Author's Note: A warning that the next few chapters will revolve around doppelgangers acting like the horror-movie monsters that they are. So expect some backstabbing, plot-twists, and paranoia.

72 - Revelations

"Cross not a librarian, for they hold the keys to all lore." - old Faerûnian saying

The sound of scraping stone filled Edwin's ears. Quite irritating, but preferable, he supposed, to the sensation of his windpipe being crushed.

His pulse hammered away and there was a close, claustrophobic pressure against his throat as the creature tried to strangle him, but he managed to swallow one breath after the next. If his face had not been paralyzed he would have shot the creature a mocking smile.

The elder doppelganger had anticipated almost everything –played him like a cheap harp, one might even say– but at least it had not counted on Edwin's contingency spell. For the moment a layer of stone protected his skin, and they stood at an impasse. It even seemed that there was a tinge of frustration in the creature's beady amphibian eyes. Difficult to tell.

By Edwin's estimation the paralytic spell, delivered by a mage as powerful as Dynaheir, could last well over ten minutes, which would give the shapeshifter plenty of time to figure out a different means of murder. But the spell could be overcome with sufficient will. Focus Odesseiron! Focus! You survived worse trials than this on Thaymount!

The pressure against Edwin's neck slackened, one of the creature's ropey hands slipping off and then slinking away. That arm stretched out and with a ripple its fingers flowed together, narrowing until the hand and arm became a single sharpened edge. A living blade.

Come on! Move your hands! Edwin focused all his efforts there, trying to make a single finger twitch. If he could just move his hands and lips he could throw a blast of acid right in the creature's face.

"It appears," the doppelganger stated in its cold, toneless voice, "that I will need to make a mess here-"

Wood snapped and crashed on the other side of the room, just out of Edwin's field of vision, and a familiar voice boomed over the shapeshifter's. "Unhand the wizard, vile creature!"

Fluid and swift, the shifter turned its shoulders and head, flowing into the form of the witch once again. The sword-like arm remained, hovering in the air and ready to strike at Edwin, and 'Dynaheir' spoke in a sweetened tone: "What creature doth thou speak of?"

How transparent, talking like that and not even bothering to fully transform. It seemed the doppelganger was counting on the baboon's innate stupidity, though that was not a bad bet, in Edwin's opinion. He continued to focus his will into a single finger, trying to make it twitch.

"Surely thou-" the 'witch' spoke again, but she was cut off by a deep roar that echoed through the room. It came in the form of one word, shouted with all the fury that only a trained Rashemi berserker could channel, rattling the windows and making even the elder doppelganger take a step back.

"MON-STER!" Minsc bellowed, and then a streak of steel and muscle entered Edwin's vision and collided with the creature wearing Dynaheir's face. The shifter managed to catch Minsc's overhanded slash with its arm-blade, parrying, though the ridged flesh of its limb parted a bit from the blow and flecks of black ichor dribbled down. It gave ground, flowing and dancing backward as it fully returned to Dynaheir's shape.

That didn't placate Minsc one bit. He had his eyes focused on the monster, and there was no other thought to it. He swung, it ducked low under the whistling steel, and then another blinding slash forced the creature to jump and hobble, a shallow gash opening across its stomach and splattering the floor with more black blood.

'Dynaheir' flung her hands forward and intoned something quick and sharp at the berserker, the air quivering before her and the whole room suddenly shaking with a thunder-clap. It almost knocked Edwin's stiff body over, and he cringed at the sound: a sonic attack, obviously.

Normally such a spell would have someone clapping their hands at their ears and screaming in pain, but Minsc just staggered back a step. He was shaking it off when 'Dynaheir' backed fully against the bedroom window.

Minsc recovered and lifted his greatsword up again as the shifter's arms blurred and turned into blades, but instead of attacking the berserker it pushed backwards, the window behind it exploding in a shower of wood and glass. It then leaned back and simply fell through the gap it had created, disappearing, and without hesitation Minsc howled and charged, leaping through the window after his foe.

The creature will not be damaged by the fall, Edwin realized, having no bones. A clever manner of retreat, given a normal foe. Of course Edwin remembered exactly how effective a great fall was against that hardheaded madman.

Alone in the room now, he again tried to focus on breaking the spell. But time ticked away without him so much as twitching. Bah!

