Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 37

The sins of the fathers

One thing about Candlekeep Elene always appreciated was the complete silence of deep night. No wildlife or bustling of carriages or drunks singing in the streets. Only the individual and the sound of their own thoughts.

She fingered the neat knot of the cloth bundle in her lap, thinking. Her body was exhausted from the hard ride in the morning and the emotional maelstrom that followed from their hour of arrival. Very little time had been devoted to recover. The hours after dinner had been spent lurking about the inn watching for movement from either the Iron Throne or the Knights of the Shield. It was passably fruitful, she supposed. They'd narrowed down that their best target to nab would be Brunos as he'd expressed interest in visiting the House of the Binder the next morning. They could arrange for Xan to conveniently be near the workshop when he dropped by.

Even with all the planning, Elene felt that they had run out of time somehow.

As it was, her mind was wide awake. Sharp. The others had retired for the night, she had watched as they settled in, only to step out with all her equipment on once she heard everyone's breathing even out. She was the lone soul awake in the infirmary, nestled in the small chapel dedicated to Oghma. Nothing else in the vicinity but a small shrine, a few benches, candles and incense.

And Gorion's memento.

By rights, she had time. She should have taken the time to rest like her friends. This can be done later. Yet a niggling voice at the back of her head told her there needs to be closure before they left this place. She needed to know what Gorion had to say to her, something so important that he ensured she would find out even if he died. And if it gave her insight on how to face Sarevok, then isn't that all the better?

Taking a deep breath, she pulled at the knot. It came loose, and once unravelled, she found herself looking down at the cover of a familiar book. Pulling the cloth wrapping away, she ran her fingers over the gold-embossed print of the title. It was an old book, exceedingly rare to find in full print by virtue of its grim subject matter.

The History of the Dead Three.

She remembered this book.

"Who gave this to you?"

Elene flinched as she took in the full force of Gorion's wrathful gaze. As her eyes flicked down to the book in his hand, the book that she had almost finished reading, she saw that he was trembling. Scared as she was, she couldn't help but wonder why he was so angry. No harm ever came from reading a book. She'd certainly read less savoury material in her years living in the library.

"I…I don't know. It was left on my usual work desk, with my name on it. I didn't recognise the writing."

"Indeed? Then I will have words with the Reader watching that floor," he stated, his tone ominous.

"Father, I've been given many books as gifts this past week. All types of books," she tried to placate him. "Why is this one any different?"

Her question made him pause. It was a long pause. "This is your eighteenth nameday. The symbolic passage into adulthood. What kind of person gives a book about death and dead Gods as a gift for such an occasion?"

"It…is rather morbid." She tugged at her sleeve. "But not wrong, surely?"

His lips thinned at her question. Instead of answering, he tucked the book under one arm and left in a billow of grey robes. She lowered herself back onto the settee, pondering in the wake of his departure. It wasn't as if she was unfamiliar with the story of Bane, Myrkul and Bhaal and the outcome of their tampering with the Tablets of Fate. Then why had he taken the origin of the book as if it were a personal insult?

Yes, she remembered. She also never saw the book again.

Until today.

She lifted the cover with a nervous hand. Nothing in the first page. Brows furrowing slightly, she began to flip through the pages with the practiced hands of a scribe. Partway through, an envelope fell out from between the pages and landed between her feet. For a few breaths, she tensed, staring at it. There it was. She was reminded of a game she and Imoen used to play, hiding secret messages in random books in the Great Library, like a treasure hunt. It seemed Gorion was not above using the same method.

Bending over, she put aside the book and scooped the envelope off the floor. Her name was written on the front, in Gorion's familiar curved script. Her anticipation grew with the sight of his handwriting. A note from her dead father, written for her. Swallowing her apprehension, she reached for the letter within.

It was only one piece of parchment, lined from top to bottom with Gorion's script. Skimming the top of the page, the letter was dated in Tarsakh, not long before their hurried flight from Candlekeep. Bracing herself, she began to read.

If you are reading this, it means I have met an untimely death…

…I am not your biological father, for that distinction lies with an entity known as Bhaal….

…For reasons unknown to me, he sought out women of every race and forced himself upon them. Your mother was one of those women…

…You are a special child. The blood of the Gods runs through your veins. There are many who will want to use you for their own purposes…

…One, a man who calls himself Sarevok, is the worst danger. He has studied here at Candlekeep and thus knows a great deal about your history and who you are…

I have always thought of you as my child, and I hope you still think of me as your father.

