1388 – Uktar
"What do you think—"
"Sht!"
"Yes, but —"
The priestess put a finger over her lips, and glared at Peedie. That was the problem with this job: as the chief correspondent of the Deep Press, she wanted to be in amongst the crowds on the far side of the lake, noting details, preparing descriptions, and working out who'd be interesting to interview, and who'd want to talk her ear off about the collection of wyvern scales they'd inherited from their second cousin twice removed.
Instead, she was stuck here on the southern shore with the snotty priestess of Selûne who was very keen on the subject of the dignity of the arbiter's office, specifically in respect to the importance of not chatting and looking constipated with reverent piety during the prayers. It didn't help that Marcus had sloped off somewhere, leaving her alone with her co-arbiter, and exposed to the scrutiny of the restless factions.
"The press of battle gave me birth,
The fire of the foremost heats my hearth.
My father is the call of the trumpets,
My brother is the shield next to mine.
Stand beside your neighbour, children of light.
Hold your place in the line!
Justice is in the strength of your arm
While the law abides…"
Peedie made a sincere effort to pay attention to the litany, and managed a whole minute of concentration before her mind wandered. One religious text was much the same as another in her experience. Although Tyr had been a god favoured by humans, the priest leading the service was a dwarf with blond hair and spectacles. As a small mercy, he had a warm, deep voice. Admittedly, for her it only contributed to the soporific effect.
He was standing on a wooden podium that had been erected near the pretty stone bridge's capstone, and he spoke without notes or spells of magnification, yet made every word carry. If the dwarf priest ever got tired of representing the interests of a dead god, he'd be welcome to join the street criers in Baldur's Gate: sales of the broadside would certainly increase if the public heard the headlines being announced in those rich, educated tones.
Her eyes drifted over the faces in the crowd, those among them that were clearly distinguishable through the mist over the lake.
Bann Alagondar looked handsome and grave, his corn-gold hair curling over his shoulders, his expression alight with hushed interest in the words of the priest. Brelaina was staring straight ahead of her; whether she was as bored as Peedie or genuinely involved in the service was hidden by a practised demeanour of professional detachment. Cormick the Speaker of Helm's Hold frowned at the lake, rocking slightly on his heels; sometimes his lips moved, or he'd shake his head, engaged in a silent conversation – presumably with himself.
Easily the most sensible person there was Lord Tavorick: he was fast asleep in his litter under several woollen blankets. Humans took decades to acquire the common sense that gnomes were born with, but the ones that did last long enough to be wise really knew the right way to live.
Most of the congregation wore the look of polite submission to a dull but necessary chore, which she recognised from the hundreds of official ceremonies that she'd been obliged to attend in Baldur's Gate. Neeshka the tiefling was playing a solitary game of cat's cradle. The tattooed warlock Ammon Jerro was still lurking at the back, reading a book and showing no interest in the service at all. Aarin Gend, unnervingly, turned out to be watching Peedie. That really wasn't fair. When their eyes met across the dark water, he smiled and nodded before redirecting his attention to Captain Veirs.
She scanned the delegates and honoured guests for Deekin, eventually locating the kobald near the bridge, busy eating one of his own kebabs. There was someone else with fair dose of gnomish common sense…depending on what was in the kebabs.
Someone moved nearby, and she glanced to her left to see that Marcus was back. She really wanted to ask him about Bann's faction: apart from the dubious ancestry of their leader, and their subornment of the northern army, there was a scandal attached to them that she didn't yet understand. A few of her acquaintances had dropped dark hints, but then refused to explain what they meant so that she'd suspected them of playing politics. Marcus was the perfect person to ask, but he was so tall that it was impossible to hold a discreet conversation with him.
As if responding to her plight, though she hadn't waved to him or tried to attract his notice, Marcus simply sat down cross-legged on the cold shore. "Well, Peedie?" he said in an undertone.
She shuffled closer. With him sitting down, their heads were at the same level, and they could mutter unobtrusively to each other without outraging anyone beyond the Serenar, who deserved it, and probably stayed alive in order to be outraged anyway.
"Bann and his lot. What did they do?"
"They dispute it. But it's rumoured that in the reconquest of Port Llast some things happened, that shouldn't have. Bodies washed up at Highcliff with their hands tied behind them. Gagged. Signs of torture. Three or four of the bodies seem to have been Luskan cabin boys."
"Nasty."
"Indeed."
Peedie looked at Bann, at the pretty Sir Darmon, and at the less pretty but still well-groomed Captain Veirs, and couldn't imagine any of the three either torturing children or ordering them to be tortured, or even knowing and letting it happen. Still, condemned cells were full of people who, with a wash and a new suit of clothes, would seem normal.
On his rickety platform, the dwarf priest had moved onto a sad bit. She swallowed a yawn.
"When the sword breaks, when the back bows,
You will ask: where is my beloved comrade?
I have looked by the markets, fields and temples,
And found nothing but the feathers of crows."
A few in the audience were decorously wiping away tears with the corner of a handkerchief: florid Torio, pretty Darmon, and some of the very boring officials from the Council. Peedie noticed that Sevann from the Many-Starred Cloak and an unknown dwarf from among the guests were crying for real, shoulders shaking and faces distorted with the effort of shoving back their distress. She made a note to investigate them later. Their stories could help ground her account of proceedings for the Deep Press, adding the necessary element of pathos to material that was set to be dry, and full of nothing but the sort of low-level politics that no one in Baldur's Gate wanted to hear about.
She was starting to wish she'd brought some fire-crackers to liven things up, but provoking a battle for the sake of excitement was going too far, even for her. A minor brawl would be completely acceptable, of course. The difficulty lay in stopping brawls from gaining momentum and turning into something larger.
"This is very affecting," said the priestess of Selûne, dabbing at her eyes.
"Hisht!" retorted Peedie in a harsh whisper. "Some of us are trying to listen to the service here."
The priestess glared at her. Peedie spent the remainder of the litany alternately chortling under her breath, and hoping that she'd never need to ask from any favours from the Selûnites of Waterdeep.
"Brothers and sisters, children of the city of Tyr, this concludes our ceremony of remembrance," the dwarf priest called. His voice was starting to sound worn-out from all the reciting of contemplations and sermons and the like. In his place, she'd be applying for a transfer to a faith with a god who preferred to be worshipped by means of banquets, dancing and midnight feasts. Bonus points if the god in question was still alive and able to help out his disciples in a pinch. "Before matters of import are decided, and a new era for Neverwinter begins, let us say the Bondsman's Prayer together, as generations have done here on this site to bless the works of their leaders."