Eventually his attempts where interrupted by another intruder, streaking in like a comet of violet and pink. She dashed heedlessly into his field of vision and looked him over, bending forward. "What's all this ruckus about?" the girl asked. When Edwin failed to answer she cocked her head and inspecting him some more, reaching out and giving him a poke.

Bah! Deduce what has occurred from your surroundings, imbecile!

The round little innkeep came waddling in not too far behind the girl, and Edwin waited for the predictable, droll joke the man would inevitably make, fighting on against the paralysis. Yet the little innkeeper remained silent.

In the meantime the spritely girl had turned towards the shattered window. She bent down, peering out. "Sheesh! You threw Minsc out didn't you? Again!" Whirling, she stomped her foot. "I just knew it! I knew you'd get up to your old tricks! But Dynaheir froze you huh? So where is she?"

Behind her the fat little man stayed silent, and there was a strangely serene look on his face, rather than his usual mirth. Shouldn't he be joining in with a joke? But he just seemed to be standing there above his-

Odd, Edwin realized. Winthrop was a diminutive little man, nearly as short as his adopted daughter, yet now he seemed to be looming over her. Almost…stretching.

No! Definitely! The little man was stretching and pulling something between his balled fists. A garrote rope! Edwin tried to lean in and forward, fighting his paralysis, while Imoen just gave him a curious look. Notice, damn it!

Good. She seemed to see that Edwin was twitching.

Bad though, that the doppelganger behind her lunged and sliced down with the rope, pressing it to her neck and then twisting it tightly before she could wriggle away.

Gorion's old chambers were exactly as Ashura had remembered them, utilitarian like most of the monk's quarters but stocked a bit better. Father had cherished his reference books and his writing implements, his desk piled high and cluttered, and the chair in front of it where he had spent the majority of his time was well-stuffed. The bedroom's single window overlooked the gardens, and above the bed hung a lush painting of an overgrown, sun-dappled forest. 'The Wealdath,' Gorion had once told her when she had asked about the picture. 'The great forest of the wild elves, to the south.'

With careful deliberation Tethtoril knelt beside the desk and eased a loose stone out of the wall. He then leaned close to the hidden cubbyhole, whispered a word, and reached in. A little rummaging, and then he pulled out a thick, sealed envelope. He then began to carefully right himself and rise, nodding appreciatively to Garrick when he slipped in to help the elderly man to his feet.

"Thank you young one," he told the bard, offering the envelope to Ashura. It was marked with her name. "We have not yet needed to use this space," the First Reader continued, pointing to the strongbox at the foot of the bed. "So your father's effects have been left untouched. I understand that he left something for you in that chest." With that the Tethtoril turned and quietly excused himself.

As Ashura sat down on the edge of the bed and broke the wax of the envelope Garrick gave her a nervous look. "Should I give you some…" he began, but she reached out and grasped his hand, dragging him to the bed beside her.

"Sit." She told him, pulling out the pile of papers contained in the envelope, along with a tiny silver key. "You can read it too, if you want. I trust you." Her eyes turned to the first page.

'My Child,

I hope that you are reading this after I have already explained all of the thorny details of your lineage and fostering, as I always promised you (and myself) that I would. It is possible, however, that I have not, or that I have perished before I had the chance. It has always been a very difficult subject, and I hope that by writing this down I can make it easier.

So, let us get right to the point. Your mother, as you have probably intuited, was very dear to me. Her name was Alianna Velnatch, an assassin in the employ of the Harpers for many years, and a priestess of Bhaal. Scandalous, some might think, but the Harpers have always utilized assassins when necessary, and your mother and I were partnered through many a mission.

The letter went on to tell the story of how Gorion and Alianna had met, both on the hunt for the same target, and then on into their many adventures along with Jaheira, Khalid, and various other Harpers and hirelings. There seemed to be a wistful tone to it all, detailing what were likely some of the happier times in the old sage's life. And delaying the more painful revelations, it seemed.

Alianna was also the mother of my only child. Your half-brother, I suppose, but unfortunately the babe was stillborn. Your mother and I drifted apart after that. I greatly regret not doing more to hold what I thought of as my family together, but there it is. She disappeared entirely at one point, and I thought she was gone for good, but she returned to Silverymoon a year later, visibly pregnant.

