Author's Note: Wherein we learn exactly why Edwin always keeps minor creation memorized.

77 – Wyrm's Crossing

"Laugh if you like, dear readers, but it just seemed as if the time had come to bravely run away." –Garrick Anthras, Terror of the Sword Coast

Shoes squeaked against the polished hardwood of the music room, and above that came the rapid clink-clink-clink of steel repelling steel. Skie pivoted, her heel grinding against the dance floor and her knees loose and bent to spring. Her blade shot up – a swing from her opponent tapped it down, and she rolled with the motion, flowing around to circle the man. Sweat stung her eyes, and her breath hissed out in tense, controlled gasps.

Another shoe-squeak. Her opponent turned and went back on his heels. Surely a feint…but no. His lunge took a well-projected path and Skie caught his sword with hers. Caught, then pushed forward, scrapping her blade along his until the blunted point tapped his chest.

They both halted, the man's eyes going to the sword that pointed at his heart, and then Mr. Goldsworth looked up at Skie with a cheery smile. "A touch, Lady Silvershield." His tone was congratulatory, and his sword-arm slackened at his side as he took a step back. "And a fine one too. Didn't see that riposte coming."

Hunching a bit and breathing hard, Skie eyed the man skeptically. Yes you did. She had suspected for a while, but now she was certain. Goldsworth was holding back.

Not that their sparring session hadn't been grueling; her aching arm could certainly attest to that. There was a real and brutal weight behind the man's swings, and he had danced around and drawn things out for quite a while. Yet, remembering her duels with Ashura and Shar-Teel –not to mention the times she had fought and killed real men and even magical beasts– Skie realized that she was being coddled. "I told you not to go easy on me," she protested. "How can I ever improve if you do?"

Mr. Goldsworth cocked his head and looked a little puzzled, still smiling his toothy smile. "Gave it my best ma'am. Honest."

"Perhaps I made a poor choice of a husband," Mrs. Goldsworth mocked. She was reclining on a sofa, watching the sparring match. "Getting beaten up by a little girl?"

"And I thought you loved me for my gentle soul, Kay," Mr. Goldsworth replied with a wolfish grin.

It was strange; at first Skie had thought this new guardsman rather stiff and meek, much like most servants, yet when he talked to his wife he took on a rakish swagger that reminded her of Eldoth. There was much about him that reminded her of Eldoth, in fact: the jet black hair, the handsome face, and the confidence – though his features were a little sharper than Eldoth's had been, and instead of a carefully-trimmed goatee Goldsworth sported thick, dark stubble.

And there was something else familiar. Something in his eyes that Skie could not quite name.

Mr. Goldsworth turned away, looking to the table beyond the dance floor where ceramic cups and a pitcher of lemon water had been arrayed. "Your fencing instructors taught you well, Lady Silvershield. I'm not sure how much more I can show you, being honest." With that he began to swagger off, and Skie found herself clinching her teeth and glaring at his back. She had hoped, when Mrs. Goldsworth suggested that her husband might be a suitable sparring partner, that this would be a chance to keep testing the skills that she had learned out in the wider world.

Instead it seemed she was to be treated like a kid. As usual.

A wild impulse seized Skie, and her grip upon her practice blade tightened. She knew this man was holding back. Holding back a lot. She tensed slightly, knees bending and her sword rising with a swish. She knew, and she was going to prove it.

She hopped forward, lunging and stabbing at his back. He wore thick padding, the end of the blade was blunt, and if she was right-

The stab never connected. Goldsworth turned a sharp ninety-degrees as the sword whistled by, his own weapon arcing down and catching Skie's with a force that nearly struck it from her hand. Her sword-arm sank, locked, and at the same time Goldsworth pivoted fully and something came whistling in, a blur before Skie's face.

On reflex she dropped down and bent a knee. Wind buffeted her sweaty forehead as a fist passed over – a punch that would have been bone-breaking if it had connected.

Now this was it! An exquisite, thrilling terror, not unlike what she had felt when kobold blades had whistled past her, or when the teeth of a hellhound had clicked together inches from her face. She launched herself up again, shimmying to untangle her blade from Goldsworth's. She managed a stab but he caught her hilt with his.

'Kick! Kick you idiot!' she could hear Shar-Teel shout, and her foot swept in to catch his ankle and yank. Goldsworth sensed that coming, and he tensed and twisted. Her leg tangled with his, then a violent pivot tore her feet out from under her. The hardwood floor came rushing up.

Somehow she managed to brace for the fall, rolling where she landed. Over and over, onto her elbows and knees, and then she was sitting up and ready to launch to her feet.