She slid off the bench and slumped onto the cold floor. Her mind went mercifully blank as her fingers tightened around the letter. For a long time, she was only aware of the sound of her own rapid breathing.

As she slowly surfaced from the initial shock, she brought a shaking hand up to press hard against her mouth. Otherwise, she risked ending up keening senselessly into the silent night like a wounded animal. She shuddered as a cold sensation crawled up her spine and latched onto the back of her head. Slowly, her head began to throb, as if a block within her mind had been physically dislodged from the revelation.

For years…for years, she had been studying the prophecies of Alaundo and all it entailed. Hells, she could recite the Endless Chant from memory just from hearing it as she passed by the Court of Air. Every single day for over ten years.

The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he will spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.

They were talking about her. All this while they had been referring to her. She was one of Bhaal's score of mortal progenies. Her emotions railed and clawed against the very idea, holding stubbornly to the notion that she had been born of a union between a nameless adventurer and her mother. Surely, she cannot be what Gorion said she was. She was just a scribe in training. She wasn't meant to amount to anything more than a glorified librarian!

And yet…the logical part of her knew better. The signs had always been there. Her mysterious parentage had been acknowledged by all who knew her. Ulraunt's treatment of her, the whispering among the senior Readers, the horrible dreams. Such things had been a hallmark of her childhood and all her years in Candlekeep. After she'd blazed her own path in the world outside, she'd then understood what pure bloodlust felt like, developed a set of special abilities on the back of the blood she spilt. Powerful, unexplained bursts of miracle seemingly fuelled by nothing more than her own willpower.

Naturally. She knew now that her will was potent because it was divine.

The blood of the Gods.

Her hand gripped the end of the bench, using it as leverage to haul herself to her feet. Treacherous as her knees were proving, she managed to stagger towards the small fire pit under the shrine. For a long moment, she stared at the holy symbol of Oghma in front of her. No wonder Gorion discouraged her from the clergy. Made perfect sense now. Jaw tightening, she tossed his letter into the flames.

The night was cool when she opened the back door. Slipping out, she focused on movement, on getting one foot in front of the other. She didn't know what to do. She didn't even know what to think. Only that she could never look at her reflection the same way again.

Though she'd been away from home for a while, her feet knew the way. Growing up, she found a little hiding cache not far from the inn – an obscured ledge of sorts situated on the upper floor of the Temple of Oghma. Tricky to get to without rope, but she and Imoen had figured out long ago a way to shimmy over through one of the windows in the temple. It was the only place for her to find refuge at that hour. Like the Great Library, the temple was also open to supplicants at all hours of the day.

The pews of the ground floor were deserted as she entered. Looking up at the towering glass panes which ringed the main prayer room, Elene felt a pang of sadness. That was where Gorion found her the day they were to leave Candlekeep. The memory of it flashed through her mind like an image from another life.

Relief filled her upon finding the window on the third floor unlocked. Not that it would have given her any trouble. It never did in the past, but her task was made simpler at least. Cautiously, she skirted her way along the ledge toward a small alcove behind a large ivory sculpture of a blank scroll, namely Oghma's holy symbol. Given the angle, no one could see her from the street below, or even from the temple's window unless they knew exactly where to look for her.

So, she laid her back against the chipped paint of the outer wall and thought of nothing. Oh, she could feel the emotions raging within, anger, fear, horror, sadness all warring with one another in the wake of her discovery. She let them rage. She hadn't the first clue on how to deal with any of them. Hundreds, nay more than a thousand books she'd been made to read over the years yet not a single tutor or mentor had prepared her to deal with her heritage. Then a question rose to the forefront of her mind unbidden.

Khalid and Jaheira – did they know?

If they knew and chose not to tell me…

She slouched further against the wall. As she indulged the darkest depths of her feelings, the stars overhead began to dim. Eventually, she dozed off into a fitful rest until the faintest glimmer of light began to kiss the edges of the horizon. Ignoring the stiffness in her limbs from sitting in the cold, she lifted her head to greet the dawn.

"Elene."

Startled, her head whipped towards the window. So lost in thought, she hadn't realised the presence of the Gatewarden until he was standing right there, concern plain on his features. She straightened, shaking away the last remnants of sleep.

"Gatewarden. How…how did you find me?" she asked, her voice cracked from disuse.

"Imoen said you might be here."

That caught her attention. "Im…Is there something wrong?"