I would later learn that your father was…well, I wish there was an easier way to put this. Your father was the Lord of Murder himself. Bhaal.

Ashura read on, slow and deliberate, and the account grew terse and carefully worded. Alianna had disappeared again, and Gorion had wished to just let go, but eventually he was ordered by his superior's to track the priestess down, uncovering a temple of Bhaal that was hidden away in the Reaching Woods.

'You were far too young to remember, a babe of three we guessed, but at that temple you and several other Children of Bhaal were gathered to take part in an initiation ritual. There was a confrontation between our group of Harpers and the cultists, and a battle ensued. Your mother did not survive.'

Jaheira had mentioned something of that hadn't she? 'The last mission was an assault on a temple of Bhaal. Grim business that. They were sacrificing children.' Ashura read on.

'The temple was badly damaged in the battle, and we were forced to make a quick escape, but we managed to rescue two of the Bhaalspawn children in the process, both toddlers of roughly the same age. You were one of them, and the other…'

Her eyes widened. Oh gods.

'…is the fellow orphan who has always been at your side within these halls. Your sister in truth. Imoen is a child of Bhaal.'

Nine bloody Hells! Her stomach suddenly tied in knots, Ashura laid the papers down in her lap. She knew the prophesies well enough, after studying them with Koveras. The Children of Bhaal, destined to slay each other.

Feldpost's Inn came flashing back to her. Imoen, blank-faced and under a charm, turning on her with her bow, point-blank. Ashura had been at a loss. That arrow had nearly killed her.

"You okay?" Garrick asked.

"No," Ashura whispered. Lifting the page, she read on.

Gasping loudly, Edwin finally lurched forward, rubbing his wrists and scowling. The girl was kicking wildly in front of him, voice cut off by the garrote rope and hoisted bodily by the towering, blank-faced creature behind her.

Still, by Edwin's estimation she had a few minutes left to live. An imperfect method of murder, strangulation. It takes so very long to carry out, and there are plenty of things that can go wrong in the process. Of course it was obvious why the face-shifters preferred to kill this way: it left less of a trace and kept the victim's clothing intact.

Watching the girl's feet wheel in the air, Edwin pondered his next move. Would it be more prudent to simply wait for the doppelganger to finish its work and then destroy it? This girl treated him as an enemy after all. On the other hand if he did save her life she would owe him, as would her companions. And allies would be useful if this citadel really was full of these damned things.

"Tempting to just leave you like this," Edwin stated, fingers twirling, "after the way you treated me earlier." He would rescue her, he decided, but he at least had to rub it in first.

Imoen had been struggling with the rope, but now her hands pulled away, one shooting down to her waist and managing to grasp the dagger there. At the same time she raised her other hand in front of her and turned it in Edwin's direction, raising a single finger in an obscene gesture common here in the Western Heartlands. Her dagger shot up from its sheath and she made an attempt to slice at the rope, but the creature shook her, throwing off her aim.

A little stream of blood trickled down the girl's cheek, though the rope frayed slightly. Determined, Imoen gripped the dagger tight and got ready to slice again.

Cringing, Edwin swiftly raised his hands and began a hasty incantation. It would be the worst possible outcome if the girl actually managed to rescue herself! Between his twirling fingers a green glow took shape, swiftly resolving into a bolt of sizzling acid. The girl was thrashing around a lot, but hopefully she wouldn't catch the spell or be splashed. (And if she ended up melting along with the doppelganger…oh well.)

Edwin's wrist flicked forward and the sizzling bolt streaked through the air, arcing slightly over the girl's head and cleanly splashing against the shapeshifter's face. The creature immediately let go and stumbled backwards, hands flying up only to be burned. The front portion of its head caved in a moment later, melting swiftly thanks to the metamagic that had empowered the spell, and then the shapeshifter simply collapsed in a floppy heap.

The girl was rubbing her bruised neck and coughing when Edwin stepped past her, looking down at the twitching grey thing. "Your time is done, invertebrate," he stated in a mocking tone.

"I'm not counting that as a rescue," Imoen finally managed to rasp out. "Would'a freed myself in a second."

"Bah!" Edwin scoffed, walking to the broken window and looking out. The false-witch and the berserker were gone, though there were smoking holes in dirt. Signs of battle. Whirling, Edwin started for the door.