Oh no. Not another prayer. The feeling was leaking out of her toes. At least in a battle the participants were encouraged to move around to keep the circulation flowing. This was just a slow death from exposure.
When Cormick interrupted the priest, bellowing in rough, barking tones that were magnified by his barrel of a chest, she nearly cheered.
"I think you've missed something, Ivarr."
The priest removed his glasses, and squinted at the tall, weathered human. Cormick's fine black clothes and silver chain of office underlined his importance; the wildness in his eyes and voice, and in the set of his jaw, sounded wrong notes in the image of cool authority that he should have projected.
"I have completed the service, Speaker," said Ivarr hoarsely. To the dwarf priest's credit, he spoke calmly instead of telling Cormick to bugger off down along crap alley and leave him alone to get a drink of water. She respected his self-control. "Everything has been as we agreed. I am happy to discuss your concerns with you in private later."
"What about the Nine Vows?" Brelaina put a hand on Cormick's shoulder. He shook it off. Sedos Sebile whispered in his ear, but he shoved her away. "In the old times, that was how they started coronations, and isn't that what this is? Do any of you remember those Vows anymore? I don't think it matters…not if you all just forget them whenever it's convenient."
Darmon leaned forward from the front line of Bann's people. "You're overwrought, Cormick. This is hard for us all. Take a break from the ceremonies and let Septimund have a look at you." Bann's deputy sounded sincere in his concern. Cormick's only response was a dark glare in the knight's direction. Averting his face from the northern faction, he turned his back on the lake to address his own tribe.
And despite that, Peedie still heard every word. In part, that was due to her excellent hearing, but Cormick was shouting rather than speaking. The echoes of his voice bounced around the stony hollows of the broken district.
"I said these lines when I was made a Marshal, and again when I was elected Speaker of Helm's Hold. I meant them both times then, and I mean them now.
I swear to uphold the law of Neverwinter.
I swear to submit my actions to the judgement of Tyr.
I swear to protect children and the innocent above all else.
I swear to be truthful in all my dealings."
Bann couldn't be thrilled by the recital whether the story she'd heard from Marcus was true or not. The third vow didn't have the codicil 'except Luskan children, who are fair game for whatever you want to do to them'.
Admittedly, Peedie knew how human-ruled stated worked, and she was certain that there were officials and scholars on a retainer's stipend who would unflaggingly argue that it meant exactly that. As for being truthful, a lot of the delegates had just laughed when she'd asked them if they'd ever wondered why Lord Nasher had never mentioned the existence of his only surviving child to anyone, not even to his closest followers.
The southerners were watching Cormick with varied expressions of worry, irritation, and, in the case of the orc chief, pure bewilderment. Peedie was not an expert at decoding the feelings of lizardmen. Scaly was an accurate description, but not a point on any emotional spectrum that she'd heard of. Knight-Captain Khelgar was nodding along to the vows, sometimes mouthing the words in time as well. The red-bearded warlock had put away his book, and his gaze was fixed on Cormick with a hawkish intensity.
"I swear to ally myself with no polluted soul.
I swear to take no gain to myself that derives from corruption."
Captain Veirs, a few paces away from Bann, folded his arms and smiled. Despite his eyepatch, he had a jolly sort of smile, the kind that was at home at the regulars' table in a cheerful mixed-class tavern.
Cormick's neck was reddening from the effort of speaking, but only three vows remained. What happened then would be…interesting. She guessed that the consequences could fall anywhere from shared embarrassment with a tacit agreement not to mention the incident to mutual annihilation. In the end, what happened would come down to how many loyal followers Cormick could claim from the delegates and guests of the Council.
Just in case of trouble, Peedie touched her ring of invisibility. The district was easily large enough to shelter one small gnome for a few hours, even if she didn't like the thought of what she could end up sharing house-space with.
"Peedie, you should come this way," said Marcus suddenly from her right. He'd been sitting on her left not long ago. "You too, Serenar. Step a few yards to the right. That's fine."
When a seer asks you to do something, even a pale, underfed one like Marcus, you do it. She moved to the side at once, and after some indignant clucking, the elven priestess followed. As far as she could tell, there was no great difference in their new position. They were a little further from the shore and closer to the bridge, and that was all.
"I swear to uphold my duties and commitments," Cormick continued.
Peedie's fingers twitched. Tiny invisible spiders ran down her neck and shoulders. It felt as if a latent charge in the air had jumped straight into her bloodstream. She shivered, and sneezed into her sleeve. Next to her, the Serenar was shifting uneasily on the spot. Either she was experiencing the same thing as Peedie, or she should really have used the privy before the service started.
Magic. Big magic that was pooling out like dripping on toasted bread. Peedie couldn't remember the fancy term for it, but she had a Glossary of Thaumaturgical Craft at the office, and she could look it up later.
Before Cormick could reach the eighth vow, magical shields were springing into life from one end of the audience to the other. Johcris glowered from behind a blue sparkling globe; the three mages from the Many-Starred Cloak stood back-to-back, a single golden wall protecting all of them at once. To give them their due, the delegates of Neverwinter were old hands at spotting trouble, and were more than prepared for it.
"I swear to revere the memory of the valiant dead."
The pressure on her nerves vanished, but the sense of power did not: it was deepening, strengthening. That first charge in the air had only been a harbinger of something greater. Peedie looked all around the district, searching for a visible cause. A dark sorcerer concealed among the mages of Silverymoon? A revenant spirit or, worse, a lich operating from one of the ruined houses? But there was nothing.
Opposite her, the people in the factions seemed to be asking themselves the same question. The supporters of the Council split down the middle, as those on the left turned to face the allies of Bann, while those on the right faced the southerners. Lila Farlong launched into a hasty mimed exchange with the elven Council diplomat Sand, and Peedie recognised the Faerun-wide gesture for I don't know what in the hells is happening. Still on his platform, Ivarr was stooping to confer with Aarin Gend, while keeping a hand raised to deter the Lords' Alliance forces from hurrying into action.
