A/N: (RAS spoilers ahead!)
The Shade's Life Force--Felhound has asked a good question, which I will now answer. Many people can't get copies of RAS's short stories, so here's a brief explanation. In "That Curious Sword," published in
Realms of Shadows (2003), Entreri and Jarlaxle are attacked by a Shade, a creature of shadow. The Shade is after Entreri's sword because his people forged the sword and want it back. Entreri kills the Shade with his vampiric dagger, which imbues him with the Shade's essence. Significance: the Shade are long-lived humanoids who are capable of self-regeneration, therefore Entreri's aging process has been slowed (or maybe even partially reversed). Not to mention he can wield Charon's Claw without the gauntlet.

I hope that helped.

Thank you to Felhound,Shupanza, and all who read and reviewed! I hope to post chapter 4 in no more than 2 weeks.


Chapter 3

"A Fiction"

The sun-filled morning found an angry Mordecai. With Vren's assistance, the cleric had set up an ambush for Chalithra and Jarlaxle and Pets—whoever reached them first. Yet it would seem the Jaezred Chaulssin were the only ones to hone in on their prey for the night; neither the priestess or the mercenary and company had made an appearance. Since Mordecai could sense their pursuit, this fact frustrated him, and the sounds of the waking world did little to alleviate his mood. The happily singing birds and golden sunlight seemed to mock him.

However, his frustration over not facing his enemies paled in comparison to the itching that now erupted over his entire chest, back, and neck, not to mention his left leg. A small part of Mordecai's mind screamed that the mirror was consuming him, but the cleric refused to listen. He had sacrificed so much time to retrieving the mirror! Decades! How could he throw away the artifact when he had invested so much time and energy in finding it? He would be a fool, indeed, to waste such a part of his life; he had to persevere. He would master the mirror, reverse the damage, and then revel in his glory and power.

From across their small camp, Vren stared at Mordecai. In fact, he'd been gawking at the cleric all night. "Are you sure you should not destroy the mirror?" the Secondboy asked quietly. "It seems to be deeply cursed, and there is now a patch of scales on your jaw."

The cleric growled and stood abruptly. "Do you question my wisdom?"

Vren cringed and didn't reply.

"Do you question my strength?" Mordecai asked, further angered by the non-answer.

The Secondboy pulled a handful of newly-braided plaits over his shoulder and petted them nervously. "It is only that . . . it is only that you seem to be suffering."

The cleric smirked at the lie. "I can withstand such irritations." Then, as though piercing a fog, Vren's exact words struck Mordecai's mind: "—a patch of scales on your jaw." Horrified, Mordecai lifted the Kagaor ki Tamal and checked his face. Just as Vren had said, the brown scales which disfigured his neck now crept up the right side of his face.

A cold anger burned in the cleric's lungs. It's not fair! he thought. I spent decades pursuing this mirror! I sacrificed so much . . . and now, it tries to curse me, its rightful master? The rage seemed to race in his veins, making his pulse pound—a heartbeat in his ears, rendering him deaf.

Cat approached him and bumped his leg, rubbing her forehead against him as if to comfort him. But he didn't want reassurances from a beast! With a growl, he kicked the cat, sending her flying several feet into the undergrowth. Her screech of pain rent the air, easing Mordecai's anger, and the cleric was amused by the way she crawled away, hurt. Still, the cleric did not feel in control, which left him feeling the need to reassert his dominance, reestablish his power.

It was too frustrating! To have this power literally in his hands, found and stolen by his own cleverness, and yet to still not be the master of the situation. Vren knew it, too—he could see Mordecai's weakness. The cleric glared at the Secondboy, who had stood.

Mordecai had to assure Vren's obedience. While he fought the mirror, he couldn't afford to have anyone challenge his authority or question his strength. Yes, he had to beat the coward into submission.

His mind made up, Mordecai turned toward Vren with a wolfish grin. The Secondboy froze, perfectly mute and wide-eyed. Five strides brought the cleric to the shaking drow. When Mordecai was within arm's reach, Vren grew pale and collapsed before the cleric could begin. Mordecai smirked, assuming it to be a sign of cowardice, and raised his fist. "I shall teach you not to question my authority!"


By dawn, Tai could tell the High Forest was destined for another scorching day. The priest wondered briefly if nature had decided to skip the rest of spring and move straight to summer. Larks, cardinals, and blue jays swooped from the trees to the ground, gathering their breakfast, but even the birds seemed less energetic than normal, as though the heat had sapped their strength.