The girl was standing over the dead shapeshifter now. "What in the Hells was that thing doing in my dad's clothes?" she rasped. "And with his…his face…"

"Probably stole them." (…from his corpse.) Edwin almost said the last part aloud, but restrained himself. Now that he had expended a spell to rescue the girl he needed her functional.

And who knew, perhaps the fat little innkeeper was still alive. There were more important matters at hand right now, however. "The leader of these doppelgangers is impersonating the Rashemi witch," Edwin explained. "It was the one that froze me, before the barbarian ran it off." He gestured. "Come! We must give chase."

'Shocking, I know,' Gorion's letter continued, 'that one as sunny and kind as your sister might carry such a dark secret in her blood. But it is a sign, I have always felt, that the two of you can lead lives as normal human women. Blood is not destiny, and there is nothing inherently evil about either of you.

'That being said, circumstances may soon force you to leave this safe, normal life I have tried to provide. One of your brothers has recently visited the citadel and discovered your presence here, though I have reason to believe he is unaware of Imoen. If he makes a move against you we will be forced to flee. I only hope that I have time to explain all of this to you in person.

'Regardless, know that I have always loved you, and that I kept much of this from you out of a need to protect. Overprotect, some might say, and I know you have always chafed at the life here in the citadel. I see much of your mother in you, child: headstrong and fierce.

'The key included with this letter will unlock my strongbox, where you will find some of Alianna's effects, left behind the last time she fled Silverymoon. Her cloak bears a powerful, protective enchantment, and it saw her through many a battle. Though I believe that when you look upon it you will realize why I was hesitant to give you this heirloom until now. What you do with it is your choice.

'All my love,

Gorion Adrian.'

A little puzzled, Ashura slipped off of the bed and bent over the chest that rested at its foot. The key slipped in smoothly and turned, and when she opened the strongbox and lifted the piece of fabric out of it she instantly saw what her father had meant. Alianna's old cloak was really more of a narrow cape, woven from soft silk but strengthened by enchantments. Gold and black, with a little red, the back of the cape clearly depicted the grinning skull and swirling tears of Bhaal's holy symbol.

She stood and stared at the cloak for a long time, eventually folding the fabric up and securing it under her belt. Next she examined the rest of the chest, pulling out what appeared to be Alianna's old jewelry box. There were earrings, bracelets, anklets, and a fine set of mahogany combs. Since Gorion had not mentioned it, she guessed that none of the jewelry was enchanted, but she slipped the box under her arm nonetheless.

She'd at least use the combs.

Racing down the stairs, through the taproom, and then out the door, Imoen barely avoided slamming into Edwin's back, skidding to a stop. The red mage had halted just past the threshold, stiff and tense.

"So where'd they go?" Imoen asked, glancing around. Should they take a left or a right around the great inner wall? Or had Minsc chased the creature through the inner gate?

Edwin raised a hand. "A conjured shadow should be able to track them. One moment and I shall-"

A sharp crack-BOOM that reverberated off the walls of the inner fortress cut him off, followed by a long, low rumble that Imoen felt in the soles of her feet. Edwin lowered his hand. "Or we can follow the sounds of destruction, I suppose." He started for the inner gate, working his way up to a brisk jog.

Taking off after the Thayan, Imoen swiftly overtook him thanks to her enchanted boots (and the fact that he seemed determined not to work up a sweat), unslinging her bow from her shoulder as she neared the gate. She went low as she zipped into the courtyard, on the lookout for more lightning bolts.

There was smoke rising from a shattered flower pot at the edge of one of the stone-lined gardens, along with scorch marks on the walkway. The giant Rashemi berserker stood above those, wisps rising from holes in his shoulder-guard, though he seemed more agitated than injured, his greatsword still thrust up into the air. "Give back Dynaheir's face, fiend!" he bellowed as he waved his blade, but his opponent –the Rashemi witch– floated far out of reach, hovering a good fifteen feet up in the air as her hands wove through her next spell.

Imoen drew her arrow back until her bow creaked and took aim, holding her breath, but with the witch in her sights she paused. What if this is some trick? It was the red wizard who-

In the space of a blink ice-crystals appeared and grew between Dynaheir's palms, forming a jagged spike. It floated in the air momentarily, then with a violent swing she flung it in Minsc's direction. At the same time Imoen let her arrow fly, cursing her own hesitation.

