Candlekeep had stood for centuries, unbroken by any force. Storing within its walls a vast treasure of knowledge that no other places could match, it was a place of wonder and adoration for the people of Faerun. So valuable, was its knowledge, that those who wished to enter had to provide a tome of high cost to the monks. Even then, the visitor soon had to leave. The storehouse of magical spells were opened to almost no-one, except the monks and the few who were trusted implicitly.
It had taken nearly a year, but Imoen now counted amongst the few in all of the world, who the monks of Candlekeep allowed to enter the inner sanctum of spellbooks, from places and cultures as diverse as Evermeet, Halruua, Calimshan or even time-lost Netheril. To wander in the dimly lit book-lined corridors and vaults of the library, in the hidden areas beneath the monastery, made Imoen feel alive again. When she first began adventuring, she had approached her first spell with a sense of awe, and now, faced by an immense gathering of knowledge, she felt awakened, stimulated... excited.
"Archmage Imoen, this one finds this place constrictive... but... Apheyr does not want to leave."
Imoen smiled fondly at her lover, the delicately-featured air genasi, with his shocking white hair and gentle, soft, blue skin. As he spoke, white mist stirred the air around his mouth, and Imoen found herself blushing, imagining the feel of his icy lips on hers, the oh-so tender touch of his cool blue fingers, the empathic, extremely confident, almost arrogant, gaze that seemed to pierce every layer of her soul like the ice daggers he so ably wielded. Touching his cheek fondly, Imoen said, "Don't worry, honeybun. We'll spend a while studying down here, then we can take the copies we make onto the walls, to look at the sky, yeah?"
Apheyr frowned, and said, "Honeybun. This one does not approve of the name. Apheyr feels it is demeaning." His eyes however, did twinkle slightly as he said that.
Her rather wicked laugh cut through the quietude, and she patted him on shoulder. "You're so cute."
Together, with her hand in his, they walked through the maze of bookshelves. Imoen stopped, when she saw a strange gleam coming from the corner of her eye. Turning, she whispered, "Apheyr... look at this," before pulling out a book encased in gold, with sapphires encrusted upon it. Her hand caressed the cover, and she touched the title, written in archaic runes. Brow furrowed in concentration, she spoke as she translated, "Ah... the... the... the Lorebook of the Firemage..." She smiled, before opening the book, to gaze at a yellowed page, marked with the tiniest notations she had ever seen in a spellbook. Each notation seemed to denote a spell, or a different way to fling magic.
"Such a spellbook, this one has not seen... though Apheyr is wary of anything that calls itself a Firemage. He likes ice."
Imoen shrugged, "Don't be silly. Fire has its uses too. Besides, where'd all your passion be if everything about you was ice, hmm? Although you're cold, Apheyr... some of you can be warm, even hot." She grinned, and then winked, taking the spellbook in her arms, and walking over towards the marble table she had moved magically down here last week. It was large enough for she and Apheyr to work on separate spellbooks, copying incantations from ancient scrolls to their own spellbooks.
In order to gain entrance to this storehouse, the solemn Ulraunt had declared, you must prove to us here, that you will not spread this knowledge too easily. Imagine if the lowest mage had the power to command dragons, or shatter cities. Such power, you two will have, power to match many in this world. Use it well, and sparingly, and share it to few, else a plague of power will spread from our walls, and doom the world to a short life of fire and magic.
Imoen heard Apheyr still moving, strolling along the lines of bookshelves. She began to read the spellbook avidly, following the words that first described a simple magic missile spell, though in a form she had never imagined, then a spellshield. Although part of her screamed to flip to the last page, too look upon the wonders that were there, she did not. The Red Wizards of Thay were wizards who craved any power. She was a mage who loved the craft for the joy of it. If she found a way to cast even the tiniest cantrip in a better way, she would count that over any spell that could summon hellfire itself.
Nonetheless, a mage of Imoen's skill swiftly read through the first part of the tome, and as she did so, her mind wandered. Where was it from? Netheril? No, the magic was too familiar to her to be from Netheril. In those hallowed days it was said, magic had worked differently. Myth Drannor? No, it was too old for that... she found that her mind was almost more concerned about the origin of this book than she was about its content.