Ignoring the confusion and near-panic, Cormick continued, as loud as he had been at the start. "I swear to endure my rightful punishment in the humility of my soul and the pride of my blood if I break these my sacred vows. Praise—"
The remainder of the sentence, and who or what he wanted to praise, was lost as first Torio then others started to point and shout.
"The lake! Look at the lake!"
Peedie did, and initially failed to understand the excitement. As its name suggested, the lake was black, its colour absorbed from the strange black sand that covered its bed. But looking again at its surface, she realised that the darkness was not complete; dark grey shades mixed in with deepest blue like clouds drifting over the sky at night. And towards the centre…
She stood on tiptoe to get a better view, and wished that she'd learned to shapeshift into a giraffe instead of how to write shorthand in three different languages. Yes… In the centre, where the lake was darkest, the water was bestrewn with wavering silver pinpricks. With every moment that passed, they grew brighter.
Tall army men firmly pushed Bann Alagondar from the front line to the centre of their faction, while Johcris conjured a flaming sword and passed it to Darmon, who took up a fighting stance on the shore. The Council supporters fell into confusion, some staying in position, others straying to the front or back, while a few teleported away altogether to take shelter amongst the Lords' Alliance troops. The southerners pulled their squashier delegates behind an emerging double rank of what Peedie guessed were the most battle-tried members of their faction.
"Do you hear that?" hissed the Serenar to Marcus.
"Yes," he replied. The seer was as calm as usual, his shoulders relaxed. He was even twiddling with one of the quill pens in the pocket of his coat.
Peedie listened, and soon caught the sound that had disturbed the priestess. Hoofbeats. The noise of a single horse cantering over hard ground, getting closer. And closer.
Quickly, she located the horses that Bann and his cronies had arrived on. They were secured by the ruined Temple of Lathander, working their way through a bale of hay, and definitely not striking sparks off the paving stones. A cold wind swept over her from the opposite bank. It smelled of frosty mornings in the Cloudpeaks, and visits to her rural cousins when ice sparkled in the hedges under the gaze of the late-rising sun.
The hoofbeats grew louder. All eyes were on the lake.
When the first wavelet ran over the surface, Peedie sighed, feeling a perverse release of tension. Whatever was coming, kraken or undead army or demon prince, its path was set, and it could not be turned aside.
The hoofbeats stopped. More wavelets danced on the lake, the water frothed, and the silver stars were lost in the turbulence. Then it happened, and it lasted a matter of seconds. Peedie knew as she watched, and tried to commit every detail to memory, that it was too fast, the moment over too soon.
A knight rode out of the lake. At least, he looked like a knight. He was dressed from head to toe in plate armour. A web-patterned helmet covered most of his face. A warhammer hung from his belt, and a shield from his left arm. The horse that he rode on was as white as snow, as a knight's horse should be, and it moved through the water as if it was no more of an obstacle than air. Horse and rider sped up the bank, crossing the spot where Peedie and the Serenar had been standing until Marcus had called them away.
After reaching dry land, the horse slowed its pace to a majestic walk. That was when Peedie realised that it was to a horse what a sphinx was to a lion. It had a long fleshy tail like a rat, or a tiefling; its neck was sinuous, and lean. The whiteness of its appearance was owed, not to hide, but to hard, hairless skin.
The horse began to strut around the lake, moving from south to west to north in a wide circle. Delegates, guests and the ranks of the Lords' Alliance gawped as one, and didn't say a word. The delegates weren't reaching for more of their smuggled-in weaponry, and the spellcasters were keeping their hands by their sides. Peedie had the sense that they were prepared to change that very quickly if they found it necessary. Darmon kept his flaming sword ready. On the front line of the southerners, black fire leaked from the warlock's fingers.
The rider continued to circle the lake, staying on the outer edge of the factions, and never moving within three yards of anyone in the assembly. The helmet turned to gaze back at each person as he went past. Her instincts told her that under the armour there was a living man, and not a corpse or a vengeful ghost. Still, the deliberate walk of the horse and the silence of the rider made her edgy.
She wondered what he was thinking. In his position, she'd have been cross with her horse. 'Of all the lakes in the world, you brought me to this one.' The dour weather, and dourer faces put her in mind of Ducal Palace on the morning after one of Lady Caldwell's wretched soirees, where everyone hated each other and drank like barbarians to conceal their true feelings. And that was without considering the district's comfortless ruins, and stubborn mist. She'd be tempted to spur her horse straight back into a lake, hoping to re-emerge in sunlit Tethyr near an open-air tavern with a good bandurria player.
But he didn't. He stopped briefly near the southerners, and seemed to be looking for someone. He halted again near the bridge, and this time the helmet shifted its focus from Aarin Gend to Ivarr and back. She thought he was about to speak, but then he shook the reins, and moved on.
He was coming closer again. The un-horse was splashing through the eastern shallows at the foot of the street that rose steeply to the level of the palace.
Perhaps it wasn't so strange that he'd emerged from the Blacklake. If he'd been riding a pure white mare and was dressed in armour of flawless silver, plumes on his helmet and his colours hanging from his saddle, it would have been obvious that he'd meant to go somewhere else and had crashed their miserable party by accident. Yet his horse seemed to share an ancestor with a sea serpent, his armour was battered, his stance a little stooped, and the shield on his arm bore the uncanny image of an eyeless turquoise dragon that seemed poised to lunge out of the metal and attack its enemies. Such a second-hand chevalier might fit this gathering, where one straight from the warehouse would just assume he'd been cast into the hells in a terrible case of mistaken identity.
The rider went past Peedie, and the horse halted near the spot where it had first touched the land. He sat quietly in the saddle, helmet turning one way then the other as he surveyed the assembly. His right hand rested on the horse's jutting shoulder. His left hand toyed with the reins, almost letting them drop, then tightening on them again.
Parts of the crowd were still frozen in surprise. Elsewhere, hurried conferences were taking place as the leaders tried to decide what to do and who should do it. Peedie guessed that the phrases 'ask him not me' and 'what if it's a death knight?' would be at home in the hushed wrangling. Despite being closer to the lake rider than anyone save Marcus, she felt unconcerned: no aura of cruelty or violence came from the newcomer. He appeared to be thinking.
Brelaina finally stepped forward from amongst the central faction. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as she watched, and Peedie watched, the rolling trajectory of a small shape - a small, feathered shape - that crossed the lake, fluttering from one side to the other, travelling direct to the outreaching gauntlet of the unknown rider.