"Come on in and I'll tell you," he replied.

In her urgency, her return to the solid flooring of the temple was considerably less graceful than her attempt in the evening. Inside, she saw that the Gatewarden was accompanied by two Watchers. All three of them were armed.

Alarmed, she turned to him. "Gatewarden, what's wrong?"

He gave her a pained look. "Before I say anything, I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. Can you answer them for me first?"

"I…" She glanced at the helmeted Watchers, wondering if she knew them. "Of course."

"Where were you last night?"

"At the infirmary with my friends. In the back room, where Winthrop put us up for the night. Then I…I came here to get some air. I used to come here a lot before…" She gestured vaguely with a hand. "Well, before."

"About what time did you come here?"

She rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know. Late, I suppose? Definitely after second bell."

His face darkened. "Can anyone other than your friends confirm where you were?"

"Maybe one of the priests here?" She frowned at him. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

He hesitated, seeming to steel himself before continuing. "Lords Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak were found dead at the inn just over an hour ago. They were murdered in their rooms. Judging from their corpses, the killer used knives. Long knives."

She stared at him, suddenly very conscious of the knives strapped to her belt. "Who found them?"

"Rieltar's son, Sarevok. He said he saw the silhouette of an elven woman creeping about their floor before he went to check on his father. This was after third bell." The Gatewarden sighed, then shook his head. "It doesn't look good, girl."

"What about the other merchants they met with? The two gentlemen?" she prompted further, focusing on collecting the key facts to stave off rising panic.

"Lords Tuth and Kestor are unharmed. Sarevok thought that the killer would have gone for all of them, but he managed to intercept them before they could finish the job."

She shot him an incredulous look. "You believe him?"

"What would you have me do?" He shot back. "As it stands, it's his word against yours."

"Do you think I did it?" she asked, searching his face.

He seemed to deflate at her question. Looking at his reaction, she knew he was as helpless as she was in this situation. "It doesn't matter what I think. I'm here to uphold the law. Look, let me take you in. We can discuss this with Tethtoril. Try to find a fair resolution to this mess. I promise I will do everything I can to help, within the law."

"What about my friends?"

"They're already in custody."

A mental image of Imoen languishing behind bars in the barracks flickered through her mind. That made the decision for her. "If I turn myself in, can you promise to keep them out of this?"

For a long moment, he said nothing, only gazed at her in deep thought. Then, he seemed to relent. "Not entirely, but I will do what I can."

"Alright." She let out a slow breath. "I'll come with you."

The Gatewarden's relief was evident in the loud exhale that escaped him. "Thank you. I would hate myself if I drew my blade against you."

As she walked with him, flanked by the two Watchers, she realised that the jaws of a well-crafted trap had been closing on her for days and finally, it had been sprung. This was Sarevok's plan all along, to lure her back to her home, where she could be put off balance. The doppelgangers would serve as his weapons and his witnesses both. Oh, she had no doubt that he had multiple witnesses lined up to damn her to the noose.

They should not have waited. And yet, she couldn't find it in her to blame their decision to make an attempt the next day. Who among them would have expected that he would be willing to kill his own father and associate to get at them?

His own father.

Wait. Remember what he said.

We are born of chaos. He said 'we'.

Her steps stuttered for few paces as another realisation hit her like a sack of bricks. She righted herself, schooling her features from shock to a degree of composure. Glancing up, she waved off the Gatewarden's concern and noticed that they were close to the barracks.

They were the same. Sarevok was also a child of Bhaal.

Sarevok was her brother.

By the time she was inside the barracks, it was a relief to step into a holding cell. At least she could sit down, and she did so immediately. After a beat, though, she noticed the Gatewarden standing inside her cell as if waiting for something. Then she realised she was supposed to surrender her weapons and her gear.

As he left with her things, she could hear Imoen's voice somewhere down the hall. The rest were being held here then. Imoen tried to call out to her several times, but she merely huddled further into the corner. She wasn't ready to face them. Any of them. Safe in her cell, she kept her silence for hours awaiting the Keeper of the Tome's judgment until two Watchers came for her.

She forced herself to her feet. "Time to see Ulraunt?"

The closest Watcher nodded, then unlocked the door to her cell. Swallowing, she followed as they led her away from the holding cells, down the winding corridors and up the stairs. Not a soul was around, she noticed, leaving the place strangely unguarded given there was a purported murderer in the building. They went all the way up to office floor, as Fuller used to call it, where the higher ranked Watchers kept their offices. She wondered if she should feel honoured that Ulraunt was willing to come down from his ivory tower just for her.