She thought the rolling had given her some distance, but then he was looming right there in front of her. Goldsworth bent his elbow back, the end of his sword in line with Skie's eye.

Up she looked, from the blade to the man, and his face was…blank. Indifferent. No anger or frustration or even a sign of exertion to him. Ice ran through Skie's veins, and for a moment she thought the weapon would flash forward and cave her skull in. Then Goldsworth tensed, rocked back on the balls of his feet, and his brow furrowed.

A hand patted Skie on the shoulder and made her jump. "Really now, dear," Mrs. Goldsworth chided, right in her ear.

"He was holding back," Skie found herself saying, dumbly.

The old, affable look returned to Mr. Goldsworth's face, as if this were all just a joke to be laughed off. "I suppose I was," he agreed. "A little."

Mrs. Goldsworth did laugh, her hand now resting firmly on Skie's shoulder. It sent a chill down her spine. "Exercise is one thing, love," the tutor said. "You seemed to be chomping at the bit for some. But we can't allow you to collect bruises on that pretty face of yours, now can we?" She helped Skie to her feet.

"I…I suppose not," Skie murmured.

"A sad lesson, but as wealthy and powerful as you may be, there are certain things that you simply cannot do. Cannot do, in fact, because of your wealth and position. You can't become a barroom brawler, for instance. It simply would not work to host lavish balls with a bent nose and a puffy eye. People would talk, delicate political business would not be done…I'm sure you know this."

Skie nodded. "I know. Just…well, out on the trail when we sparred we'd go all out. It was…never mind." She shook her head. "I got carried away." She looked Mr. Goldsworth in the eye. "Sorry I tried to stab your back."

He chuckled. "Hardly the first person to try. Keeps me on my toes." And there was that sly confidence again. Though it quickly faded when his wife shot him a look. "In any case, we're very grateful for this position in your household."

"It was ultimately father's decision."

The guardsman nodded. "But thank you anyway. And I'll be happy to help you keep your sword arm keen and all. Just…I can't really show you all the dirty tricks." He gave her an apologetic look. "Bad for my job prospects if you actually got hurt and your parents found out."

"I understand," Skie said. "Thank you both for indulging me."

"Of course." Mrs. Goldsworth flashed a knowing smile. "It can get rather boring in the gilded cage, can't it?"

Sunlight had never been more welcome, as far as Edwin was concerned. He allowed himself a moment to straighten and stretch his sore limbs, tilting his head back towards the clear sky. There were faint cracking sounds up and down the back of his neck, making him cringe.

Bah. These aches would last for a week or more, after that abysmal 'rest' he had been forced to endure down in the tomb. At least he would be sleeping somewhere proper tonight, now that his magic was fully restored.

The barbarians had taken to sifting through the belongings of the dead mercenaries like a pack of rag-pickers, bending and searching. Edwin spared the garbage heap a glance, but there was nothing of interest there. Of course he supposed that trail rations, bedrolls, and tents might be of use to some people. Perhaps they would find some soap as well. The scent of ghoul had…lingered.

"So what next?" the redheaded girl asked as she did her part to strip the camp.

Hm. That certainly was the question, wasn't it? Edwin stroked his moustache, turning and looking out to sea. With a few words he could simply teleport to the Thayvian enclave and deliver a report. Dyanheir was obviously dead, after all.

Of course it had not been Edwin who had slain her, and divinations would prove the fact. And that would be leverage that Denak (that absolute bastard!) would use for all it was worth. He could already hear it. 'You were tasked with interrogating and slaying the Hathran, and in the end you managed neither. A failure, just as I predicted.'

He turned back towards the camp, where they were pulling down the canvas tents and discussing their next move. The dark haired girl had her back turned – the grinning, golden skull upon her cloak shifting with each motion. The symbol of the dead god Bhaal, and so brazenly displayed. There was a story there.

(A shame, though, that the cloak covered the region Edwin would rather be watching as Ashura bent and worked. And more a shame that she sported those unflattering chainmail leggings now. He rather missed the leather skirt she had been wearing when they first met…)

And the false Dynaheir had spoken of Bhaalspawn. It seemed as if it could have been a ruse, but after all that Edwin had learned of the prophesy, and all that he had seen firsthand…

No. There was too much mounting evidence: the divine power he had seen the girl wield in battle, the way she had radiated fear like a spawn of perdition, the way violence and destruction followed her everywhere (when they first met there had been a battle, and the next time their paths crossed a demon had appeared out of thin air), and that incident in Beregost where Edwin's wards had held the girl back as if she were a creature of the lower planes.

