Part Six – Bhaalspawn

70 – Reunions

"In at least some small manner all parents will ruin their children and all children will fail their parents." –Ertubas, a Chessentan philosopher

Uktar 23, 1368 D.R.

So many hours spent in tedium, pouring over ancient accounts and burial records of the Shoon Imperium. So many words and figures passing –and blurring– before his eyes that Edwin had to clench them shut more and more; had to keep his chin down lest his gaze and then his mind begin to wander. It all made for quite a bleary afternoon, but it also all evaporated in an instant when a single name jumped out at him, there upon the unfurled scroll.

His heart skipped a beat, and then he turned to one of his open books, flipping it back a few pages and hastily scanning the lines with a fingernail. Now where…yes! The same name! "Ah ha!" Edwin whispered sharply, fingertip tapping the passage before him. But the instant that triumphant hiss had passed his lips he regretted it.

Already too late. He heard the rustle of the witch's dress as she rose and slipped around the table they had been sharing. Blast! Bending over his book, Edwin pondered slamming the covers shut (No, too conspicuous) or perhaps explaining that one of the random words he had stumbled upon was simply funny to a speaker of Mulhorandi (Yes, that could wor-)

His posture stiffened and his eyes went wide when he felt a very generous bosom press against his shoulders. A lock of dark, wavy hair tickled his cheek as the witch leaned in, peering over his head. "Thou hast made a discovery then?" she asked in a casual tone. She smelled faintly of lavender.

The book closed with a resonant wump. "Nothing of consequence," Edwin lied. He turned slightly (Act casual!) and then found himself instinctively leaning away from her serene (and uncomfortably close) face.

Her brow was furrowed with mock-confusion. "Oh?" she teased. "Then the artifact that fascinates thee so is not ensconced in a tomb beneath the Amnish capitol? That is the conclusion one would draw from reading the passages that were opened."

Gritting his teeth, Edwin shimmied off the chair and away from the witch, shooting to his feet. "So," he stated, trying to regain some sense of control, "it's a race to Athkatla then? This was your plan all along? Duping me into uncovering the Nether Scroll's location for you? (Very clever.)"

Dynaheir just let out a haughty chuckle and crossed her arms beneath her ample chest (Blast! She wants to draw your eyes there doesn't she? Both with her body language and the openness of those dresses she always wears. Look anywhere else, you fool! And think of Thayvian tax laws and algebra problems and…)

"I've no intent to journey south," the witch stated calmly. "I swear that, by the Three. Thine quest for the scroll is thine own."

"That simply makes no sense," Edwin countered. "Why, in all the heavens, hells, and everywhere in between, would you help me –your avowed enemy– secure any sort of power?"

Infuriatingly, she smiled her knowing smile and took a closer step. "Tis simple enough. It suits mine interests for thee to leave in search of something that does not involve mine imminent demise." Reaching out, she gently placed a hand upon his shoulder, and this time Edwin stood firm. She obviously wanted him to cringe away, and thus he would not. "And I must admit that I enjoy placing thee upon a peaceful path. One of study and discovery, rather than conquest."

"Ah. I take it I am about to receive the 'I see the good in you' speech?"

She smiled up at him. "I shall not go that far. Thy devilishness has a certain sort of charm, after all." And with that she winked, withdrew her hand, and sauntered off towards the maze of bookshelves.

Edwin struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Did she just…did that actually…what? He was sorely tempted to pinch himself, feeling almost as if he were back in the academy on Thaymount (the piles and piles of books were certainly similar.) Among the competing students seduction was an oft-used weapon, and Edwin had dodged a dangerous liaison or two in his time. (Dangerous not in a scandalous sense, but in the sense that if you followed the wrong young woman into a secluded spot you might find yourself groping and kissing a conjured serpent.)

But this sort of flirtation from a wychlaran?! Edwin had studied his enemies well, and by all accounts the Hathran were honorable to a fault. In none of the lore had there been as much as a whisper of one of them using her feminine charms to gain an advantage over an enemy. What sort of game was this witch playing?

Or…hmm.

Really, would it be so absurd if the woman were simply showing an honest interest? He had to admit that pouring over scrolls and books with her had not been entirely unpleasant, and she had seemed to be genuinely amused by some his observations, especially about the glaring faults of old Netheril. Completely irrational of course: to feel some sort of attraction to a man who had masterminded your capture and nearly your death. But when were women ever rational?