It was an unremarkable bird. One of the dull ones with brown backs and parchment-coloured breasts. Still, it had a sweet, trilling song that lingered in her ears, and pierced the thick stillness of the district in a way that even Cormick's booming vows had failed to do.
The rider slid from his horse. Once his feet touched the ground, the creature nudged his arm with its nose, then turned and cantered away. Peedie wanted to see where it went, but she could not risk missing the main show, not even for a heartbeat. She would be sending dispatches tonight by an express courier: this story was going to sell a serious number of copies.
Even without the horse, the armoured man was an imposing figure, being half-a-head taller than Marcus, and twice as broad across the shoulders. Still with the bird perched on his gauntlet, its trills growing louder and more certain, he pulled off his helmet with his left hand, and dropped it on the sand.
Underneath was a human. A pale-skinned one with high cheekbones and crow-black hair. If Darmon and this new human had been created by the same sculptor, then the features of the former had been shaped by a hammer and chisel, the latter by a razor.
The singing stopped. Instead of supporting a bird on his gauntlet, he was holding an elf woman pressed tight to his chest. Her smooth auburn hair fell over his arms, and he was clutching her to him as if she was his life-raft in a rough sea. Or like Palamon embracing Emilya? Peedie bit her lip. No, too niche and flowery. Stick to the storm metaphor. Everyone likes storms.
She tried to see the elf woman's face, but since it was smushed against Sir Mystery Knight's breastplate, only the curve of her jaw was visible. Whoever she was, she certainly wasn't a delegate.
"Casavir!" Aarin Gend was leaning over the bridge's ornate outer wall. "How did you—? By the One, it really is you!"
The name seemed to mean something to the crowd because after a stunned pause, first individuals, then groups began peeling away from the three faction and hurrying to Peedie's side of the lake so that they could swarm round the knight and the elf woman. Peedie felt for the name in her memory. Casavir. Where had she heard it before? Recently, she was sure of that much.
Then it clicked. The tiefling Neeshka had mentioned a Casavir who had been attacked by a demon years ago when she'd described Tavorick's way with fishing rods. Casavir wasn't a common name, not even in stodgy traditional Neverwinter: this had to be the same one.
She'd missed her chance to grab a quick post-immersion interview. Twenty people surrounded him already, and the number was increasing by the second. Preferring to avoid the press of legs, she stayed where she was and listened.
"Are you Sir Casavir?" asked a human in a Lathanderite gown.
"Yes."
"You don't look like Casavir," said another human in a mail-shirt and military-issue cloak.
"Nevertheless, I am."
"What were you doing in that lake then?" asked one of the swamp farmers.
"I was riding out of it." He had a deep, soft voice that made his brief answers sound slightly apologetic, as if he regretted his failure to be more distinctly Casavir, and likewise his failure to do more interesting things at the bottom of lakes.
"How come you didn't drown?"
"I held my breath."
"So you're really Casavir?"
"Yes."
Peedie rolled her eyes. Amateurs. She looked for Marcus to ask him about what the black-haired knight was famous for, apart from problems with demons, and found that the seer had slipped away again.
The Serenar scowled at her. "This was not mentioned in the plan of events for today. It will cause yet another delay, and that will be very inconvenient. I have no idea how these people have ever managed without help, I really do not."
"I often asked myself the same thing, Serenar," said Aarin Gend as he and the dwarf priest Ivarr walked past. He caught Peedie's eye, and although he didn't wink, she felt the spirit of one pass between them. "Right," he told the crowd. "The grown-ups have arrived. Give him some breathing space, now. Step back. There."
And with that, most of the excitement was over. After a whispered dialogue that Peedie, to her hug disappointment, couldn't hear, Ivarr led Casavir, still holding hands with his elven friend, away to be formally introduced to Bann Alagondar, and Knight-Captain Khelgar Ironfitst.
"I believe I know Brelaina and Khelgar already," Casavir said, as he looked north towards the waiting trio. "Khelgar especially."
After they were gone, and Peedie's attempt to follow had been nixed by a discouraging look from Ivarr, she sighed and kicked the sand by the water's edge. In places, the hoofprints of the horse were still present; the sight of them felt like a taunt.
"What's going on?" she demanded of the air and Aarin Gend. "I'm Peedie the Pen. I don't know what's happening. I should know everything and have six articles written by now!"
"Don't ask me," said Aarin. "I was only Lord Nasher's master of spies. How should I know?"
She laughed, and he gave a small smile, before bowing like a courtier and departing to speak to Cormick. The ex-spymaster put an arm around the big man's shoulders, and led him aside, their heads bowed together as they talked.
Things quietened down. Every time Peedie tried to get closer to the knight and to Neverwinter's King-in-Waiting, Ivarr turned her back. It was a small comfort to realise that nine delegates and guests were experiencing the same treatment on the north-eastern side: Sivlerymoon mages barred their way, and did so politely but firmly. Given that the nine people had enough raw power between them to wipe out the whole gathering, she had to respect the mages' commitment to their task.
But the tension had slackened. The factions were still distinct, but there was far more coming and going: delegates crossed the lines to gossip, exchange theories, to point and stare. Some brave few even bought kebabs from Deekin,who had put his tray on the ground so that he could sit on a pile of stones and write. Peedie wasn't alone in recognising the potential of the day's grand event. She just had to get more details. 'Man rides horse-monster out of lake – reunites with friend-slash-lover-slash-birdwoman' needed work as a headline, and that was without considering what to put in the main article.
As she was preparing to use her ring of invisibility to eavesdrop on the select few, she discovered that it was not immediately necessary. Thick-necked Haeromos from Port Llast had mounted Ivarr's platform. "Please be silent, and harken to Lord Bann Alagondar!"
On the western shore, Bann raised his head, and waited for Johcris to touch a wand to his neck before beginning. He looked confident, and composed.
"Children and friends of Neverwinter. Today we have been blessed with a sign of the gods' favour, and with what must surely be the best of omens." His voice was a light, young-sounding tenor, and he spoke Common with the throaty, sibilant accent of the Ten Towns. Easy to explain, of course. Sword Coast princes were often so concerned about the safety and character of their offspring that they arranged for them to pursue their education in remote places away from court politics. And there were few places more remote and less like a royal court than Icewind Dale.