The conclusion was obvious. This was one of the Children of Bhaal. Perhaps she had even been what Dynaheir was seeking, and the doppelganger had taken the witch's memories and identity for far more than just the arcane knowledge.

Denak might think so, at least. He would see a creature like this as-

"Edwin?"

He looked up. The Bhaalspawn-girl had turned at some point, and now she faced him. He had barely been listening to their conversation. Something about vengeance and a hard march north? "What?" he demanded.

"Just wondering if we're parting ways."

"Hm." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You wish to seek and slay this…Sarevok person?" Yes. That was the name they kept bandying about.

She nodded.

"My considerable arcane talents would aid you greatly in that task, I suppose." He inclined his head. "And I suppose I can help, but once it is done you shall owe me a favor."

She glared. "If the word 'concubine' is involved-"

"Nothing like that. I was thinking more of one of those…hm…those tasks that involve traveling somewhere, and then perhaps chopping a few people to pieces with your swords? You are quite familiar with such things, no? Seems to be your primary occupation."

She nodded. "If we survive this, sure. Favor for a favor."

"Bah. With my talents we shall most certainly survive." Of course he would be keeping that teleport spell handy.

At the bend where the cobblestone road plunged into the forest Imoen halted, turning back to give Candlekeep one last look. She remembered the last time she had stood in this spot, looking across the narrow causeway to the crown of white stone and conical towers atop the plateau. Back then the trees hadn't been bare. Back then she had felt more giddy than anything else; a nineteen-year-old kid not really understanding the magnitude of what she was about to step out into. Just seemed like a grand adventure.

Now all the butterflies were gone and there was just a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "This is just like all those stories we grew up reading," she said.

"Huh?" Ashura grunted. "Doesn't really-"

"You know. The adventure tales. Where the hero proves himself with something minor at the start, like fighting giant rats in a cellar. And his hometown is always doomed."

"Oh." Ashura opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then shut it.

Imoen began to walk again, reaching up to grasp and squeeze one of the limbs of her bow. Ashura fell in beside her, and together they went down the road and into the deepening woods. Eventually Ashura spoke up. "We didn't see Lyda, Thrase or Micha down there in…the tombs. They're probably still alive."

"Hope so. Can't see myself going back though, after we brought what we brought in there…" Her voice started cracking a bit before trailing off.

"Don't think about it that way Ims." Ashura patted her friend's arm. "He did this. He killed my father. He sent assassins after me. And he brought those things into our home like a damn plague. And we'll make him pay."

"Yeah." Imoen reached back, tapping her quiver. "I'll make sure to put a couple of holes in 'em myself."

On they walked. The forest was silent save the occasional crackle of leaves or rustle of branches, mostly from nervous little squirrels darting about. By midday clouds had drifted in to seal off the once-clear sky, wavy white and tinged with grey. By midafternoon flakes of snow were drifting down; sporadic little dustings at first, but eventually it thickened, and then as the daylight began to bleed away the snowfall shifted into a drizzle of cold, slushy rain. Just peachy.

It was slow-going, hiking the Way of the Lion without their horses. Seemed they were in for a long (and probably miserable) march north, hiking...what was it? About a hundred and thirty miles all told? Hopefully it wouldn't be snowing or sleeting all the way.

In addition to losing their horses they had left their saddle bags back at the Candlekeep Inn. Now their miscellaneous baggage (oilcloth tents, traveling rations, toiletries, personal bedrolls, spare clothes) was all gone, along with most of the wealth they had accumulated over the past few months working as mercenaries. They each carried a decent amount of coin and gems in their purses, and they had pilfered enough food, equipment, and money from the mercenary camp to make this journey manageable, but a small fortune was now forever out of reach behind the walls of Candlekeep.

Good thing Shar-Teel wasn't here to hear about that. She'd be livid.

As the rain dripped down Imoen tightened her cloak around her shoulders and raised her hood, and the others did the same. She found herself glancing at Ashura's fancy new cape, with the grinning skull and the stylized mane. Bet there was a story there, though maybe it would be best to ask when they had a little privacy. Ulraunt had been pretty casual with the B-word, but she wasn't sure if everyone knew yet that Ashura's dad had been Old Murder-Face, or how they'd all react.

Faint gold threading spelled something out across the hem of the cloak in flowing Infernal script. Not a language that Imoen understood much of, but she knew enough about enchantments to fill in the blanks. Some sort of Cloak of Resistance, by her guess. Seemed pretty handy. Unless Shura ran into some zealot who took issue with her sporting a dead god's colors. From what Imoen had read it seemed that the gods held all sorts of weird, complicated, and ancient grudges. Often times their mortal followers would carry that stuff out too.