And although he had devoted a lot of thought to the best strategy for a spell-duel with the witch, perhaps a different sort of conquest-

Bah! Scowling, Edwin gave his head a vigorous shake, hoping that all the ridiculous delusions would just rattle out. Foolishness itself! Again he opened the book before him, rereading the records of the Shoon Imperium in its prime and trying his best not think of Rashemi witches, with their long lashes and large, sleepy brown eyes.

A long time later Edwin finally closed his books, rubbed his eyes, and stood. He was satisfied (as best as one could be on such sparse information) that the scroll (or at least a clue as to its current whereabouts) could be found in a tomb somewhere in Athkatla.

Dreamily, he made his way past the rows of books and down the winding stairs, but soon the sight of vivid purple and gold stopped him in his tracks, blinking. She's still out and about? The witch was leaning against a bookshelf, her head bowed close to some monk, whispering.

Surprising, though Edwin supposed that he just couldn't get away from the witch. What was more surprising (and annoying) was the sudden swell of anger in his breast when he glanced at the big, broad man the witch was chatting with. Taller than any monk he had ever seen, the man was dressed in brown robes (not one of the avowed then, but some devotee of Oghmah who had come here on pilgrimage), his face hidden by his hood.

Before Edwin could look away Dynaheir caught his eye, shooting him a smile and a wave. He turned his head sharply, only to find the annoying giant looming at his other side. No escape!

"Red wizard!" the idiot boomed, matching his steps. "Good! Minsc is famished, and would love some company for eveningfeast. That is where you are heading?"

"I am retiring, yes." They walked through the library. "And of course I will enjoy some supper."

"Minsc wonders what good Winthrop will serve us tonight!"

"The exact thing he serves every night," Edwin huffed. "Beef and tuber stew. With some toasted bread and cheese if we ask, along with pickled fish (I will not ask for that!)"

"But Edwin does enjoy the stew."

He turned to glare at the oaf, then paused and thought a moment. "Enjoy? Yes. The fat little innkeep here has a talent for cooking. Everything melts in your mouth, without turning to paste beforehand, and the spices are pleasant enough. Better than the other so-called cooks I have encountered in this land; their fare is either mush or the base components of a meal thrown, unassembled, upon a plate."

Minsc gave a hearty laugh of agreement.

And there it was: sprawled out upon the broad plateau above the sheer cliffs and backlit by the setting sun. The citadel. It's conical towers reached up into the gold-blue sky, low at first, in the great outer ring, then higher and higher with each tiered level of the fortress-monastery itself.

Home. Candlekeep looked exactly as Ashura remembered it, eternal and somehow separate from the world at large. With each trot she drew closer, the narrow causeway sloping gently before her and the air thick with the scent of brine. Far below waves crashed against the rocks.

"That stony path does appear a fine place to stage an ambush," Viconia observed, her voice a low whisper. "Provided we can find somewhere to hide. Tis too open here for my liking."

"Yeah," Ashura agreed. "Maybe Xan, Imoen, and Garrick can pool their skills with illusions. Disguise us as rocks or something at either end of the causeway, then when Rieltar and his people are halfway across we charge in and knock his guards off the cliff." Her hand slipped down to the satchel at her hip. "First things first though. We have this book to show off."

They continued up the path across the natural bridge, gradually climbing towards the plateau. Xan sat especially stiff in his saddle as they went, occasionally glancing down at the surf and rocks below. "It helps not to look down," Imoen pointed out.

"I wish someone had told me that earlier," Xan muttered.

"Also helps to always have a featherfall spell handy."

Xan made himself as straight as he could and gripped his saddle horn. "Personally I prefer to just keep both feet firmly on the ground."

Gradually the causeway widened, spilling out onto a small field of open dirt before the fortress gate. A man in heavy plate stood sentinel there at the narrow entrance, poised as straight and still as a statue, his well-polished halberd planted in the dirt. He wore no helmet, and Ashura was fairly certain that she recognized him.

She squinted. Hm. Shelton? That salted brown hair, clean jaw, and gruff, overly-round face: yeah, it was definitely Shelton on shift today as Keeper of the Portal. And although he first appeared stiff and stern, the big man's grimace melted and his poleaxe slackened a bit when he realized who was approaching.

"Dear gods!" The Keeper exclaimed. "Is that really little Imoen?"

"Indeed it is!" Imoen called back, taking the lead and smoothly slipping down from the back of her horse. She then cleared the distance between herself and the guard in three titanic skips, stopping just sort of colliding with him and instead placing her hands against his breastplate. "Shelton! My good man! I'd give you a big hug, but…the metal suit and all."