While Nyx and Jarlaxle went to fill everyone's water containers and gather some food, Tai helped Entreri break down camp. The assassin worked quickly, obviously bent on starting their travels early, so they completed their task before the others returned. Not one to waste time, Entreri removed a whetting stone from his bag, preparing to sharpen his dagger.

Tai watched Entreri as he worked and wondered if the assassin was, at that moment, imaging slipping the weapon through Mordecai's ribs. Although Tai now understood part of Entreri's rage, it seemed odd to the priest that he had picked a man so violent, angry, and cold to befriend. In that moment, a truth that Tai didn't prefer to consider was thrown in sharp relief: Entreri was exactly the kind of man Tai normally executed by Hoar's vengeance. The priest sighed; the thought was one he tried to avoid, just like he'd been trying to avoid two other uncomfortable questions: was Entreri really a fellow survivor? And how should Tai feel about Entreri as a person, given that he was, in fact, a criminal? Because of his experiences with the man, Tai found that the first question disturbed him the most; after all, upon learning of Entreri's suffering at the hands of his family, Tai's initial reaction had been to see the man as a survivor and to therefore take hope for himself.

"How long have you worked as an assassin?" Tai asked, thinking once again of the rumors he had heard about Entreri.

The assassin paused at the seemingly random question and looked at Tai. "Since I was fourteen."

Tai nodded, and Entreri resumed sharpening. Fourteen? This man must have let his rage destroy him; he had spent a lifetime in darkness! How many had he killed?

The priest bit his lip, now equally disturbed by both his lingering questions. The man's anger, when added to the facts about his life, suggested someone who had only survived in the physical sense. He had reacted much the same way Tai had responded to the murder of his older brother: rage and bitterness.

Rage and bitterness . . . like the anger Tai felt toward Mordecai? That anger that, a few days earlier, Entreri had warned him to not allow consume him? And bitterness like the cynicism Tai had voiced over Jarlaxle the day before?

. . . was Tai losing the battle again, like he had over his brother? The priest frowned, deeply disturbed.

"I've not seen you make that facial expression before," Entreri quipped. "You look like someone just offered to feed you Mordecai's raw entrails."

The sudden mental imagine produced by those words made Tai snort. "Just pondering my own cynicism."

"You mean your comment about wise men being fools who lived? Or you summation of Jarlaxle?" Entreri had assumed the best of his unreadable masks. "There is both practicality and accuracy to your words about Jarlaxle. But remember that your new insights are just that—insights. If you maintain anger over them, you'll live a life of hatred."

Again with the warning. And Tai suspected that the advice was unusual coming from the assassin; Jarlaxle would likely be shocked if he heard the man speak so. Entreri seemed to only say such things when he and Tai were alone. The priest looked away, feeling another surge of possessive friendship toward the assassin. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I'll try to keep that balance in mind."

Entreri looked momentarily disgruntled, as though his own words had made him uncomfortable, and Tai hid a smile. The assassin seemed to have problems showing his care. But the fact he had found it within himself to care was a sign that the assassin had hope. Entreri was offering Tai advice, and perhaps wisdom or companionship.

. . . just as Tai, in turn, wanted to help Entreri. Was there hope from them both, then?

"I'm glad you're here, now," Tai said after a lengthy pause.

Entreri paused once more in the sharpening of his dagger and studied Tai, apparently sensing the priest's deeper meaning. "So you've said before. And as I have said before, is it not strange for a priest of justice such as yourself to pursue the company of an assassin?"

The priest chuckled, remembering the conversation he and Entreri had held over the unconscious form of Hector, the priest of Tyr. "And as I replied at the time, it was an issue of wanting to convert you to the ways of Hoar. And I still must say what a fine scourge of evil men you would make! You wouldn't struggle, as I have, with showing no mercy." The priest frowned again, realizing that after his experience with Mordecai, he might not struggle any more, either.

Entreri had smirked at Tai's first words, but the expression faded. "I kill those men already, and not in the name of a god."

Tai refocused on his friend. "Yes, you kill them all without distinction." The priest said the words softly, as a truth and not a judgment, although he expected to be glowered at anyway.

To Tai's surprise, Entreri's stern stare lasted only a moment. The assassin seemed to recede within himself for a minute, then shook his head as if to clear it. "I have done what was necessary."

Tai called upon Hoar's strength and spoke boldly. "You have gained no joy from it." But even as he said the words, he thought, which is something I must keep in mind for myself.

Entreri pinned the priest with a cold glare, one which spoke of much torture should Tai continue with his words. "Your assumptions and your interference will gain you only agony."

The priest had to calm his racing pulse before he could continue. "I speak only out of friendship, because I wish for your happiness."