Shura likely wasn't too aware of that, being as she had never showed the remotest interest in the finer points of religion. Imoen had always been fairly certain that Shura had just picked a patron deity because someone had told her that she had to, and with about as much thought put into the matter as a teenage boy puts into picking Sharess.

Not that Imoen was really one to talk. 'I like being tricky. So I'll pick a trickster god!' Yeah. A lot of thoughtful prayer went into that decision.

Eventually conversation on the road turned to the search for a good spot to make camp, and perhaps fifteen minutes later they found a decent clearing with sheltering rocks and an old fire-pit used by countless travelers-past. Imoen was not looking forward to setting up the two little pilfered tents (just a pair of canvases really), but to her absolute shock Edwin, of all people, proved their savior.

"I've a sheltering spell," he stated as they shuffled into the clearing. "And I suppose that you rabble could fit under its roof."

"Sheltering?" Ashura asked.

"I will demonstrate." Throwing out his hands and facing the open ground, the red wizard muttered something and made a few grand gestures. There was a faint buzzing in the air, and then a dome of what appeared to be some sort of arcane force wavered into existence before him, a dull burgundy in color and about the size of a small hut. Without further ado Edwin rolled up his sleeves and strode forward. There was a little rippling as he passed through the envelope of the construct, and then he was inside.

The misting rain began to bead along the slope of the conjured bubble, flowing in little rivulets here and there. Imoen just shrugged and went in next, the opaque wall warbling before her as she passed through what felt like empty space. Sure enough the interior of the little dome was sheltered from the rain, and significantly warmer than the outside. The contours of the trees and hillocks beyond its walls were visible, faintly, as if seen through distorted and rose-colored glass. "Well, this sure is handy," Imoen announced. "Yer gonna have to teach me this spell!"

Edwin shot her a glare. "I 'have to' do no such thing! Know that you are my guests in this place, and I fully reserve the right to eject any who become overly nuisancesome."

"Of course," Imoen agreed with a dramatic (and sarcastic) little bow. "Oh mighty lord of the tiny magic bubble."

Ignoring that, Edwin turned his back to her and aimed another spell at the far end of the dome. A few waves of his hands summoned up curls of ethereal mist, which swirled and then solidified into the wooden legs and then the frame of a mahogany bed. More wisps of protoplasm topped it, wavering and becoming clean white sheets, several stuffed and brightly colored pillows, and then a colorful blanket.

Some sort of creation spell, by Imoen's guess; the same one that Edwin had used to fill the doorway of the Candlekeep barracks with a wall of wood. The conjured object would dissolve when the spell wore off. Made the prospect of oversleeping kind of unpleasant.

"Normally," Edwin grumbled, "if this space were not so crowded I would conjure up more furniture. A chair and tea table, at the least. So I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I am making on your collective behalf."

"We'll uh…do what we can to make the place luxurious," Garrick said, starting to spread out one of the tent canvases that they had been carrying. Once the canvas was in place he went to laying out a little supper for them all: bread, cheese, and salted fish from the mercenary camp.

Imoen found that she didn't have much of an appetite, sitting on the ground with the rest of them, her feet and knees together and a tasteless little hunk of bread between her fingers. She munched a little, staring off at nothing, and stirred when she felt a warm presence against her shoulder. Xan had scooted close to her side, placing placing his arm around her and gripping her far shoulder, and when she turned she saw that his lips were a tight line, worry in his eyes.

Worry, and understanding too. We've all lost a lot, haven't we?

She held his gaze a moment, eyes stinging, and then she looked away, though she gratefully wriggled up against him. Her temple nudged his collar, resting there. Her bread went uneaten, and sometime later they all rose and spread their bedrolls out.

Sometime before dawn on their fourth day of marching Ashura was awakened by a gentle shake, and when she stirred she found Viconia looming over her. The drow's eyes glinted with a violet phosphorescence in the near dark, thick white hair framing her face. When they were away from civilization the cowl and mask were always discarded. "Your turn," Viconia whispered. "The final watch."

With an absent nod Ashura went fumbling for her discarded armor. She tried to slip it all on quietly, for the sake of her companions, but that proved an impossible task, so she settled for just getting the rattling and clinking over with. The coat of mail came over her head and shoulders, then she stepped into her leggings. Viconia helped her with the straps.

As Ashura adjusted her helmet and her swordbelt she glanced around their strange little camp under the darkened dome. In the dim light her companions just looked like lumps in their bedrolls, strewn out near the foot of Edwin's ridiculously gaudy, conjured bed. Elaborate geometric patterns were carved into the posts, and the blanket was dyed with golden fringes, fields of royal purple, and -of course- a great deal of red.