"Sir Casavir, our light in the darkness, the scourge of the King of Shadows, has returned to us. We came to this, a place of sorrow, and in our sorrow we were granted some part of all we have lost. Neverwinter's great knight has been given back to us.
"Soon I will go to the table of peace with your representatives, and there we will sign an agreement that will endure for generations. A time of restoration is coming. We will recover the beauty and prosperity that was ours, and with heroes such as Casavir at our side, we will be as strong as we ever were, or stronger. I pray you show your respect to Sir Casavir!"
Bann raised his arms and stepped aside as the spectators burst into applause and cheers. Even most of the Council faction joined in, amongst them old Lord Tavorick. The elf woman, hand apparently soldered onto the knight's, wanted to hide behind him, but he shook his head, and pulled her forward to stand next to him in sight of everyone. Peedie thought that they both looked relieved when the cheering stopped. They had endured it with the flat submission of people who don't know how to respond to compliments. Half the staff at the Deep Press were like that. The other half were Peedie and Bern.
Bann, Brelaina and Khelgar left the banks of the lake, heading for an open-sided tent containing a table, on which had been set paper, quills and ink. After a dozen more of the senior delegates —chiefs, officers, nobles, and village mayors — joined them, they sat down, and the tent was closed by Darmon. But Peedie was already advancing, her target in her sights. She turned the ring once on her finger, and relaxed as the most useful spell she could imagine enfolded her.
The Silverymoon mages had moved aside, allowing a circle to form: Casavir and the elf stood at one end with Lila Farlong and Ammon Jerro at the other. Sand, Harcourt, Neeshka, Torio and Kana occupied positions round the sides, and alongside them was an old half-orc in a furry gold hat, and a halfling-sized bundle of cloth with legs, neither of whom she recognised from the delegate list.
"Here to keep a wary eye on us for His Northern Majesty, Torio?" said the elven mage Sand. "Tell me, has he learned to sign his name yet, or is he still stuck in the cave painting phase?"
"I could ask the same of you and your Council masters," replied the expensively dressed woman Torio with a sour-sweet moue. "I thought you said that they had Cormick under control."
"And I thought you said that no one was going to give any weapons to Darmon to strike heroic postures with. Especially not flaming swords."
"I can't believe you two!" Neeshka exclaimed. "It's not like anything interesting just happened, right? I mean, who cares about Casavir showing up out of a lake after being missing for twelve years when you've got some sniping to be getting on with."
Peedie moved softly round the edge of the circle until she was situated at right angles to the elf and the knight. Both of them looked as stunned as Duke Belt after Peedie had explained to him what his chief clerk had been doing with the city's gold in Belt's private hunting lodge.
"Twelve years?" said Casavir.
"Twelve years and two months," said Lila Farlong. Both she and the warlock were examining the knight intently, as if there was writing on each piece of his armour that only they could see. "And you don't look a day older."
"He is what he claims to be," said Jerro. The warlock spoke in a cracked, rasping baritone that was as ugly as Casavir's voice was beautiful. "This is truly Casavir. Though as for that shield…" He frowned at the lacquered coils of the blind dragon, looking angry when it didn't immediately hop out of its frame and offer a full account of itself.
"Welcome back, Sir Casavir," said Kana, a warrior woman who'd been a late addition to the delegates. Peedie was standing next to her by the city's southern gate when the guards had asked her to yield her long-bladed sword into their care. It had taken several attempts before she'd managed to unlatch her reluctant fingers from the scabbard. "I am glad to see you alive and well. Since we looked for you in the Mere of Dead Men, I've asked myself many times if I gave up too soon."
"Thank you, Seneschel." The knight smiled at Kana, still seeming disoriented. Peedie tried to imagine being kidnapped from Baldur's Gate, then being dropped back in the Deep Press office after twelve years had passed. Not an easy feat.
"Just 'Kana' will do. I haven't been a seneschal for over a decade."
"Then I thank you, Kana."
"Yes. Welcome back, Casavir," said Lila Farlong. She offered a crooked smile of her own that highlighted the unusual angles of her face. "And you too, Elanee. It's been much too long." Her dark eyes flicked back to Casavir. "She said you were still alive, you know. Right from the start. I thought she was kidding herself."
"I thought so too sometimes. Often," said the elf with auburn hair. Now that she wasn't pressed against Casavir's breastplate, Peedie could see that she had a delicate, nervous appearance that only natural comparisons could capture. A doe glimpsed at sunrise across a field? That might work, though some of her city-born readers would take it to mean that the heroine of the story resembled a gloop of unbaked bread.
"You never gave up," said the old half-orc. "I reckon you must know half the diviners in Faerun by now." She paused and glanced round the circle. "I'm Rosalenita, by the way. My friend here is called Semmy." She indicated the animated pile of clothes, which removed its hat, and bowed stiffly. It was a he: the head under the hat was bald and green. After moving a dozen paces to the right, Peedie was able to see his oval face, and the prominent pale eyes that were barely contained by their sockets.
"I'm happy to meet you," said Lila.
"Yeah, Sand's told us all about you," said Neeshka. Peedie didn't have a full view of the look that passed between Sand and Neeshka, but doubted that it was very warm.
"I did perhaps mention to a few people that I'd had the good fortune to meet a well-known scholar," he said, inclining his head towards Rosalenita, "but no more than that."
"And Sand told me something about your case too," said Lila, addressing the green-skinned Semmy, though her eyes often darted from him to Elanee, assessing the elf's reactions. "I have a friend in Thay who might be able to undo the effects of your night in the Mere. And if not, there's a transmuter in Cathyr - Hechesta - who could help. You'd need to arrange your own introduction through a separate go-between. He was annoyed with Ammon and me the last time we met. Furious, really. In fact, he was in a murderous rage. But he's very good at what he does, and his patients always survive."
"Thank you," the green man hissed in reply. "I will consider it." He exchanged glances with Rosalenita, and the half-orc gave a small nod.
Harcourt, one of Peedie's Candlekeep contacts, coughed, and then ran his fingers through his hair as the attention of the circle settled on him. "I don't want to speak out of turn, but – Sir Casavir, where have you been? I scried for you many times, and learned nothing. Whether I used a map and coin, or a bowl of water, or an enchanted flame – nothing gave me an answer I could understand."
As one, the circle's eyes moved to where Casavir had been standing silently, as close to Elanee as bark to a tree.