With a laugh the guard carefully laid his gauntleted hand upon the girl's shoulder. "True. Not a costume designed for hugs." Again he chuckled. "Never thought I'd see your likes again. You coming home?"

"Here for a visit. You know the rules and such."

"Ah." He seemed to remember himself then, a hint of stone returning to his face. "Of course."

Imoen pointed over her shoulder. "Ashura's here too. And we've been good little girls and brought the customary book and everything."

The Keeper looked the rest of the party over, and when Ashura nodded at him he finally gave her a look of recognition, despite the helm and chainmail. "Ah. Good to see you lass."

With a nod and a smile Ashura began to dismount, though she was a bit more cautious about it than Imoen. Even if she had been the sort to bounce and bound around, the abdominal cramping that had been bothering her all day would have put a stop to that. Once her feet were planted on the ground she drew Eltan's tome out of her bag and handed it over to the Keeper.

Shelton gently inspected the offering, turning it over and then opening it to a random page before closing the covers and handing it back. "Looks to be of value, yes. Though it will ultimately be up to Ulraunt to judge. Follow me." He turned and made a hand-signal to the inner guard, who began the procedure of raising the portcullis. "We'll get your horses stabled, then at least one of your party will need to be taken to the First Reader's offices. Just a formality, provided the book isn't full of blank pages."

"Ugh," Imoen complained. "So we really have to meet with Old Stick-in-the-Mud? You sure you can't make an exception?"

Shelton fought back a smile. "As uh…as Keeper of the Portal it is my advice to you, our honored guests, not to refer to the First Reader as 'Old Stick-in-the-Mud.' But uh…yes. Yes you do."

The gate was clear now, so they filed in behind the Keeper and passed, one by one, through the thick outer walls of the fortress, stepping onto familiar ground. The well-stamped dirt, the stone walls, the little whitewashed outbuildings, and the milling figures in their bright but simple robes; it was home, exactly as they had left it.

At the inner gate the Keeper handed them over to a different guard, saying that he would serve as their guide. Their guide, and another very familiar face. Hells, the boy had been standing in this very spot, trying to stay upright despite a hangover, the last time Ashura had seen him.

Hull's eyes went wide when he spotted them, alighting instantly on Ashura, and his plated armor clinked when he took a few steps closer. "Ash? Immy?!" For some silly reason Ashura had thought everyone would have aged or grown or shrunk in the time that she had been gone, but Hull looked exactly the same, right down to the length of his unruly brown hair. "Never in a million years did I think…you're back!"

Ashura just nodded and smiled. As with Shelton, steel armor and plate gauntlets kept the watcher from giving his long-lost friends a full embrace, though he seemed to sorely want to. Instead Hull placed a heavy hand against Ashura's shoulder. "Ash! It's so good to… When we found Gorion's body in the woods I thought you were dead too! Me and Fuller searched and searched, but…" He looked a little hurt. "And you never even said that you were going. Just threw your sword at me that morning and then…poof!"

Ashura looked down. "It was kind of sudden. Dad just said we had to leave, right there and then. Then we were ambushed that night."

"Oh." A pause. "I thought you'd come knocking on the door or send a letter or something…if…the wolves hadn't got you…"

"Sorry. There were wolves. And a lot more. It's been a…pretty busy year."

"I suppose so." He gave her a quick inspection. "And look at you. In a fine suit of chainmail. And carrying a gilded sword. That's enchanted armor, right?"

"It is."

"Well, good to see you've at least made well for yourself, kid."

Kid. There was a hint of the old condescension in Hulls voice at that, though he still had a wide smile on his face. She let it slide. "Good to see you haven't changed," she said, and meant it, clapping his armored shoulder and smiling back.

"You are to lead us to the First Reader then?" Xan put in impatiently.

"Guess I am," Hull chuckled, still looking to Ashura. "I suppose you and Immy know the way to his office."

"I tried to avoid it as much as possible," Imoen insisted.

"Yeah. We all do." Realizing what he'd just said, Hull straightened up a little and looked sheepish, then turned slightly. "I'll guide you to the stables first. Dreppin'll be pleased to see you." They started through the yard.

"Is old Nessa still giving him milk?" Imoen asked. "I remember you were worried…"

"Oh, aye. Aye. Took a while, but that concoction my mother used to make did the trick." Slowly they wound around the inner wall, walking their horses along the dusty track while Hull and Imoen talked and talked, making an effort to catch up.