Her mind-wandering stopped instantly however, when she finally turned to the more difficult, unusual spells. Now hunched over the spellbook with avid curiosity, Imoen began to scribble madly with her quill, barely noticing when Apheyr sat down opposite her, holding a tattered spellbook bound in moulded fur.
They sat together, studying, for a long time. Even Apheyr did not complain when the hours ticked by. An air genasi he might be, and bound solely to the skies and freedom, but he was a mage as well, and the secrets within both books were enough to drive the claustrophobia from his mind as surely as spring rains ended the winter thaw.
Tethtoril entered, almost seven hours later. The candles they had lit to give them sight had mostly died down by now, and so they were made suddenly aware of the acute darkness, when they saw the old monk bearing a lantern. He gave a kindly smile to Imoen, one of his two old pupils, and bowed, "Archmages... I am sorry to interrupt."
Apheyr flowed to his feet, and spoke, "Fear not. This one and Archmage Imoen are unconcerned. You have shown immense kindness to them both through your acceptance of our places here when Loremaster Ulraunt would not consider it."
Imoen did not even look up from the golden spellbook, but grinned, and said off-handedly, "Sit down and join us, you great prune of a monk. And Apheyr, stop being so formal. The monks here are fun-loving followers of Lliira, okay? They swing from bannisters and do all crazy stuff like that. All the time. Don't you, Teffy-tee"
The solemn monk blinked at the nickname, and cleared his throat at her words. "I most assuredly did not, and do not, swing from the bannisters. But I will," he added with a smile of his own, like that of a father looking fondly at his child, "have a seat." He did so, and placed the lantern on the table, clasping his hands in his lap. "You are well, dearest Imoen?"
Ending her study of the book, closing it with reverance, she nodded. "I am. And you, Teffy? Where've you been? I hear Ulraunt was screaming like a fishwife for days about your dissappearance. Luckily me and Apheyr have kept ourselves to our rooms and down here, so we missed most of it. You've been demoted yet?"
Tethtoril shook his head. "Not demoted. And yes, Ulraunt was rather vexed. Yes, I am well enough, considering."
He answered the several questions in his usually slow, measured tones, which never seemed to raise much in volume, though Imoen remembered that he too, could hold his own in a shouting match, sometimes even better than the master of Candlekeep himself. She met his gaze, her brow quirked in silent question, and finally he gave a minute nod, before continuing, "And as for where I went, Imoen... I have visited Athkatla, and your dear sister. A remarkable woman, Nalia. A pity she is forced to rule, instead of studying here. She would have made a fine addition to the monastery."
Imoen grinned, although something about his tone troubled her. It felt as if he was trying to avoid discussing something terrible. Nevertheless, she said jovially, "Nalia's good, but too... political... to remain in a library."
Apheyr murmured then, absently, from his own study, in his exotic voice, "Apheyr used to say Imoen was too crazy to work in a library."
Tethtoril stroked his beard then, and continued, "She is in difficult waters. Since the Sythillissian Empire was defeated two years ago, certain lords and merchants have grown most... vociferous... in their opposition of her rule as Open Councillor. Of course, in the old days of Amn, they would have been eliminated swiftly and without fuss, but Nalia refuses to act like that. The commons love her for it, but... I fear that she will have much to contend with as the days go by."
With a frown, Imoen said, "There is more. I can see by your face."
The old monk met Imoen's gaze, and his expression was sad. "Imoen... I am sorry. Keldorn Firecam and his family have been murdered in their sleep."
Imoen gasped, "Oh, gods..."
She could hardly belief it. There had been a hint of something bad from Tethtoril's tone, but she had not suspected this! Sorrow rose within her, painful in its intensity, she felt Apheyr kiss her softly. Somehow he had moved from his seat to stand beside her, within a few seconds of hearing Tethtoril's words. "Imoen... remember that whatever happens, Apheyr is here for you. Lord Paladin Keldorn was a great man and a good one, and a better friend. He will be blessed and loved by Lord Duty." One of his cool hands found her shoulder, and squeezed comfortingly, as his accented voice whispered, "Go on, Tethtoril."
"Yes... well..." the monk cleared his throat. "Nalia is grief-stricken, but she has named Elizabeth Delryn, Anomen's aunt, as Lady of Murann. She has sent the fierce woman south with an honour guard of a thousand warriors. That Cowled Wizard... Algerias... he accompanies her, as well."