The knight paused, looked down at the elf at his side, then back up to the circle of his former associates. "I will tell you all that happened, as far as I am able to, but I wish to speak to Elanee. She deserves an explanation first, and—" He broke off. "That is, if you—?" he said, the question in his voice meant for her only.
"Yes." The elf woman wasn't smiling, but her olive skin glowed, and her eyes shone in response. A smile would have seemed shallow in comparison. Peedie just wished that Elanee was wearing something more appropriate to the occasion: a shimmering silk gown, say, or a kirtle webbed with moonlight. Her tunic and hose were disappointingly prosaic. Still, the illustrators could fix that detail; reality sometimes needed a helping hand to do justice to itself.
"I will speak to you soon," Casavir informed the group as he turned away, Elanee's hand resting on his right arm as if he was escorting her into a ballroom. Peedie wondered how much of a head-start she should give them before following.
"Elanee!" Lila called. The elf looked back over her shoulder. "I should have listened. I'm sorry that I didn't."
Elanee gave a light shrug. "It doesn't matter. What's past is past."
"Perhaps we could talk later? I've heard you've made a name for yourself. You could tell me about that."
"Perhaps," said Elanee. She and Casavir began to stroll away; they were speaking to each other, but too softly for Peedie to catch any words.
"Well, that was weird," said Neeshka. She sounded bright and cheerful, and made no effort to moderate her volume. "Lucky he showed up when he did though. Cormick was about to ruin everything. Told you we should have put knock-out drops in his bedtime glass of hot milk."
"Unconscious people are notoriously poor at signing treaties and swearing oaths of loyalty," said Sand. "A domination spell would have been a much more practical option, though not one in which I could in any way have condoned."
"Yeah," said Neeshka. "He'd have realised sooner or later, and things would have got messy really fast."
Peedie was about to sneak off in pursuit of Casavir when she felt that she was being observed. A pair of yellow eyes were watching her, and they belonged – oh jealous gods, bugger this! – they belonged to Ammon Jerro. He'd moved around to stand on Lila's left, giving him a clear line of sight on Peedie. She looked down at her body, but knew by instinct without any visual confirmation that her invisibility spell was dissolving. Was being dissolved, to be precise, by whatever power the freaky tattooed warlock had set in her direction.
"Hi there!" she told the circle, and tried to think friendly, blameless thoughts in the hope that they'd show in her face.
"Hey, Peedie," said Neeshka. "You really take this arbitration stuff seriously, don't you? I'd have given up and high-tailed it to a tavern ages ago."
"So you're the Baldur's Gate arbiter?" Rosalenita asked. "Thought it was odd that there was a gnome watching us. Felt awkward mentioning it in case it was some sort of social faux-pas, and everyone round here has gnomes."
After what felt like the entire group had thrown in their two coppers, quizzed her about her work for the Deep Press, or asked her with the predictably limited perspective of the taller races whether she'd heard of Grobnar Gnomehands (because of course she was a gnome and thus had to be on first name terms with every other gnome on the Sword Coast, even if, as it happened, her mother's family had been feuding for decades with the Gnomehands tribe over the nomenclature and correct method of preparing clapshot), Casavir and Elanee were long gone. She had lost the opportunity to gain another scoop. Now she could only make the best of it, and patch together information from the people that knew them.
With the intention of doing exactly that, she attached herself to the group as they set off on a spontaneous-seeming pilgrimage to the old docks. Rosalenita and the viridescent Semmy dropped out, too tired to manage the walk. They were replaced by an assortment of attendees, along with Silverymoon mages and Flaming Fist guardsmen, some curious, others suspicious.
The whole point of the delegate list was to ensure that anyone remotely dangerous, politically or militarily, would be in the same place at the same time where the Lords' Alliance forces could keep an eye on them. The official letters had talked a load of tripe about witnessing the treaty and coming together in a peaceful gathering, but everyone really knew that it was so no one faction would dare launch an attack on the other while their leaders were being watched in Neverwinter.
Getting to the docks involved walking through a tangle of alleys and streets that had not been included in the preparations for the big day, and Peedie was relieved to be in company. Whatever horrors were lurking in the abandoned shops and tenements, they remained hidden in obedience to some primitive sense of self-preservation. The mages of the Many-Starred Cloak walked with a predator's step: they would seize the chance to brand their grief on the innards of any ghast or vampire that stuck its nose out-of-doors.
The docks proved to be an eerie sight. They might be even worse than the Blacklake District. A wide expanse of unpeopled nothing, and next to a grey sea. The quay nearest the mouth of the river held back three years' deposits of mud, driftwood and weeds. The green-grey mould that grew on the surface of the thick sediment, right up to the wall, looked solid enough to walk on, though anyone that tried would be in for a nasty surprise when the crust fractured underneath them. Sand and pebbles thrown up by storms covered the main thoroughfare, collecting here and there into dunes as high as Peedie. But there was no samphire, nor thistles, nor pink clover growing, the plants that she'd seen in abundance along the deserted section of the old harbourfront in her home city.
"Khelgar'll be sorry he missed this. He always says that he had his best fights here," said Neeshka, the wind whipping through her dense crown of red hair. "And over there is where I bet my first ever salary on a pig race. My pig lost and it ended up living in a pen behind the Sunken Flagon. That was when Shandra made me sign up for a locked savings scheme with the Seven Suns. Ach. Respectability really creeps up on you, you know? One day the thought of coin just sitting there untouched makes your horns itch, then in the blink of an eye you're talking about investments and the long-term value of silver."
She shook her head disconsolately, her long tail wrapping itself around her legs as if it was comforting her. "Right, I'm off to break into the custom house. It would be fun if Brelaina hadn't asked me to do it!" She made a face, and stalked away. Each hand gripped the hilt of a ten-inch long dagger, the blades so fiercely sharp that Peedie wouldn't have dared to cut bread with them. How Neeshka had kept them concealed through the ceremony was a mystery, unless there were enchanted pockets in her armour.
Sand and Harcourt departed directly afterwards, explaining that they wanted to inspect the site of Sand's alchemist's shop to see if anything was worth salvaging. "Say hello to the golem for me," said Lila.
