this time. "It was generous of you to care for one of our People. But then I was told she left some years ago?"

Gorion folded his hands and looked Xan in the eye. "I did. I raised her as my own rather than sending her to the Tel'Quessir. Judge me if you wish, but I have my reasons as to why I had done such a thing. Though for the peace of everyone's spirit, it is best not to dredge up the past and instead cast our view to the now and the future."

Xan canted his head in feigned agreement. Best not to pursue the same line of questioning as earlier, given their reluctance. At least, for the meantime.

"But where is she now?"

Gorion opened his mouth, hesitating as if to carefully form his response. "An old friend sent word of having seen her in the Vale and conveyed to me that she appears well and in the company of benevolent folk." An odd look of pride flickered in his eyes. "Not long and she wrote to me that she had settled and found gainful employment in The City of a Thousand Spires."

That place with the innumerable towers upon a tor, what was the name of that city again? Xan pored over a mental map. "You mean Iriaebor?"

Imoen jerked at the mention of the city, then seemingly caught herself and resumed whistling while wiping the already sparklingly clean windowpane. Xan furrowed his brows. Gorion nodded.

"Since you know where she is, why not visit her yourself or even bid her to return? Surely, Candlekeep could spare a period of rest for its diligent Guide, or even afford to reinstate a former resident for your sake."

Gorion leaned back, exhaling so deeply as if his very frame would fall. "My friend, I would give all the realms to have her here by my side. To see her grow and flourish into her own until I am called to the next life. But by her free will she had chosen her way, and I am content knowing she is among good people at this moment. My only desire now for my lingering years is to see her face again, but if it would mean her life is better off otherwise, then willingly I shall go to the House of Knowledge in peace."

Indeed, what love and heart a true father would have for his child, whether by blood or oath. Xan nodded reverently.

"Irse - that is her name, is it not?"

Hearing it, warmth filled the old man's eyes, his lips pressing into a smile. Behind him, Imoen paused for a breath, but resumed wiping with the rag, her strokes now seemingly more determined.

"Very well," Xan concluded. "If ever our paths cross, I shall at least endeavor to be as gracious to her as you have been to me."

"For this kindness, my life and eternal gratitude are yours, Wielder," Gorion said, bowing deeply, both palms upon the table. He rose from his seat and bid his farewell in Common. "I now leave you to your reflections, Goodsir. I pray for your journeys to be safe and your paths to remain true."

He watched the old sage exchange a few words with Imoen before departing. Nothing of note, only gentle admonitions to be on her best behavior and to wipe the floor dry when done with her chore.

Xan lifted the cup to his lips for another sip as his thoughts turned to his next actions. But he winced, not for any acerbity in the brew, but for how the sweetness of the tea couldn't even lighten the taste of the task ahead.

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Earlier he had left Candlekeep at godswake when most of the world lay in deepest slumber, and no one might witness his departure. Some might claim it unnecessary to maintain any semblance of secrecy since this wasn't an official fact-finding mission anyway. More of a mostly harmless curiosity dispelling picnic, the careful wording important so as not to draw any future reprimand from Cathfaen about taking on ad hoc work during vacation.

Thus, he found himself tramping through the woods, keeping close and parallel to the road but trusting in the cover of the forest to shield his tracks. But then, Xan paused. Something didn't feel right. Someone must be hounding him. He whirled around, eyes sweeping at trees as if unwelcome spectators along his way. Only one sure way to deal with this.

He clutched a small unlit candle and chanted, "Theur'ly."

A summoned wolf. The creature materialized before him, hazy threads of energy coalescing into a solid form of dappled gray fur, eyes of pale gold, and fearsome teeth. As the telepathic bridge linked the summoner and the conjured, Xan fixed a commanding gaze on the wolf before him.

"I bid you seek out whoever might be following me," his thoughts echoed in his mind and in the creature's. "And ensure they do not continue to do so."

Snout shut, the wolf tilted its head and emitted a quizzical whine. Xan scowled, incredulous.

"What are you supposed to do with them? Oh, I know not." Xan wrung his hands. "If you deem them a threat, armed and obviously scouring my tracks, then engage them." But then he paused, rubbing his chin in thoughtful hesitation. "Otherwise, if an unarmed human or a child, then simply chase them away. Those are innocents, but I prefer not to attract attention to myself. And you are to do nothing else until unsummoned by the spell itself."

The wolf pawed at the ground and whimpered. Xan rolled his eyes.

"Fine. If I'm merely being paranoid and it isn't anything other than a fat rabbit, then you may go ahead and eat it."

The wolf opened its mouth in a facsimile of a grin, tongue lolling out in an excited pant. It swished its tail and twirled around, bounding off and into the way the elf had come. Xan clicked his tongue.

"Truly now," he groused aloud, absently dusting himself. "The quality of summons these days!"

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Similarly, the quality of his trek to Beregost had been far from exceptional. Ambushed by gibberlings in the woods, then waylaid along the road by a pair of bumbling yet proudly malicious brigands who boasted of their cruelty – all put to sleep by enchantment, and the sleep made permanent by the moonblade. Hopefully, he would never have to face anything more threatening than those. An unexpected hole in his sock already proved quite enough of an arduous trial.

Even then, his one-night stay in the human town only merited the most banal entries in his journal, namely a list of supplies to be acquired and the price of the horse to be chartered for the rest of the journey south.

Xan groaned. Must he truly venture that far? But then, if the tainted ore is to be examined and assessed for possible further investigation by his superiors, then he must go to the very source. Hopefully, only a few queries need to be made, persuade a local to yield an ore sample, followed by a brief segue to Silverymoon for research, then the much welcome return trip to Evereska, endure Cathfaenlian's enthusiastic queries about his middlingly uneventful expedition, then back to the perfect inviolable tedium of his homelife and duty.

Sitting in his rented room and tapping restlessly at the page with his quill pen, he stared down at the open journal. For certain, his next destination will turn out into nothing more than another unproductive terminus in this ingloriously vain quest of his.

With a sigh, Xan reluctantly inked the forgettable name of the said mining town, then blew out the candle.

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Scribblings Growing in the Field:

"But I'm not a field man!" is a loving nod to my favorite film character, Friar Carl (Van Helsing, 2004).

Sarevok's mysterious elven companion isn't an OC, but rather a race-switched Semaj. Why? AU REASONS. But hey, if one could zap Tarnesh with the Gender-Bender Ray into Tarnesha, then we might as well go the extra mile with another antagonist NPC to thematically have Sarevok's inner circle be a mirror of Irse's ShenaniGangs starring the Kozakuran Warrior!Homemaker and Magical!Elf!Boy. XD

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