Enteri snorted, as though dismissing the idea, and resumed sharpening his dagger.

Tai smiled to himself, for once again Entreri's words did not quite align with his actions. That the man was at war with himself over his beliefs, attitudes, and past was clear. As Tai had told Jarlaxle in their long ago discussion about the assassin, Entreri was trying too hard to justify what he knew was wrong deep inside.

Tai's words were true, he believed. Yet he had to admit that as an attributer of vengeance, he had been trying hard not to judge Entreri in need of execution. He wished deeply for the man's salvation, so much so that Entreri's near death from the Kagaor ki Tamal's lightning strike had terrified the priest. It was a strange line to walk: Tai personally knew the destruction that rape could wage upon a soul. However, as a priest of Hoar, Tai also accepted what most people didn't: every person is responsible for their own actions regardless of how they might have suffered. Every human ever born would experience agony, just as the gods did. Good humans—like goodly gods—would not make others suffer because they were in pain.

And Entreri had done just that: he'd spent a lifetime lashing out at others because he felt anger. Tai suspected that Entreri himself would admit to living a life grounded in hatred. That meant Tai was the only one who wanted to deny the truth, and he wanted to deny it because of his love for the man and his soul.

However, Tai's thoughts brought him back to the fact he knew something about Entreri that he shouldn't. "I know," he said simply.

Entreri stowed away his newly sharpened dagger and gave Tai a questioning look.

"I'm not sure Jarlaxle really meant . . . I mean . . ." Tai paused. Who was he kidding? Jarlaxle was the most paternalistic creature he'd ever met. "He meant to help. I really believe he did. But from his words, I was able to deduce . . ." The priest stopped, too afraid for Jarlaxle's continued existence to finish.

"Deduce what?" Entreri asked coldly.

Tai stood and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're so cynical. And you've been an assassin so long . . ."

It was no good. The priest couldn't tell Entreri what Jarlaxle had revealed—the assassin would likely try to kill Jarlaxle, and they needed the elf for their fight with Mordecai, if nothing else. But more than that was Entreri's pride. The man would be humiliated if Tai revealed that he knew, and Tai cared too much for the man to embarrass him.

Fortunately, Tai had another question he could ask. He turned and faced Entreri. "What do you really think of friendship?"

"Friends make you weak," Entreri answered instantly. "Why? Did Jarlaxle imply I thought differently?"

Tai bit his lip. What to say now? He didn't want to lie and say yes.

Entreri was glowering. "That damned drow needs to quit attending to other people's business."

The priest cringed, imaging Jarlaxle sliced into neat quarters.

"Friendship is a weakness," Entreri explained tersely. "If you put your trust in someone and rely on them, they'll betray you, and you'll die. If you take responsibility for others, you'll get yourself killed. Such self-sacrifice is defeatist."

Entreri's inner darkness, once again. "There has to be a place in between," Tai said.

"Partial self-sacrifice?" Entreri snorted.

Tai shook his head. "'If you don't like the answer, make a new one,'" he said, quoting an old proverb from Tethyr.

"A truth?" Entreri asked.

"You're the most determined man I've ever met," Tai replied. "You tell me. But would life not be more joyful if friendship added more to your experiences than it detracted?"

Entreri snorted and didn't directly answer the question. "At least you sound more like yourself in saying that."

Tai was momentarily surprised, but then he thought about his words. "If I do sound more like myself, does that not mean I failed to learn my lesson?" he asked. "Does that not make me the kind of fool who will get himself killed?" His half-smile was ironic.

Entreri's look was dark, but Tai could tell the anger wasn't directed at him. "We've already established that it will get you killed. But in your case, I think your words are more indicative of the fact you may survive your experiences with your essence intact."

I'm an exception to Enteri's rule? Tai thought in wonder. How did I manage to accomplish that feat? Then the meaning behind the assassin's words hit him.

"I might survive with my essence intact?" the priest echoed. "You mean to say that maintaining the spirit of my personality and convictions through such an assault is strength?"

Entreri's expression turned distinctly grumpy, and the assassin didn't answer immediately. The sound of approaching laughter stopped any chance of a delayed response.

Jarlaxle and Nyx entered the clearing, then, and rejoined the group. The monk was carrying berries and the group's water flasks, which was what Tai expected them both to be carrying. Jarlaxle, however, was holding a solid white cat, which was curled into his arms with its head buried in the crook of his elbow. Both the drow and the monk were smiling as though they had been trading jokes or teasing during their chore.

"Are you two rested?" Jarlaxle asked.