Viconia had spread out her bedroll and was now peeling off her leathers in preparation for a brief nap, Garrick stirred a little from all the commotion nearby, and on the other side of the crowded little shelter Imoen lay curled up and tangled in her bedroll. Beside her Xan stretched out on his back in a serene and almost corpse-like position, and Ashura noticed that his eyes were open slightly and tilted in her direction. She gave him a stiff little nod and turned away, walking towards the edge of the bubble.

Passing through the barrier felt like nothing, but Ashura reflexively closed her eyes when she took the final step into the icy foredawn air. She adjusted her cloak and opened her eyes to the crisp darkness, beginning her little patrol around the magical shelter.

They had made camp in a nook of scrappy little cedars and pine saplings well off the road, the low branches mostly blocking the clearing off from the outside world. At one side of the grove a narrow deer trail led back to the Coastway, though the road was not visible yet.

After one circuit of the bubble Ashura tried to rest on a stump and simply watch the dark, but the cold soon had her up and pacing, blowing on her hands and rubbing them together to keep warm. Useful as the enchantment woven into her gloves could be, she really wished right now that they weren't fingerless.

Blue-grey light began to peak through from the horizon as the little vigil went on, and the distant trees and edges of the hills grew more pronounced. Clouds of mist clung to the hillsides, and greater banks of the stuff covered the lowlands and the Coastway, shrouding them completely.

After another march or two around the camp it seemed that the morning mists had thickened. A wall of grey had rolled in from the road, swallowing many of the trees and turning those closer by into sketchy black lines. Ashura stopped and watched the world grow more and more obscured, clutching the hilt of her longsword. Maybe it was just natural mist, but…

She tilted her head from side to side, listening. Sure enough she soon caught a faint sound coming from the mists. The tromping of a horse's hooves.

Varscona slipped from it's sheath as Ashura heard the horse draw closer, and then the sound of the hoofbeats stopped. A little pause, and then leaves rustled, nearer and nearer. Finally the source of the sounds came into view – at first a dark shape, but it soon resolved into a lone figure dressed all in black. Ashura had both swords out and ready now.

It appeared to be a woman, and one with unusual features: with almond eyes and a face more rounded than typical in the Western Heartlands. A traveler from beyond the Golden Way, by Ashura's guess, though her experience with easterners was limited to a couple of visitors to Candlekeep and pictures from books. The woman's hair was long and brown, her skin was pale, and she wore a fur-lined cloak over some sort of black plated armor, custom tailored to be relatively slender. Unfamiliar, yet there was something about her that Ashura recognized. Hm.

"You an assassin?" Ashura called out, loud as she could. Hopefully the others would hear.

The stranger raised two open hands. "No," she said with an accent Ashura did not recognize. "I come to deliver a message. To help, not hinder."

Uh huh. Ashura glanced back towards the dome. She figured it was her job to alert the camp, regardless of what mysterious strangers in black were claiming. But Xan and Edwin were already standing there, just outside, separately watching the scene. Seemed the camp was already pretty alert.

It figured. Xan had those ears of his, and barely slept. And of course Edwin had always been an early riser.

She turned back to the stranger. "Deliver a message to whom?"

"You are Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep, yes? And you seek Sarevok's downfall. He has done you great harm."

"That's putting it mildly."

"Who are you?" Xan asked flatly.

"Tamoko. A priestess of the Way."

"(An elegant way to tell us nothing)," Edwin muttered. "Who sent you woman? To whom do you owe allegiance? (Hm. She is no Harper. Nor Zhentarim either.)"

"Sarevok wishes to plunge the entire region into war," Tamoko said, ignoring the Thayan and fixing her stare on Ashura. "A great, bloody sacrifice which he believes will elevate him among the Bhaalspawn. Is it so unbelievable that a member of the Iron Throne who has learned the full scope of his plans might wish to topple them?"

Ah. It figured. One of the enemy – or a former enemy, if the woman was to be believed. Perhaps that's why she seemed familiar. Maybe she'd seen that black armor back during all the fighting in the tower. Maybe they'd tried to kill each other a tenday or so ago.

Tamoko had shifted her gaze now, her head turned to the left. "I see you there, by the way," she said, looking to the spot where Viconia crouched at the edge of the cedar grove. Then Tamoko opened one of her hands and whispered something, conjuring up a fat red flame that danced upon her palm. "I am not without my defenses. Though I would rather parlay than place a wall of Kossuth's fires between us."

Not saying a word, Viconia simply straightened up to her full height and crossed her arms at her chest.

Now Tamoko addressed them all. "None of us wish to see Sarevok succeed, I think. So hear what I have to say, and perhaps we can end this."