Soon it was mostly Imoen doing the talking, the Watcher simply nodding while his eyes periodically bulged wide at some of more outlandish details. "How in the world do you even fight something that can turn into mist?" he eventually asked.

"With a lot of persistence! Just a shame it didn't turn into mist when it died. It nearly flattened poor Shura. Now the sirines, they had the courtesy to turn into sea-foam after you killed 'em."

"Sirines? Really?"

The ramshackle sprawl of the stables and the overhangs that served as cattle pens soon came into view, and as usual Dreppin was hard at work in front of them, bent forward with a pitchfork spreading hay. Hull gave the big, broad-shouldered stable master a friendly shout as they approached. "Got some horses that need tending," he announced with a grin. "For our special guests here."

Dreppin turned their way, and he looked about the same as ever: a weathered and square-faced man somewhere in his thirties, black hair sticking out every-which-way and no effort made to tame it. Muscular, friendly, quick with a joke and easy on the eyes, Dreppin had always been a favorite among some of the women of the Keep. Jokes and rumors (some unfounded and some not) about 'rolls in the hay' abounded around him. The one feature missing today, though, was his usual ivory-toothed smile. Instead he looked a bit distracted, nodding his head all businesslike. "Of course," Dreppin grunted, then turned back towards the stable gate.

"Um," Imoen hummed. "Hey!" She punctuated the greeting with a clap. "Dreppy? That any way to greet the girl that got Lightning and Balor calm enough fer ya to shoe 'em?"

Looking back, Dreppin peered at her a bit more. He still looked a little confused.

"You said you'd be in my eternal debt and-"

"Ah!" That big gleaming smile finally burst across the stable master's face. "If it ain't little Imoen!" Laughing, he rushed over to clap her on the arm. "Hardly recognized you!"

Hull chuckled. "She does seem to have lost a little weight."

"Ugh. Yeah," Imoen muttered. "Don't I know it! Too much walking; and let me tell ya, there ain't much good eatin' to be had around a campfire in the middle of nowhere."

"Hopefully Winthrop can fix that," Hull suggested.

"Ha! Yup. Once he's done scolding my ear off…"

By then Dreppin's two assistants had appeared, ready to take the horses to their stalls to be watered and brushed. When it came Ashura's turn to hand over the reins she offered them directly to Dreppin, who just gave her a stiff nod. She cleared her throat at him, he cocked his head, and then once again recognition brightened his face. "Oh. You're…well I'll be a ogres ass! Ash! Most of us thought you had…after they found Gorion…" He cringed and shook his head. "Sorry. I didn't recognize you in all that armor."

"I've been getting that," Ashura said. "I'm sure Phlydia won't remember me at all. But then again she never did."

Dreppin just nodded and took the horse off her hands, patting its snout when it let out a nervous whinny.

After a little conferring, Imoen and Ashura left the others to finish with the horses and the unpacking, following Hull around the great ring of the outer fortress and through one of the interior gates. From there they climbed up the garden paths of the inner grounds, walked between the bubbling fountains, and then mounted the steps and entered the hushed halls of the Keep proper.

Inside the lighting was the same as it had always been, night or day, now or a year or ten years ago. No time had passed here at all, and the marble visage of Alaundo the Wise looked down upon the visitors, just as enigmatic as always and tightly clutching his book. The low murmur of chanting hummed through the halls and the crisp smell of parchment filled the air.

Hull was careful to minimize the clinking of his platemail as he led the guests between rows and rows of shelves, towards the suite of offices that occupied one end of the keep's lowest and widest story. The office of the First Reader stood prominently between the rest, its double doors far wider and more ornate. When Hull reached them he raised a mailed fist and made a move to knock, but then he paused, turning back to whisper: "I'm glad you two are okay. Really. And Ash…well, sorry if I was maybe a bit of a…"

Imoen opened her mouth to fill in the blank, but Ashura beat her to it. "Nothing to be sorry for. Glad you're alive too," she said with a smile. "What with your dangerous post and all."

He chuckled. "The boredom hasn't killed me yet."

"Or the hangovers?"

"With the watered down stuff Winthrop serves? No way." He turned back towards the door. "Just good to see you again." And with that he gave the wood a quick, careful knock.

The gruff reply from the other side was immediate. "Yes?"

"Got a party of pilgrims here, carrying the customary gift."

There was an irritated grunt from the other side of the door. "Eh. Show them in then."