"A cat?" Entreri replied with narrowed eyes, and Tai had to agree with his skepticism.

The drow's grin could have lit an entire city. "Yes! Isn't she beautiful?"

Nyx was shaking her head, apparently amused by Jarlaxle's antics. "He's been praising its beauty since the moment he saw it. He even healed its limp—apparently it was hurt."

The drow petted the cat's back. "Of course I healed it!"

Entreri sighed. "Leave it to you to find something extravagant." He accepted his canteen and some berries from Nyx as he rose to his feet. "You may be as silly as you like, but we've wasted enough time here. Let's continue. We can eat as we walk."

"So impatient!" Jarlaxle teased.

"Like a blood hound on a trail," Nyx added, and the drow laughed with her.

Entreri ignored them and took point, and Tai took position about five feet behind him, his thoughts consumed with the assassin's words. He wished he could have continued the conversation, but he also empathized with Entreri's need to find Mordecai quickly. It was past time to end their mission here.


"What do you mean, we're lost?"

Mordecai's shout sliced through the quiet air of the forest, scattering squirrels from their homes. Unappeased with this display, the cleric punched Vren squarely in the chest, and the Secondboy collapsed to the ground like a feather pillow. Mordecai took advantage of the situation and kicked Vren for good measure. They had been traveling since daybreak in the suffocating heat, yet they seemed to be walking in circles again.

From the ground, Vren glared at Mordecai and grasped his chest. "You are the one leading. If we are lost, it is your fault!"

"If you thought we were lost, why did you not speak up sooner!" the cleric yelled, even more enraged. He kicked the Secondboy twice more, catching him in the arm and bruising him. The action caused the scales on Mordecai's torso, neck, and legs to ignite with itching, and the cleric stopped to wildly scratch. "Damn these scales!" he yelled and kicked Vren again to vent his anger.

Stomping away from the bleeding Secondboy, Mordecai chose a fairly level patch of ground and began pacing. He had to clear his head. So many things did not make sense! Why was he growing scales? Why did the grass wilt as he walked over it? Why did any trees he leaned against wither? And why was he so confused! A haze seemed to have descended in his mind, blurring his thoughts and—he admitted secretly to himself—confusing his sense of direction. The cleric clenched his fists, instantly angry again. How unfair could life be? Why were these things happening to him? Mordecai turned and punched the nearest tree, which instantly became oddly brittle to the touch, but the rage didn't abate.

Trying to calm himself, Mordecai attempted to commune with Vhaeraun again; surely his god could help him. It wasn't his prescribed time for prayer, but the cleric had been unable to commune or channel divine power the night before. Mordecai stood very still, closed his eyes, and reached with all his soul toward Vhaeraun, but it seemed like a wall stood between him and the masked god. Had Vhaeraun abandoned him?

Mordecai opened his eyes with a curse and kicked the suddenly withering tree, then he picked up the nearest rock and threw it at the cowering Vren. No prayers! Endless itching! A foggy mind! "This is not fair!" he screamed. "I have done all that was asked of me! I served Vhaeraun faithfully; I carried out the orders of my family. I have become the wielder of a powerful artifact. Why am I being tortured so?"

At the yelling, several birds flew out the trees. The racket of the crashing branches did nothing to help the cleric's mood, but with great effort, he subdued himself. He had to check for signs of pursuit so he could gauge how close his enemies were. Then again, all his meandering might actually buy him time to finish mastering the mirror.

"I must prevail," Mordecai mumbled to himself, checking for tracks. His skills at tracking people through forests were lacking, but surely he could find some clue. "I will be victorious." He was headed back toward the ruins—he was sure of it! "I will find them and kill them all!" But wait. They were tracking him, and he was trying to ambush them. No, they were in the ruins, and he was headed for them . . . No, that wasn't right, either. What was he doing again? "Oh, yes," the cleric mumbled to himself, "checking for tracks . . ."

But if they were tracking him, how could he find tracks? Weren't they behind him? Or to the side? Or . . .?

Mordecai growled in frustration, realizing but not wanting to admit that he didn't know what he was doing. He was lost, unbalanced, and utterly confused. It was the heat! Yes, he could blame it on the heat. That was all. He just needed to gather his thoughts, and quickly, before Chalithra or Jarlaxle and Pets caught up with him.

Mordecai wanted to panic but stopped himself. Yes, all he really needed was to gather his thoughts. Just gather his thoughts . . .


Mid-morning. Mordecai's movements had become so erratic that Tai and his companions were having difficulty catching up with him. Entreri had said it was like tracking a mad dog, and the priest supposed the analogy worked—the blue swirls on Jaralaxle's magical device certainly suggested that Mordecai was foaming at the mouth.