"Why not go to Duke Eltan?" Xan asked. "If you are aware of a plot then-"

Tamoko shook her head and cut him off. "You have not heard, have you? Eltan hovers at death's door. He never recovered from his poisoning. He has not been allowed to recover, in fact. Sarevok has agents among the Flaming Fist, and at the highest level. You cannot trust them."

"That is…just lovely," Xan muttered.

"The law may be mobilizing against you, in fact. I would suggest moving swiftly, and exercising stealth."

Xan looked down. "Lovely, lovely, lovely."

"If anything she is saying is to be believed," Edwin pointed out.

"She is not lying," Viconia said. "I shall inform you when she does."

Tamoko gave her a slight nod. "Good. We have an understanding? You may do with my information as you wish. I simply ask that you listen."

"We are," Xan agreed.

"Very well then. Sarevok has seized the Iron Throne completely, as you may know, and now he plans to take the reins of the entire city in one swift coup. Doppelgangers have been placed among the nobility, and assassins await the order to strike and slay one of the grand dukes. When that happens the planted nobles will agitate for an emergency council to elect a replacement, citing the fact that Eltan is incapacitated and that the city needs a war duke. They will then insure that Sarevok is elected to that position, and immediately after the proceedings the assassins will slay the remaining two grand dukes. If all goes as planned the entire massacre will be blamed on Amn, and Sarevok will immediately march to war."

"Sweet Seldarine," Xan muttered. "Will they truly follow-"

"He will have a loyal force, yes. Sarevok has done much to shore up his position as the heralded war duke. He has provided arms and armor for the Fist, and bolstered their ranks with his own forces. After all: you did not slay all of the Iron Throne's own soldiers, nor all of the Black Talon company. They shall be marching to Amn as well.

"And that is the conspiracy, laid bare." Tamoko made a two-handed gesture as she finished. "But there is still a way to stop it. When you reach the city seek out a woman named Cythandria. She is Sarevok's personal bookkeeper, and will be guarding documents that could unravel all of this. The coded message that is to be sent to the assassins, for one thing. If you can reach her before they are activated there will be no opening for Sarevok to fill. More importantly, she carries a list of all of Sarevok's assets within the nobility."

"A grand list of doppelgangers?" Xan asked.

"It is not spelled out as such, but yes. A list of names. With it you could uncover the last of the shapeshifters, and prevent the vote. She moves about, but I would first search for Cythandria in the Tower of the Iron Throne. It is mostly abandoned now, but she still uses the offices."

"And does Sarevok?" Ashura asked. "Where is he?"

"Cythandria will be much less protected-"

"I don't care! Where is Sarevok?!"

"She has not lied," Viconia stated coldly, "but she knows more than she wishes to tell us. We should not allow this woman to-"

A sputter followed by a whoosh cut off her words, lines of flame erupting from the cold earth. They burned low but bright, trembling with pent-up fury and blocking Tamoko off from two sides. Seemed the threat to call up Kozzuth's flames had not been idle.

"You will allow me to leave," Tamoko said. Somewhere back in the mists a horse whinnied. "I have told you what I can. I suggest you seek Cythandria. And that whatever you do, you hurry."

With that she turned on her heel and the fires roiled up into a towering curtain of flame. The heat forced Ashura to turn her head and take a few steps back, and once the flames died down Tamoko was gone, along with the morning mist.

Two days later, in a little clearing near the banks of the Chionthar, they stopped and waited for night to fall and for the darkness to deepen. It would not be a particularly long wait, this time of year when the days were grey and crisp, and sundown was never far. Some fallen logs made for convenient seats, and Xan sat down upon one of them, opening his spellbook in his lap.

He had, of course, gone over this particular illusion several times already with Imoen. Still, it was comforting to know that the neat little curves of the diagrams were still there, and that the words still read exactly as he remembered them. Curves and waves, words detailing refraction and perturbation, and the blank, bracketed spaces where imagination must be employed to bring those concepts to life: all this was crammed into a little less than two pages, easily visible as a whole.

As usual Imoen settled in beside him, and Xan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Shame infravision doesn't let you read in the dark," the girl noted. "Yer gonna strain yer eyes."

"My people devised a solution to that ages ago," Viconia interjected haughtily. "Thermal ink can…" Concern entered her voice and it trailed off. She glanced around, then leapt to her feet with a hiss, a chakram appearing in her hand. "The rivvil male! He is gone!" She whirled, cloak swishing as she searched. "Has he betrayed us?!"

Xan peered about as well. Edwin's red cloak stood out bright as ever –and the Thayan looked a little puzzled– but Garrick was nowhere to be seen.