It was all a bit pointless in the end: a violet shimmer erupted around the witch and repelled the arrow. Of course she'd have one of those arrowshield spells up! Dynaheir's spike of enchanted ice met no barriers, however, striking Minsc square in the torso and doubling him over.

"What in Corelon's name is going on?!" a familiar voice asked from behind. Xan's sword was glowing something fierce, held high in the air as he scurried over a flowerbed, and the cloaked figure of Viconia edged along the wall behind him, along with several Watchers who were rushing to the scene.

"It's Dynaheir!" Imoen shouted back, aiming another (useless) arrow at the floating witch. "She's a doppelganger! Throw all your magic at her! Now!"

"Are you sure? This sounds like some-"

"No time ta- oh shit!" The witch's gaze had shifted towards Imoen, fingers pointing as she wove another spell. Little eldritch will-o-wisps winked into existence all around Dynaheir and swelled with power as she chanted. A basic attack-spell, but there was powerful metamagic being poured into it, and soon the arcane wisps glowed bright as tiny suns.

"Fiel siev faeda!" Imoen intoned, quick as she could, weaving and bobbing as light expanded from where she had been standing and resolved into four duplicate Imoens. The decoys scattered out from her position, and when the searing bolts of energy raced down at the witch's command they slowed and bobbed a bit, as if confused. In the end all of them streaked through the illusions, exploding into harmless sparks. Whew!

The attack was more than enough to end Xan's hesitation, his hand swinging decisively in the witch's direction as he chanted out a spell. A bolt of blinding white light streaked out from his fingertip, and when it reached Dynaheir it briefly warred with the arcane auras that surrounded her. Then, in a burst of sparks, it all broke apart and the witch came plummeting down, arms flailing uselessly just before she struck the flagstones. She bounced, rolled, bounced again, and then to Imoen's amazement the witch simply righted herself and shot to her feet. (Oh yeah. Those things don't have any bones.)

Minsc had risen as well, and with a roar he ripped out the shard of ice and tossed it aside, the wound apparently superficial. Swinging his sword up, the berserker rushed the witch with blinding speed while Imoen reflexively knocked and drew another arrow, but in the same instant Dynaheir thrust her open hands forward and murmured something. A rosy-pink shimmer bloomed in the air between the witch and the warrior, congealing into a translucent wall of force.

Imoen's arrow and Minsc's sword both reverberated harmlessly off the barrier, and a heartbeat later a streak of eldritch bolts shattered into sparks against it as well, accompanied by a curse in Mulhorandi from Edwin.

The force-wall stretched between the edges of two fountains, so Imoen jumped up onto the lip of one of them and skirted round, running on the edge. On the other side of the hastily conjured wall Dynaheir had begun to retreat, and as Imoen came around the bend the witch accelerated suddenly, her feet pattering against the stone path with magically enhanced speed. The moment Imoen cleared the wall she aimed her bow and let an arrow fly, but it went wide of the moving target by a pace or two and clattered against stone.

Plucking another arrow, Imoen knocked and drew, leaping from the fountain's edge and running all the while. Her enchanted boots let her match the witch's speed, zooming through the garden. She hopped up onto the edge of the next fountain, hoping to get a clearer shot on high ground, and let fly.

This arrow struck true, sinking deep into the witch's lower back and staggering her as she started up the steps to the inner keep. The sound that came out of Dynaheir's mouth was an inhuman groan, and for a moment her face went grey and her hair seemed to congeal and flow.

Yeah, definitely a doppel, if there was any doubt before.

But when the 'witch' whirled around she'd regained her normal pallor, and she glared down harshly from the steps. Hands thrusting forward, she wove them together, hissing out Draconic words with a Rashemi accent; a perfect mimic. Flickering flames gathered and roiled between her palms, and with a push she sent the ball of flame streaking towards Imoen like a comet.