The remainder of the group took little account of them. They had gathered at the foot of a stone plinth, on which stood a statue that was, according to her tastes, deeply boring. It depicted a smooth, featureless, vaguely human and masculine figure holding a two-handed weapon. At a guess, the material had once been a brilliant sun-baked white, but grime and ashen rains had washed it to a grey that matched the sea. A line of plinths supporting identical tepid statues ran down the length of the docks, their shoulders straight, their eyeless faces watching the quays and the cracked hulls of sunken ships.
Peedie was about to ask the Neverwinter delegates what the appeal was. She was generally unimpressed by displays of civic rivalry: the Sword Coast had enough problems as it was without heaping more fuel on the fire. But if this dull heap of rock impressed them, then they really needed to visit the Hall of Wonders in Baldur's Gate.
"You're sure?" Lila asked.
"Oh yes. I remember them well," said Eltoora Sarptyl. Without waiting for further discussion, the warlock raised his right hand and sent a jet of black power surging toward the statue. Peedie had never been so close to a warlock before, and certainly not to one that was using his abilities. Her eyes watered from the explosion of smoke, and her nostrils twitched as they were filled by the burning, cloying smell of struck flint. She was already coughing and rubbing her eyes when the dust wave hit her.
Once Peedie was able to see again, Kana had climbed onto the plinth, and was throwing chunks of stone – no, plaster – onto the road.
"She's here," said the former seneschal, chucking more plaster lumps over her shoulder.
"She was the last one to go up before Lord Nasher started souring on personality cults," said Eltoora. The senior mage was standing with her hands in the capacious pockets of her long coat, looking like a particularly phlegmatic ghost. From head-to-toe she was covered in off-white plaster dust. Peedie glanced at the thick layer of the stuff on her own arms and winced. Yep. So was she. In fact, so was everyone. "He decided it was better to promote the city as one family unified under Tyr."
"His own personality cult excepted," growled Jerro as, leaning up, he brushed his fingers against the cracked plaster. It fell away at once, revealing an arm and the corner of a shield made of polished bronze.
"Not completely fair," said Eltoora.
"Not completely wrong either," said the battle mage Sevann. "My uncle is somewhere here. He led the right flank at Blackbridge."
"And my grandmother," said Vale. "She was a storm mage. Still is, maybe, wherever she went after inventing rain lures that farmers could use without magical training. I used to visit her statue when I first joined the Cloak."
As Sevenn and Vale shared their reminiscences, the plaster continued to fall away, until Peedie found that she was staring up into the face of a long-haired elven warrior. It was difficult to tell with elves, but based on the concave shape of the bronze breastplate, which must have been enspelled against corrosion so bright was it, Peedie reckoned that the life-size, life-like statue represented a female of the species.
The elf's full lips and high forehead were undeniably, aggressively beautiful, but she noticed that one eye was slightly lower than the other, giving an odd tilt to her expression. A sympathetic correspondent would say that it gave her a look of dreamy idealism. Someone not being paid by the elf's mother to be nice might instead reach for the phrase bug-eyed fanatic.
She wanted to ask who it was supposed to be.
"Aribeth de Tylmarande," said Marcus behind her.
She turned round. The young seer had turned up the collar of his cloak, and was watching the excavation a few paces away from the rest of the group.
"The traitor?" she asked after joining him.
"The traitor," he confirmed. Anticipating her next question, he explained, "I never met her, but Eltoora said it's a good likeness. Better than the official portraits, though most of those were burnt."
The bronze statue of Aribeth having been revealed in its entirety, the group moved on to break apart the next icon. Peedie lingered by the northern quay; Marcus did not seem inclined to follow the rest, and he could be very useful when he wanted to be.
"Yes, I know where they've gone," he said, lips forming a teasing half-smile.
"It's kind of creepy when you do that," she told him.
"Sorry. Normally I wear an arcane dampener. It's only for today that I've made an exception." He paused. "It feels strange to have access to my full powers again. Like flying after years of crawling."
"So why wear the dampener?"
"Most seers go insane before they're twenty. Openness to the future isn't an easy quality to have. The dampener stops me seeing more than my mind can cope with. Besides, my wife made me sleep in the barn the last time she caught me without it. I —" he stopped, and pressed his thumb against the top of his nose.
"Are you having a vision?" Peedie watched him cautiously. The behavioural queues and instincts she'd inherited from her militantly domestic mother informed her that she should order him to bed, where she should force-feed him brandy cream until he developed some colour in his cheeks and gained a peck of weight.
"No, just trying not to sneeze." His voice sounded muffled. Briefly, he buried his face in the wing of his cloak. "Salt and plaster dust. Horrible." He shook his head, his eyes closed. "Shall we go and look for them? I don't think anyone needs our help here."
The group had spread out, divided up into twos and threes to work on pulling the plaster off more of the concealed bronze statues. Even the Flaming Fist and Silverymoon mages had joined in with enthusiasm once they'd realised what was happening. Eltoora Sarptyl was uncovering a dwarven alchemist. A white-haired scholar was delivering an off-the-cuff lecture to an audience of three people and a starveling seagull with many gestures up towards the statue of a gnome holding an hourglass. Further along, partly hidden by the dust and by the sea fog, Ammon Jerro and Lila Farlong were walking away down the docks. They paused, black light and silver fire flashed towards a plaster sarcophagus, and then they wandered deeper into the fog.
"You'll really help me find the knight from the lake? Casavir?" Most people would have told Peedie to mind her own business and stop being nosey. Really intolerable ones like the Serenar would drawl something about idle curiosity, as if curiosity was ever idle.
"Yes. It will be a valuable experience," said Marcus. No, it might bes for him. "This way."
She jogged to keep up as Marcus began striding ahead of her, turning down an alley that led back in the direction of the river, then into a narrow path between the backs of buildings that must have looked sinister even before the Spellplague struck.
"Is this safe?" she asked, trying not to pant.
"At the moment, yes. An hour or two later, and we'd be in trouble. The worst creatures only come out at dusk."
They entered another alley, turned left onto a wide street, took a short-cut via a crumbling builder's yard, and hurried out onto the mouth of what she initially assumed was a road, for both sides of it were lined with shrines, altars and miniature temples. Only when she caught a glimpse of the dolphin-patterned balustrade did she realise she was on a bridge. Coloured ribbons and unburnt incense still decorated the shrine that she chose as a support while she recovered her breath. Marcus had set a pace more suited to horses than gnomes. Boots of speed. I'm going to ask Bern for boots of speed.
"Is is—" she began, and swallowed the word far as Marcus put his fingers to his lips, and pointed.