"He hasn't," Ashura said, brusque as usual. She was not searching. "It's fine. That's as far as he was going to go with us."

That hardly seemed to reassure Vicocnia. "A word of this earlier would have been appreciated. You have…sent him for something?" Obviously unnerved, she gave the forest one more sweep of her eyes. Xan supposed that he should be feeling guilty at the lapse as well. His old instructor would certainly be chiding him. 'A Greycloak misses nothing!' and all of that. But that training seemed a lifetime ago.

"I asked him to leave," Ashura said. "He's probably on the road to Berdusk now. Maybe he'll find a printer for his book there." She forced a smile. "Make us all famous."

"Your prerogative as his mistress, I suppose." Viconia wrapped her cloak around herself and settled back down. "I would have preferred to be informed."

Under his breath Xan whispered an incantation, then flicked his eyes up and fixed his stare upon Ashura. The drow makes a valid point, he projected. The appearance of secrets does not engender trust, and you appear to be keeping quite a few.

Ashura glared at him.

I apologize, but-

No, it's okay Xan, she projected back through their link, holding his gaze. Her look even seemed to soften a bit. For her. I trust you, after all we've been through. You're welcome inside my head.

His eyes widened a bit. Not exactly the response he had been expecting.

A seer told Garrick that he would die if he followed me back to the city. You can maybe see why I didn't want to share that. We all know that we're walking into danger, but prophesies of death on top of that…Viconia and the Thayan might get second thoughts.

Xan nodded. That is…surprisingly wise of you.

Guess I have my moments.

You may make a competent leader yet. He glanced back down at his book, but Imoen was right. The light was really too dim. Though perhaps it would have been better if you convinced the bard to stay. I got the impression he would have followed you anywhere.

Across the little clearing Ashura cocked her head at him.

A lesson in leadership: know that we are all expendable. Especially if what that woman told you about the coming war is true.

On the other side of the link Ashura was silent a moment; just a low hum of emotion. All of us? She gave Imoen a significant look.

Xan drew in a long breath. Yes. Even her.

Ashura looked away, and for a long time all was silent in the grove. The air was growing chilly, and soon stars began to peak through the pale sky. After twenty minutes had passed, and it had grown truly dark, Xan had long ago assumed that the linking spell was forgotten, but then Ashura's voice sounded in his head, out of the blue. Imoen's a Bhaalspawn, by the way.

What?!

My father left a letter. Explained that he rescued us both from a temple of Bhaal. I don't know how familiar you are with the prophesy-

Just a little. Matters of the human gods are often ignored by my people.

We were sired by the Lord of Murder to…herald his return, or something like that. Me and Imoen. I should have known. We were both taken in and raised together, younger than anyone else who's allowed in the keep. And there was…a dream that felt like more than a dream, where Imoen said 'We are both children of death.' But…guess I just didn't want to believe it. So yeah, Imoen's some sort of godling. A walking force of death.

Xan glanced at the young woman who sat beside him and then back to Ashura, opening his mouth…then closing it. Flashes came to him of countless battles: arrows spastically pluck-plucking away and plunging into eyes and necks and hearts. A redhaired girl gleefully popping up behind an archer or a hobgoblin to slit their throat, casual as can be, before dancing away to find another target. He wanted to say 'I can't see it.' But really…he supposed he could. You informed her, of course?

There hasn't been a good time. It would have been so much easier to just hand her the letter, but I-

You need to tell her!

I will, next time we're alone. Or you can, if I don't get the chance…

Xan sent her a mental groan, and again they fell silent.

Not long after that Imoen popped up and onto her feet. "Seems dark enough," she said. "Ready for the last big march?"

"Yeah," Ashura agreed. "Fast as we can. Let's get this over with." She turned towards the road, and the others filed in behind her, getting close together in two compact little lines.

Imoen shared a look with Xan, and then in unison they both began to chant. Side by side, their fingers wove through the air and their voices mingled, and soon trails of gossamer-light began to flow from their fingertips, expanding and snaking out. The threads of illusion curled and wrapped around the five of them, settling in layer by layer.

Working in tandem, the pair bolstered each other, Xan forming the shapes and sounds while Imoen providing the colors and textures (and smells, should anyone inspect them that closely.) When it was done all five of them appeared to be scruffy, bearded men in rough-spun clothes, two of them with bundles of netted fish on their backs and all carrying fishing poles.