At the same time Imoen dove, and the surface of the fountain-pool smacked her hard, belly-flopping and then wriggling down as deep as she could. Water gurgled in her ears, then roared as heat and pressure struck her back and crushed her against the slimy floor of the fountain. Her arms flailed, eyes clinched tight as she kept to the cool bottom of the pool, childhood memories coming back of all the times she and the others had played in these fountains; a make-do swimming hole in the hottest days of summer, back when they were tiny enough to fit. Ulraunt had always been really annoyed and chased them out whenever he caught them.

It had been a bit easier to pretend the fountain was a proper pool when she was six, though just as she had back then Imoen found herself frog-paddling forward, swiftly reaching the opposite side and daring a look over the edge. Steam hissed behind her and there was a glow from the dissipating flames, but she didn't feel burnt. Ahead of her Minsc was racing to the steps of the keep, and the door at the top was slowly gliding shut.

Fighting the water and the weight of her sodden clothes, Imoen pushed her way up onto the fountain's edge, made sure that she was not on fire, and then scooted up onto her feet. By then Xan, Viconia, and Edwin had reached her side, and without a word they all raced for the stairs, in the wake of the furious giant.

Bursting past the double doors, their footsteps echoed through the normally silent halls like trampling elephants. Minsc was the loudest of all, but he paid his surroundings no mind, eyes only on the black blood that speckled the tiles and formed a trail through the library. They went down one row of shelves, then another and another, Minsc leaning forward like a bloodhound as the robed scholars he passed gave him bewildered looks.

"Why in blazes was that madwoman slingin' spells about?" a low voice demanded from behind. "What's going on?"

Imoen turned back to see Sergeant Reevor stomping towards them, flanked by Hull and a second Watcher named Jondalar. "It's okay!" Imoen began. "Well, it's not okay. Nothing's okay. There's doppelgangers in the keep! One was pretending to be Winthrop. You guys have to go check on him! And this one that we're chasing was pretending to be Dynaheir, and it's an elder doppel with all her powers! That black ichor-stuff on the floor is its blood!"

"Are you…is this…" Fuller stammered as he approached from the opposite side, stepping in beside his fellow Watchers. They all looked down at the trail Minsc had been following.

"Bloody Hells," Reevor muttered.

"And it has someone's…powers?" Hull asked.

"Yup. Dynaheir's," Imoen explained. "The Rashemi witch who's been visiting. It can cast her-"

"She is an invoker, capable of channeling spells up to the fifth circle of power," Edwin cut in. "(Though she is incapable of using illusions or necromancy, so she will at least remain visible.)"

"Bloody Hells," Reevor repeated, shaking his head. The other watchers seemed to share the sentiment.

Head down and mind racing, Ashura stumbled out of her father's old chambers. There were two men stomping through the nearby hall, muttering to each other. "What in the Hells is going on in that courtyard?" one voice asked.

"Spellwork," the other replied. "I'd know a lightning spell anywhere, even muffled. There's some sort of battle going on down there."

"The Knights will be nervous. We'd best…" But the man's voice trailed off and the footfalls came to a sudden halt.

Ashura turned to face them, though she guessed what she had stumbled into even before she looked. Beshaba's breath!

Before her stood a tall, scowling Turami man in rich green silks, an ornate and obviously enchanted staff braced in his hand. The man's carefully groomed hair and narrow goatee were mostly grey, speckled here and there with brown, and an air of assumed command seemed to hang about him. Slightly behind the Turami stood an armored warrior of middle years, with a big meat-slab of a face and a scowl to match.

A Turami mage with grey hair. Going by Duke Eltan's description this could only be one man, and he certainly seemed to recognize Ashura as well. "You!" Rieltar Anchev growled, and Ashura's hand shot to the hilt of Varscona. For a moment it seemed that an attack was inevitable.

If the next words out of his mouth are Draconic…

Ashura's eyes narrowed and she tensed, ready to spring. It was a narrow passageway, and Rieltar only stood a few paces away. She could clear that in a blink.

The armored man looked ready to draw his blade as well, and Garrick was no longer at Ashura's side. Sensing hostility, the bard had eased around and out of the way, with his back to a wall and his hand at his vest, near where he kept a wand with a paralytic enchantment. Good.

But the next words out of Rieltar Anchev's mouth were slow and carefully measured. "You've stalked me to this hallowed place then? Plotting my murder, of course."

"Nah," Ashura replied. "Just heard they had the world's biggest collection of Drizzt the Drow chapbooks here, and I had to see for myself."