Ulraunt was hunched over his desk as usual, his long and carefully groomed beard hovering just above the pages of the book before him. It seemed that he had been writing on those pages; one gnarled hand was braced near the inkpot, gripping a reed pen. As always he was dressed all in spotless white, accented here and there by the gold and gemstones of his enchanted jewelry, his dusky skin a contrast to his beard, long white hair, and robes. His hooded eyes spared the visitors the briefest of glances before he went back to his book and raised his pen…

…then, with an intake of air and a genuine start, the old buzzard looked up again. "You!" he muttered at Ashura, eyes sharpening upon her. Then he turned to Imoen. "And you." The book instantly forgotten, he planted his fists on the table and glared. "I had hoped to never set eyes on either of you again." That glare focused fully on Imoen. "Suppose I need to go back to opening my door with the utmost caution and checking my desk very carefully if you're going to be here. And should I seek out a poison taster, again?"

"Hey! That wasn't poison," Imoen protested. "It was just supposed to be real spicy. And I thought you Halruuan's were used to spicy stuff! (So maybe I went a little overboard. And I might have used a little something from Obe's alchemical collection for an extra kick…)"

"Everything tasted like soap for days! What kind of 'spice' does that?"

"The funny kind!" He didn't laugh. "Sorry. And hey, that was years ago-"

"Yeah," Ashura spoke up. "We're just here on business."

His eyes shifted to her, and to Ashura's surprise Ulraunt's glare seemed to grow even harsher. She understood why the old man might be upset with Imoen even after all this time, but what had she ever done to him? "And what 'business' is it that you're in now?" the old buzzard asked with a sneer. "I can hazard a guess."

Gods. What was with that look of his? Business? Was he accusing her of taking up whoring or something? "Uh. The usual business of the library. We're here with a book." She lifted the tome out of her satchel, clinching it between her palms and trying to resist the sudden urge to just slam it down hard as she could on the desk. "The entrance fee." She carefully laid the book down.

Ulraunt shook his head slightly. "You're no scholar. You never have been. So why in Oghma's name do you wish to enter this place?"

"Uh, we grew up here," Imoen cut in with a huff. "Our friends live here. Family too. Pretty normal to –ya know– want to visit them."

The old buzzard closed his own book and slid it aside, reaching out to carefully take his new gift. First he turned the manual over and over in his hands, eventually prying the covers apart and opening it to a random page. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken a minute later by the rustle of a page. Then another. "Hm. There are enchantments here." Another page was gently turned. "Quality script and bindings too. And vivid colors in both the headings and illuminations." He closed the covers –paused a moment. "Whose corpse did you lift this off of?"

Ramazith's. "It was given to us by a grand duke," Ashura said.

Ulraunt cocked his head a degree, and Ashura thought she heard a faint buzzing in the air. "A true statement. Hm. Though it's only a small piece of the truth isn't it?"

She gave him a level gaze, waiting for probing questions rather than rhetorical ones. But eventually Ulraunt just took a breath and inclined his head. "Very well. By the rules of the Keep you and whatever party of servants you brought may stay the customary tenday, with access to the standard sections of the library." That full glare again. "But the moment the week is up I want you all out. If you don't leave sooner, which would be my preference."

"We'll be gone as soon as we can," Ashura agreed. And with that she began to turn around, suddenly as eager as her childhood-self to be away from that accusing glare; that look she remembered catching from the First Reader countless times. Fretting over a book, playing in the mud, building forts with Imoen and Lyda, or racing with Shistal; it seemed he had given her that same look each and every time that he passed by and noticed her. She remembered it, but now it seemed ten times stronger than when she was a child. The air in here was too heavy. Too thick with his authority and his contempt and…

And she was no longer a child. Halfway around Ashura stopped herself, nostrils drawing in a deep breath, and then she whirled back and leveled a searing glare of her own at the old man. "Wait. I understand with Ims, but why do you hate me so much? What in the Hells did I ever do to you?"

"To me?" His voice was low. "Nothing. But your father was a friend of mine, and you destroyed him."

A sudden heat flared up inside her. She stiffened. "I…I never…" How dare you! "I saw him murdered in front of me! The night we left." The edge of her vision suddenly clouded, and it felt like steam was gathering there in her eyes, her voice instantly raw. "I wanted to fight. He told me to run. I wanted to save him, but…"

She had stood there in awe of the ogres and the armored giant of a man –fight or flight– until that bolt of fire came hissing in. Burning pain in her shoulder that spun her around –spun her into action too. 'Run!' he had shouted.