Sure enough, the old buzzard was already waiting in the largest office, leaning over the desk. The Watchers made sure she went inside before shutting the door behind them with a click.

Ulraunt looked just as she remembered. Grey, bearded, wiry and cranky. Despite his age, she knew that he could wipe the floor with her using his magic. One did not rise to become the Keeper of the Tomes based on personality alone, after all. In the acrid silence, he watched her with an unreadable expression for an interminably long time. She stood straight before him with her fingers loose, refusing to wilt under his gaze.

"Greetings again, Elene," he said at long last. "Allow me to begin by expressing my utter lack of surprise at this turn of events."

She gritted her teeth and did not deign to offer a reply.

Her reaction was met with a raised eyebrow. "Digging your heels in? Let me assure you that cooperation will serve you better than your old childhood habits. I have no interest in prolonging this, so let me get straight to the point." He drew himself to his full height. "You, Elene of Candlekeep, have been accused of murdering Lords Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak in cold blood. The knives in your possession are consistent with the wounds on the bodies and you were seen to be leaving the healing houses just before the murders. How do you plead?"

"I didn't do it," she answered without hesitation.

"A witness says otherwise."

"Sarevok Anchev is a liar," she growled.

He slammed a hand on the desk. "Watch your words, girl. You don't have a leg to stand on."

Her bark of laughter sounded bitter even to her own ears. "Then why do you even bother asking when my guilt is already a given to you?"

For a moment, he favoured with the strangest look. He almost seemed…disappointed.

"You know…" His bearing turned thoughtful. "I always felt it a disservice to keep you in the dark about your true nature. Had you been raised knowing what you are, we could have equipped you to fight your base urges." He shook his head. "But no, Gorion insisted on coddling you.

She stared at him. "Did everyone here know what I was?"

"No," he said slowly. "Only the handful of us who called Gorion a friend." He scoffed at her expression. "No need to look so surprised, I knew him far longer than you did. I only wish we'd seen eye to eye on this matter. I let you stay here because he saw potential, a woman who could do good. Sometimes a part of me almost wanted to believe it could be true. In the end, though, he was wrong about you."

A simple admission given freely. In another jarring moment of realisation, it struck her that this was the most civil Ulraunt had ever been with her. To think that this version of him was once friends with Gorion until she arrived on the scene. It didn't seem worth it, for Gorion to give up so much just to give her some semblance of a childhood.

Tethtoril was right. Everything Gorion did, he did for her. Even if he did lie to her.

"What happens next?" she asked quietly.

Just like that, the moment shattered, and the Ulraunt she knew and detested returned in full force.

"My preference is for you to be imprisoned rather than executed. It is not up to me, however. Since you murdered two citizens of Baldur's Gate, it would be the Grand Dukes' call. You are to be sent back to Baldur's Gate to face their law this very evening." He glared at her. "Personally, I just want to see the back of you once and for all. The affairs beyond our gate are none of my concern. Candlekeep's walls will stand tall as they always have."

Armed now with the knowledge of who she was, she stared him down as one would an insect. She was done cowering like a little girl in front of this petty, callous man.

"Do your worst."

He narrowed his eyes. "Very well."

A few hard raps on the desk brought the return of the Watchers. She shot Ulraunt one last baleful look before shadowing the Watchers for the walk back to her cell. If this had happened a week earlier, perhaps she would have been scheming to escape, to slip her guards and make a break for it. After the talk with Ulraunt, though, she merely felt drained. Empty. Like her existence was naught but a burden to the people around her. Look at the mess she had wrought, just from bumbling into a trap she had sensed even before entering the gates.

Suddenly, she felt the familiar tingle of magic before both her escorts collapsed in a clatter of metal on the floor. She flattened herself against a wall, frantically searched her vicinity for the spellcaster. Footsteps approached from around the corner, the steps too heavy to be Xan.

Tethtoril appeared, a purple bag in one hand as the other raised towards her in a beckoning gesture. "Come, child. Take your possessions with you. Bendalis is already leading your friends away to safety."

"First Reader?" she asked, bewildered, as she hurried toward him.

"No time to explain." He thrust the purple bag into her hands. "I am sending you to the catacombs below, where you must find the path that leads out to the western face. Your friends will make their way through another route." His sigh sounded so tired. "I would send you away directly, but you know how Candlekeep's defences work."