Entreri had driven the group at a terse pace all morning. Only a few moments before, Jarlaxle—who still carried the rather shy cat—had taken point with the assassin in order to reassess their strategy, which left the hot and increasingly tired Tai to walk beside Nyx. His friend seemed happy to get a moment alone with him.

"How are you holding up?" the monk asked. Wisps of auburn hair escaped her crown braid to hang in her face; despite the length of her hair, after a few fights or a few days—whichever came first—the shortest strands near her face would work free. Tai thought it made her look less severe.

"Well enough, I suppose," the priest replied. He bit his lip, unsure about admitting his thoughts, but he spoke his mind because the day seemed surreal to him, as though he were caught on a moment between reality and myth, the violent and the mundane. In that light, Tai felt no need to hold back. "Right after Mordecai escaped, I wondered why Hoar didn't grant us victory during the fight. But then I realized that Hoar has impeccable timing; I suspect that greater poetic justice will be served when we face Mordecai again."

Nyx nodded. "Wise words. It's good to hear you speak so. We both have cynical moments, I know, but . . ."

The monk seemed lost for words, but Tai understood. His cynical quips the day before had worried his friend. Tai admitted the world was now a darker place than it had been before, but if anything his dedication to vengeance was growing stronger, he thought. At the very least, he wanted to ensure that none of the people he cared about experienced the level of pain he had.

Nyx seemed to have found her words. "I can tell you're getting back in touch with Hoar." Brown eyes briefly eased from tenseness to joy.

Tai smiled at Nyx, appreciating her attempt to bolster him prior to the impending battle, and watched her return smile, which lit her face. Thinking of Jarlaxle and Entreri's earlier conversation, the priest wondered if the assassin could indeed see beauty in Nyx's pale skin and smattering of freckles. Would he like brown eyes and auburn hair on a woman? Would he prefer a warrior of conviction and loyalty? Tai pondered the question in earnest, because for all her flares of temper, Nyx obviously found Entreri attractive.

"Master Jarlaxle seems to be trying to manipulate love," the priest ventured, then chuckled as a faint blush stained Nyx's cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

"For good or ill, that creature seems determined to shape the world as he sees fit," she said.

"He's stubborn and opinionated," Tai replied, "intervening whether his actions are welcome or not. Reminds me of someone I know." He grinned to take the sting from the words.

Nyx shook her head. "Yes, yes, I know. Paternalism. I want to act in your best interests, but I admit I've taken it upon myself to define what your best interests are. Please forgive me."

Tai squeezed her arm. "Apology accepted. But, frankly, you're not alone." Tai momentarily stared at the ground. A moment of silence descended upon them, then he continued. "I want to show Entreri a better way—I want him to find peace or to at least be happier. But I can't force my views on him. I can only stand by his side or tell him what I've learned."

Nyx nodded. "True. You can't make someone change; you can only encourage them to do so."

"I hope he finds his way," Tai said softly. "He's such a fighter, it just seems wrong that he would fail to claim final victory over his life."

The monk gave Tai a strange look, and the priest realized he was saying too much. Nyx could make inferences as easily as Tai could, and Tai didn't want to be like Jarlaxle—even if it were accidentally. Tai quickly changed subjects. "You said before we left on our journey that I needed to learn to pity Mordecai because it would crush his pride. I'm not quite to that point, but I realize that all the weakness lies in him, not me."

"Quite right." Nyx reached out and slipped her arm around Tai's shoulder, hugging him to her for a moment. "You and I have executed enough men like Mordecai to know they are weak. You can't let them destroy you because it would grant them a power that's real."

Tai nodded. "I agree." He glanced toward Entreri then, wondering how the assassin had approached the issue. The priest couldn't imagine that Entreri would see his abusers as anything other than spineless. In his own mind, surely Entreri considered himself victor—the stronger man.

Tai sighed and watched the assassin talk to Jarlaxle, wondering what it would take to help the man. Entreri had raised an eyebrow at the animated drow, and Tai listened to his deep voice as he spoke. The elf laughed at Entreri's words, throwing out one hand in his typical overdramatic gesture, and to Tai it seemed oddly normal. Too normal for a day such as this one. With their battle with Mordecai merely hours away, it seemed strange that Jarlaxle should be laughing, that squirrels should be running up trees, that birds should be singing. The only thing that seemed normal was Entreri's glower, which caused Tai to sigh a second time.

"Walk with me," Tai whispered to the man. Between us, we can find a way. Let us defeat our pasts together, whatever it takes.