There were two figures at the other end of the bridge, both about to step down onto the opposite bank. The one on the left was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a striking turquoise shield slung over his back. The one on the right was much smaller, and more delicate. They were holding hands.
Marcus beckoned her, and together they began to traverse the bridge, stopping frequently so that they did not alert the couple to their presence. Peedie reached for her ring of invisibility, for the knight and his mistress were deep in conversation, and she wanted to know what they were saying. But Marcus caught her wrist, and gave a small shake of the head. Despite his waifish feed-me-now look, he was strong.
After the bridge, a path led up to a space in a wall of soft rose-hued sandstone. A gate might once have occupied the space, but there was nothing left of it now. Beyond the absent gate, there was packed earth, dead trees, upended paving stones, and, as the natural conclusion of the bridge and the path, the blackened, broken remains of a tower. Six of its storeys were somewhat intact; Peedie had no idea how tall it had been originally. Dead ivy and the black twigs of skeletal creepers still clung to the tower's southern side.
It was towards this tower that Casavir and Elanee were walking. Marcus caught Peedie's eye, and led her closer. With the sandstone wall screening them, they were able to watch as the couple halted at the base of the tower. Frustratingly, it still wasn't possible to hear what they were saying. It was something of great interest to both of them, for the pale knight's cheeks were flushed with excitement, and the elf woman's eyes didn't leave his face for a moment.
Peedie forgot about her invisibility ring as Casavir wound his hand through Elanee's hair and leant down. The bulk of his armoured torso obscured the details, but she thought that they were kissing. Well, either they were kissing, or he was carrying out a surgical examination of the elf's mouth with his tongue. She wondered if they would be doing this for long. Kissing and so on, as far as she was concerned, was like writing: fun to do yourself, but dull to watch. Judging by the services on offer in the Undercellar, she was alone in that preference, and not only as regards kissing.
Finally, they seemed to be done. Elanee re-emerged from behind Casavir, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling as if she'd been running, and not leaning against a knight built like a golem. She took his hand, and held it pressed to her heart, while reaching the fingers of her left hand out towards the wall of the old tower. At first, nothing happened, and Peedie wondered if this was yet another weird Neverwinter custom.
"Look again," Marcus whispered.
Green stems were winding up the walls of the tower. They were growing rapidly. Already, they were more than halfway to the jagged top, wrapping themselves round the dead ivy and black twigs like sweet peas growing up a garden trellis. Green leaves and buds and new branches opened and spread, obscuring the masonry, obscuring the dead plants that they clung to.
On the ground too everything was changing. Grass rose from the packed earth, and amongst the grass there were wildflowers of every colour, and saplings, and blossoming herbs. One of the ash-black trees collapsed with a groan and a sigh. No sooner was it on the floor than mosses were creeping over the old timber, and plants that she didn't know the names of sprouted in the lea of the rotten trunk.
By then, the climbing plants had met on the tower's summit. Thousands of pink wild roses covered the south-west wall, while the small white flowers bloomed in a web of briar on the south-eastern side. At the base, human knight and elf woman laughed and marvelled, as if they had been plunged into a dream.
Peedie didn't do giddy since it got in the way of deadlines, but she had to remind herself of that several times as she followed Marcus back to the Dolphin Bridge. He leant against the first large parapet he came to. A swirl of blue lichen was whorling across the marble, making patterns like the sea on damp sand. Yellow poppies flowered where the bridge met the land.
On the salt wind, she thought she detected the scent of roses, the intense perfume that she associated most powerfully with the roof gardens of the Ducal Palace. Uktar roses. Well, there was a thing. But then, she was in Neverwinter, after all. If anywhere was allowed to have roses in winter, it was here. Biting the sleeve of her coat, she fought with a fit of giggles, and just managed to keep control of herself.
"It's spreading to the docks," said Marcus. Following his gaze, she saw that he was right: patches of green were appearing on roofs and in the gutters of the houses. The growth was not fast or complete enough to turn the district into a branch of the Neverwinter Wood, but was still proceeding confidently, compensating for its absence during three barren years. Perhaps the northernmost of the quayside statues was even now being swathed in green leaves and new blossom.
"For the first time in my life, I've got no idea what I'm going to write," said Peedie. "Well, not where I'm going to start or finish, anyway. I've got the material. Lots of it."
"You're not going to write anything that harms Casavir and Elanee's privacy," said Marcus. He was resting his back against the parapet, arms folded, eyes closed. He looked exhausted.
"I'll try not to," said Peedie, a little bemused that the seer would bring her to her quarry, and then start setting conditions. "But it's not going to be—"
"—no, I mean that you will not harm their privacy. I've seen it. That's how things will be." The young man gave a tired grin. A new green shoot started to wind round his ear until he flicked it aside.
"If you say so."
"I do."
"Then can you tell me something?"
"Go on." A line appeared between his eyes. Peedie realised that he was letting her ask her question out of politeness rather than necessity. He knew the idea of it already.
"Is there going to be a happily ever after? Our readers like those." Peedie liked them too, although, as she and Bern took turns reminding each other, what they personally liked came a long way down their list of concerns when they decided what to publish.
"That's a very big question for a very minor prophet," said Marcus. He paused, and sighed. "And it all depends on what you think has to take place for there to be a happily ever after. For Casavir and Elanee to marry in the hall of Castle Never and have three sons and three daughters? For the compromise treaty to work and provide the city with a ceremonial king and ruling council that lasts for more than one human generation? For all the sinners amongst the delegates to be struck by lightning or sent into exile? For nothing bad to happen ever again?"
In the midst of his tiredness, amusement and sorrow shone in his thin face. The part of Peedie that belonged to her mother felt guilty for putting more strain on him. But the young man had chosen to come here, and she had to know. It was her vocation.
"Well, this is the Sword Coast," she said. "I think we can safely strike the last possibility." She swatted away a rose that was trying to make love to her elbow. "What about Casavir and Elanee?"
Marcus looked back up the path. Honeysuckle lay in flounces over the sandstone wall, and an apple tree, flowering and fruiting at the same time, blocked the view back to the tower. He bit his lip, his gaze unfocused. "I think that…according to my standards…and for a while, at least….they will get their happily ever after."
Happily ever after for a while was as much as anyone could expect. Peedie grinned. "Can I quote you on that?"