"You Harpers have dogged me for months now," Rieltar went on, ignoring the sarcasm. "From Nashkel to the Sharp Teeth to the Cloakwood. And you've fended off my…attempts to end your interference as well." It was a carefully measured way of saying 'my assassins.'

Ashura cocked her head. "Harpers?"

"Come now. I think we're above such silly games. I have my resources, and once I learned who had attacked my operations I did some digging. Ashura Adrian. Your father was a Harper, and raised you and that other girl in these very halls. Groomed you for just this sort of mission, I'm guessing. And I assume that bard" –he eyed Garrick– "is an agent as well. And you've allied with a Greycloak. All quite impressive, and if we were on any other grounds I would make a move to do something about-"

"But you killed my father…" She had meant to shout those words. To accuse. But it didn't quite come out that way. Something didn't add up.

"Now why in the name of Mask would I do that? Assassinate a Harper? It would invite a viper's nest of…" Rieltar looked down, eyes flicking from side to side as he pondered the matter. "Ah. I see. We've been set up. The Zhents most likely. Yes…this seems like their doing, and quite clever. Eliminate one of the more powerful Harper agents in the region, and lay the blame at my feet. The man's friends and kin come around seeking vengeance, and whoever dies in the fighting, the Zhents win."

Ashura just glared, and when Rieltar met her eyes again he sighed. "I suppose it's past time for any sort of truce though," he went on. "Too much blood spilled, regardless of who set this in motion. So. Are you going to draw that blade of yours or what?"

"There's been peace in Candlekeep for centuries," Ashura replied reflexively; words that her father and her tutors had drilled into her over the years. As far as she knew the men she had killed in the bunkhouse were the first violent deaths within the Citadel in generations.

"Indeed," Rieltar agreed. "Enforced by wards, the Watchers, and divinations that determine the aggressor should a fight ever break out. It is a peace that I will not break, little girl. But give me the slightest excuse and I'll turn you inside out with a single spell."

Big words. But Ashura knew that if she unsheathed and lunged, Rieltar's first spell would be something defensive. Garrick would freeze the bodyguard with his wand, and then it would just be a matter of whether she could connect first, or if her enchanted blade would cut through whatever barrier Rieltar managed to fling up.

There was a long silence. Then Ashura eased back and forced her hand to slide away from Varscona's hilt. "I won't break the peace," she said. "Not here."

Rieltar inclined his head slightly, and began to back away. "Good. I imagine you'll be seeking to choose the ground when next we meet. I shall do the same. And Beshaba's blessings to you." He whirled, and the armored man followed. "Come," Ashura heard him mutter as they made a swift exit. "We've a meeting to attend."

Roaring, Minsc pulled at the wrought iron door, but it didn't budge. Next he tried kicking.

"Don't do that," Hull commanded, half-heartedly. He obviously didn't want to get between the big guy and his goal.

"Then open the door!" Minsc demanded. "The monster went beyond!"

They had zigzagged their way through most of the lower floor of the grand library, searching for the shapeshifter and following a diminishing trail of its blood. At one point they had stumbled into a room where the witch's jewelry, clothing, and the arrow had all been discarded in a sodden pile, a chest full of monk's clothing opened nearby, making it clear that the creature had changed. From there the blood had dwindled as well, the creature obviously having bandaged its wound, but somehow Minsc (and Boo) always seemed to find a trail.

At last it had led them here, to another small side-chamber with a heavy, sealed door, which led to the catacombs beneath the keep.

"We can do that," Reevor explained cautiously, standing back from the raging barbarian. "But - and I don't think you're going to like this, big guy - it's going to have to be us Watchers who go down there. Just us."

Minsc glared. "I must slay the creature! I must rescue my witch!"

"Sorry," Reevor muttered, pulling a runemarked stone out of a pouch at his belt. "I'd love to take a mighty fellow like you along, but there's only so many wardstones to go around." He waved the stone close to the door, and with a click it began to slide open. "Now stand back, unless ya want to get blasted by the wards." The three other guards followed as the dwarf slipped through the doorway. "This here's Watcher business now, but I promise we'll get that creature for you."

Minsc seemed to deflate as he watched the four guardsmen march into the open tunnel and shut the door behind them, but he did not interfere.