Imoen nodded, and closed her eyes to gather herself for a moment. She had to remain calm, at least until she was in private. She could weep then, but first, she had to ascertain the scope of the problem, had to see if it was neccessary that she act to help her sister. "So... a strong bodyguard and a powerful wizard, as well as a noblewoman fanatically loyal to Nalia but with social connections and riches enough to gain the support of many of the moderates in Murann. A simple enough move. Will it work, Tethtoril?"
The monk winced, "I am but a monk, and well-versed in lore, but not in the subtleties of politics..."
Even though she was pained, Imoen could give a half-laugh at that. "Please, Tethtoril. You've seen more political intrigue even behind these walls than I have seen in my lifetime. You could give even Nalia a run for her money."
Tethtoril shrugged, "Perhaps.A truly remarkable woman, is de'Arnise. Yes, I think it might work. It does depend on how far the merchants are willing to go. Whoever it is who killed Lord Firecam and his family has power enough that Nalia should be wary. But none have declared openly against Nalia... so for now, Amn moves along in its uneasy peace. Nalia is still powerful with the masses, and the moderates amongst the merchants and lords. Most of the temples support her, as do the knights and paladins. The cowled ones... are an unknown in this entire matter."
Imoen massaged her forehead, "Nalia has it under control, then. Gods... Keldorn... he was old, but he had so much spirit... I did not expect... not... not yet..."
As she spoke, she found it becoming more difficult to speak. Her throat tightened painfully, like someone was pinching her windpipe. She squeezed her tearducts, and quivered once, as she tried to fight the sadness. And then, even though Tethtoril was still there, Imoen began to cry. Apheyr held her close to him, and whispered to her, stroking her brilliantly bright pink hair with slow, measured, calming movements. With a dignified nod, and concern flaring within his eyes, Tethtoril stood, and left the two alone, leaving the bright lantern behind. Amongst the dust and books of ancient times, Imoen clung desperately to Apheyr, remembering an old paladin who had been a friend.
The autumn wind was cold, and the ground was already frosted outside, when Imoen awoke in the morning. The windows to her bedchamber were opened, and although outside her covers it was freezing, Imoen remained snug and warm. She sighed, and glanced beside her, at Apheyr, who as always lay with just a thin silk robe over his form. The cold did not touch him as easily as it did her. Her air genasi lover was asleep, so Imoen did not stand up out of bed. She just lay there, watching him. The contours of his chin, the lilting rise of his lips, the sumptuous eyelashes and the expanse of white hair that extended from his head. Breathing in, she smiled. He was perfect. Beautiful, and caring. Intelligent, and courteous.
Had it not been for him, she would have been alone yesterday, would have had to deal with the news of Keldorn's death without a shoulder to cry on. When Kathryn had ascended to godhood, Imoen had kept her grief to herself. Anomen was devastated, Viconia was not one to share her grief, nor indeed was Nalia. There had been no-one to turn to. Now, she was grateful for Apheyr. His calm presence, the loving touch of his cool body... he had prevented her from turning into something she would have grown to hate, and arrogant, cold-hearted wizard. No, he had kept alive the fire that everyone said made her special, the pseudo-witticisms, the cheeky comments, the flirtatiousness and general unorthodoxy.
Unable to resist, with a smile on her face, Imoen inched closer to Apheyr, and placed her arm around his waist. She felt him stir, moving even in his dreams to enfold her in a warm embrace. She giggled and his eyes flickered open wearily. "Imoen... Apheyr finds... finds you a most welcome sight first thing in the morning." With a sound deep in his throat almost like a purr, he nuzzled her neck, and then asked, in a more collected tone, "Are you well, Archmage Imoen?"
She sighed, and said, "I am not happy... but... it is as you said. Keldorn will be content in the halls of Torm"
Apheyr nodded. "Thank you, Imoen."
"What for?"
He touched her nose, "For not letting this beat you. Apheyr has seen those who lose companions, and it destroys them completely"
Imoen closed her eyes. "I know. And thank you for... for everything."
With a smile tinged both with sadness and with love, Imoen leaned in, and kissed Apheyr gently. He soon responded, his cold hands touching her. Moving her own hands through his hair, she soon found she was warm enough to ignore the gusting autumn wind that was swiftly chilling their room.