Elene remembered the old lesson. "Attempting to teleport in or out will flatten anyone who tries."

He quirked a small smile. "Aptly put. Are you prepared?"

"Wait, you need to know about Sarevok…"

"Oh, I know about him, child. I've known about him for a long time." Regret filled his features as he shook his head. "I simply never thought he would dare make his move here. We found Shistal this morning – or what was left of him. I will seek out the creatures that did it even if I have to subject each person in this keep to an interrogation."

"You…you don't think I did it?" she asked, hopeful.

"Of course not! Which is why you need to be out of here, quickly." He grasped her shoulder, leaning in close. "For what it's worth, I am sorry for all that's happened."

She barely had time to blink. One moment, Tethtoril was in front of her weaving an intricate motion in the air, the next, she stood alone in a dark, empty hallway. Nausea roiled through her middle and she had to lean against the wall for support. Apparently, she took to teleportation spells as well as she did to horses. She stayed there unmoving until the silence began to oppress her, then she studied the bag Tethtoril had given her.

Pulling the strings of the bag loose, she stuck her fingers in only to gasp. The interior of the bag was miles bigger than the exterior. A bag of Holding! Eagerly, she reached into the bag up to her elbow and pulled out her sword, then her belt with other weapons strapped to it, then her stash of thieves' tools and potions.

"Thank you, Tethtoril," she whispered into the darkness.

I need to find the others, and fast.

The hilt of her blade felt comforting as she began her foray through the catacombs. Normal graveyards often had people visiting to pay respects to the departed. In Candlekeep, however, monks and sages did not pay respect to decayed corpses, they did so by studying the works produced while the dead still drew breath. As a result, the catacombs were a deserted place. The Watchers used to fill her head with stories of ghouls and skeletons and spiders wandering the halls beneath the Keep. As she inched forward on her own, she hoped they were merely that – stories.

Glancing around, she surmised that she was still in the upper portion of the catacombs. To get to the west face, she would have to descend into the older crypts, which she had been taught led to paths heading to the sea.

The twisting hallways were easy enough to navigate despite the scant lighting, though she fretted that there was no sign of her friends. Where did Bendalis send them off to? Occupied with her worries, it didn't take long to reach the lower levels, where the Great Readers of old were interred. She paused. Faint shuffling of feet ahead caught her attention. Someone, or something, was in the adjacent burial chamber. The steady, metronomic nature of the movements made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Especially when her nose picked up the unmistakable scent of decay in the air. Not the smell of decades old deceased, but the putrid stench of a fresh corpse left in place for days. Hefting her blade, she swallowed her fear as she advanced in the cover of shadows.

And nearly dropped her weapon when she saw a familiar face as she peeked into the nearest chamber. Her old tutor Karan was pacing in front of a tarnished old mirror built into the wall of the crypt. Back and forth, back and forth. Oddly enough, he appeared to be studying his own gait and movements, as if trying to adjust how best to move in his robes. After several rounds across the small space, he gazed into the mirror, his expression thoughtful. Then he smiled, a wicked curve of his lips which looked nothing like the Karan she knew and loved.

A soft cry escaped her as her brain finally grasped what her eyes were seeing. Karan whirled around to face her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He recovered quickly, though, advancing with his hands outstretched to grab her.

No no no no no no no!

She couldn't fight him. Not Karan, no. The hallmark of her childhood was sitting in the study room in the east tower, hanging onto his every word on lazy afternoons. He taught her the first scriptures of Oghma, guided her out of ignorance with his patient, lengthy lessons on history and philosophy.

Yet instinct demanded that she raise her blade and face her attacker head on. Lying down to die was never a choice. Steel connected with flesh, blood sprayed against the walls, but she saw none of it. She saw only the face of her beloved tutor, someone so dear to her heart, twist in pain before slackening in death. Only after did the face fade away into the featureless grey skin of the doppelganger underneath the mask.

Raising her head, she heard more shuffling just beyond the corner. Another familiar voice. Trembling, she took a step forward. Then another. In the darkness, a lone tear slid down her cheek as she began the descent into madness.

.

.

Author's Note:

You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!

Elene gets her much-needed answer, and promptly gets the rug pulled out from under her. Since I first played the games, it always felt unfair, the sheer advantage Sarevok had over the protagonist just by knowing his own heritage. Knowledge is power, after all. So, from here on out, the story is going to be about the underdog's fightback.

Many thanks to my beta, Odivallus.