'I must rescue my witch!' Imoen shook her head. He doesn't really get it, does he? Well, she sure didn't want to be the one to tell him. She looked down, fidgeting with her bow. One of those things had been wearing her father's clothes. And his face.

She felt sick.

"Well that went terribly," Ashura grumbled.

"Yeah," Garrick agreed. He lowered his voice. "I think the chance of us staging an…an A-word just flew out the window."

Chuckling, Ashura began down the staircase. "If my father really was 'grooming' me to become some sort of elite Harper spy he sure did a piss-poor job." She shook her head. "Maybe that was some ruse, but it really did seem like Rieltar was missing something there."

"You think the Zhentarim really set all of this up?" Garrick asked.

"Maybe. Or-" Eyes widening, Ashura came to a sudden halt at the foot of the stair. "Oh," was all she managed to say as her eyes settled on a familiar figure, standing in the middle of the isle several paces ahead. There he loomed, resting against an oaken staff, clad in his brown robe and wearing a knowing grin. When Koveras' eyes met Ashura's they twinkled with recognition. And malice.

Since last she'd seen him the scholar had shaved his head, and he now wore a tattoo above his brow; a crisscross of abstract lines, no doubt arcane in nature. Ashura recognized that as well: she had caught a glimpse of the same tattoo, half-concealed by the horned helmet of the warrior who had slain her father.

Time slowed to a crawl as she took a step forward, everything clicking into place at once. It was him! It had been him all along! Koveras. 'One of your brothers has recently visited the citadel and discovered your presence here…'

Gripping Varscona's hilt, Ashura took another step forward. Then another.

"I'm surprised that you chose not to kill my father," Koveras stated with a sneer.

That voice! That unmistakable, mocking, rumbling voice. She should have recognized him that night, but he had been clad head to toe in armor. And his eyes had been glowing.

"I suppose-" Koveras went on, but whatever taunt he had prepared was drowned out by Ashura's wordless cry of rage as she dropped Alianna's jewelry box, slipped her swords from their sheathes and charged.

He matched her warcry with a deep, rumbling laugh, casually swinging his staff up to deflect her blades. That damned mocking smile of his never left his face as he knocked Ashura's overhanded blow aside, and in the same motion he spun his staff, sweeping the stab from Ashura's lefthand weapon away from his body as well.

As he parried with his staff Koveras backed up, swinging and weaving with the same blinding speed he had displayed two years ago in their sparring matches. Wood-shavings flew as Ashura gave chase, slashing again and again. Bastard! You bastard!

He didn't bother to counterattack. Instead Koveras casually gave ground, untouched by every frantic slash and stab that Ashura could deliver, and through it all he continued to laugh. Even as bookshelves overturned around them, thick leather-bound tombs striking his shoulder and back, Koveras simply laughed. Even when Garrick threw a blast of paralyzing magic with his wand, Koveras just laughed right through, the arcane shimmer rolling harmlessly off of him as his tattoo briefly glowed.

And even as Varscona cleaved through his staff and left him wielding two splintered sticks, the rumble of Koveras' laughter resounded through the library, along with the heavy footfall of armored figures racing towards them. Armed only with those two broken clubs, he still managed to bat her swords aside, bobbing and weaving out of harm's way.

Ashura had almost sliced through his last defense when the first blow struck her leg from behind and her knee buckled. She straightened, pushing forward with a snarl, but more blows followed, and soon metal-clad bodies were pressing in close to her, hands gripping her arms and shoulders.

She squirmed and twisted, desperately pointing her swords at the smirking man before her. One of the Watcher's steel-tipped staves struck her gut and she doubled over, coughing, but when she shot back up and regained her breath she managed another howl of rage, thrashing and desperate to pull away from the hands that gripped her.

"LET ME GO! It's him! It's him! You have to-" A staff struck her helmet, steel rang, and everything started to spin.

Author's Note: It might come off as a little 'gamey,' but I just had to make Edwin a giant munchkin who knows exactly what level Dynaheir is and what her prohibited schools are. He probably knows what metamagic feats she's taken too.

And I owe the inspiration for a line towards the beginning of this chapter to Celamity. Thank you so much for the reviews! And thanks to everyone else who's been kind enough to leave a review, too. It really means a lot.