Ulraunt ignored what she had said. His mind seemed to be elsewhere; not in that clearing on that night, certainly. "I told your foster father, when he first brought you here: 'That's not your child. She may look like someone you loved, but you are not her father. And mark my words: that child will be the death of you.' And I was right. He was a dead man even then."

"He lived-"

"Did he?" Still low, almost a whisper, but there was fury in his voice now. "Did he?! Withering away up here, hidden from the world? Pretending at a family he'd never truly have? Pining for a dead woman, and trying to tame a beast that he called 'daughter.' You never knew the man I did, before all of that. That night he brought you two in it seemed he'd aged ten years within a month. The Harper mage who had straddled the world, with such power and potential –who had done so much! More good than you can possibly imagine! And he was just a husk. And as the years went by, and you proved to be everything I predicted you would be, he just grew more and more withered.

"Then -also just as I had predicted- his true end came. And all because of you."

Ashura clinched her teeth. "I didn't kill my father."

"Your nature did, Bhaalspawn. You know the prophesies. You are a curse to all around you."

She couldn't control her breaths. Her vision swam and the back of her throat chafed. Her face burned and there was ice in her veins.

And she could see Gorion's face now, right there, clear as day. Withered away. The sad-eyed old man she'd always called father, with that wistful look upon his face. Disappointed. He had locked himself away up here in this monastery. And she had taken him for granted all her life. And now he was…and had she ever told him…

This old buzzard before her –this bastard who had called her a beast! He was right. He was right and he was glaring at her across his desk with all the arrogance in the world!

Muscles in her arm twitched, and then Ashura's eyes shifted down to find that she was gripping the hilt of Varscona, sweaty-palmed and white-knuckled. How long had she been holding onto it? Not in this place. Not in this place. She made herself breathe, and eased her fingers loose, one by one. No. Not in this place. I won't prove-

"Now that our business is all squared away," Imoen suddenly announced in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice, "we'd better get back to the others! Right Shura? Good idea, eh?"

All the heat and rawness just went away, and the blur of Ashura's vision went from steam to a cool mist. A fog. And what Imoen said absolutely sounded like a lovely idea. "Yeah," she muttered, and when Imoen patted her arm Ashura just let herself be guided out towards the office door.

"You know you prove my point," Ulraunt stated to their backs, "by doing that."

"Yeah?" Imoen replied, turning. "Well you can just bugger off, ya big puffed up pocket o' hateful old pus!" For emphases she added the most obscene gesture she had in her (considerable) repertoire to the insult, roughly three degrading sex-acts somehow implied all at once by the pantomimed motions, along with a peeled-back eyelid and an ugly noise.

"Enjoy your tenday. And leave as soon as you can."

The door shut behind them and the library passed by in a blur. In no time they were standing in the cool, open air at the top of the steps, and then as suddenly as it had arrived the fog that had come over Ashura abated. She found herself blinking in confusion and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You charmed me," she eventually stated.

"Sorry," Imoen murmured sheepishly. "Really. I lifted it soon as I could, but…"

"Don't be. It's okay." Ashura shook her head, looking down at the swords belted at her hip. Chainmail clinked as she sat down hard on the top step, bending forward to place her face in her hands. Soon they were wet with tears.

"I didn't think you were gonna' prove Ulraunt right or anything," Imoen said softly –and not very convincingly– as she sat down too. "But it seemed like the quickest way out of there."

But Ulraunt had been right. Not in the way that Imoen meant (Not here! She would not draw her sword here), but at least about her father. 'That child will be the death of you.' 'Bhaalspawn.'

That word meant little more than a mild confirmation, of course. She had figured out that she was a child of Bhaal a good while ago. And that father- er, her foster father, had taken her here to protect her; to raise her away from all the violence and death that had been prophesized.

And she had been an ungrateful, horrible little brat the whole time. It had never occurred to her how much he had sacrificed –or why he had always tried to steer her towards books and away from swords. She had never thought to ask. Never tried. And now she never could. He was buried in the crypts beneath them, after dying for his daughter. Despite all that she was and what she had done…and failed to do.

She'd never be able to ask him. Or to tell him what she wanted to say right now…

All the gods damn him at once, Ulraunt had been right!

Tremors shook Ashura as she sobbed, curled up there on the top step. Instantly she felt Imoen's presence against her, an arm over her shoulder and squeezing as hard possible in a gesture of silent comfort. They stayed like that a long, long time –forever, it felt like– as the fountains trickled, twilight set in, and the tears just flowed and flowed.