A nondescript disguise, in case what Tamoko had said about agents within the Flaming Fist was true. Earlier Imoen had brainstormed a lot of ideas about illusory disguises: a Flaming Fist patrol ('That might draw too much attention from the guards,' Xan had said), or a donkey cart ('They may suspect smuggling and demand to search the cart, creating complications'), but in the end they had decided on the simplest thing: rough, plain, and harmless looking peasants. They would pass beneath the eyes of the guard easily enough, or so they hoped.

"We need to stick together," Imoen announced, though the mouth of the bearded fisherman did not move.

"And should we be questioned," Xan added, "there is no need for anyone to speak. I shall provide the voice of our 'leader.' And add more persuasive magic if necessary."

"Shouldn't you be up front then?" Ashura asked.

Xan made a noncommittal noise. "Er. In my experience it is always best to put the…heavily armored person in front. I am quite content to linger behind and provide the illusory sound."

"Coward…" Viconia muttered.

But Ashura just snorted. "Love you too Xan." With that the bald, heavyset man at the front of their little procession started marching towards the road, and the rest followed. They started down the weathered cobblestones, past lines of trees that gradually thinned to reveal the slow course of the great river beyond.

The Chionthar was a broad, flat smear of glittering black in this light, and the Coastway climbed high above its banks for a time. Perhaps a half-mile went by like this, through sparse and quiet woodland above the gurgle of the river. Little cottages and farms dotted the forested hills to their left, warm golden light peeking through their windows.

Then the highway crested a hill and the hulking walls of the city came into view, straddling the Chionthar and peaked with torchlight and towers. The road meandered on a little ways, following the walls and the watercourse, and then it bent sharply towards the river and the imposing bridge of stone that spanned it.

The Wyrm's Crossing.

In the darkness it was hard to make out the full shape of it; the towering gates were just vague black forms that blotted out the stars and city lights, topped by a pair of torches that served the lookouts up there. As they trudged on towards the first tower-gate Xan tried very hard not to think about those lookouts, or what they might notice.

Oh how he wished that he had learned and mastered a spell to cloak everyone in invisibility! Or perhaps taking a boat into the city would have been more inconspicuous. They would have had to risk the guards who watched the river, but right now anything seemed better than looking up at the sharp, gaping maw of the first portcullis. It loomed, then it drew closer, and then they passed beneath its teeth.

Their footfalls echoed off the stone arch, and then they were beyond the first gate and on their way across the wide, straight span. The middle tower-gate was the largest of the three, but there seemed to be no activity above. Strange. There was much bustle the last few times. Xan craned his neck, and spotted one impassive face looking down upon them. A single lookout.

They neared the middle tower, and the teeth of the portcullis almost seeming to promise that they would soon come slicing down. Any moment. Any moment. Then they passed on through the shadows and beyond, the far bank of the river coming into sight.

All was silent, the murmur of the city muffled by the thick stone walls just ahead. Once they rounded the bend there would be activity of course: the treble of tavern music and the call of prostitutes, the drunken laughter of the sailors and the sellswords who frequented the Elfsong, the barking of the night-merchants around the fountain and the clinking of pots and the low growl of alley cats stalking their territory and the hum of countless distant voices. But for the moment there was only trickling water and echoing footfalls.

It would be such a relief to turn that bend and pass into the city; to disappear into that crowd. Just a few more spans of stone. One more gate, at the end of the bridge.

Of course it almost felt like a relief to Xan when a harsh white light flickered into existence at the top of the tower, illuminating a man in a red uniform who was drawing back a bow. Finally! A release from the churning dread that had been festering in the pit of his stomach for so long! That it was replaced by the immediacy of heart-hammering terror…well…he knew how to deal with that.

Xan raised his hands and called up his arrow shield spell with a quick word, ignoring the rumble and thunk of the falling portcullis several paces behind them. (The trap closing. Somehow it hardly came as a surprise.) The faint violet membrane of the shield bloomed around him, and at the same time the man in red's bow creaked and the string thumped.

The enchanted light that had first lit the night radiated from the head of the drawn arrow itself, and now it arched down through the air, a streak of crackling white. Xan cringed back and so did the others, but the arrow struck the surface of the bridge a good five paces ahead of them. He had no time to try and make sense of the miss – the next thing he knew everything was a blinding white and his feet were no longer on the surface of the bridge.

Pitching wildly, the wind crushed from his lungs and his ears ringing, Xan flew. For an eerily long moment he found himself looking up at the clear winter stars, dim behind the lights that danced before his eyes. Then came a bone-jarring impact.

Sharp pain, then numbness. He drew in a shaking breath, squelched his eyes tightly shut, and shook himself, trying to get oriented. To move. Blinking, he saw the others around him, all flattened by the explosion, the illusion stripped away by the break in concentration. Ashura had already rolled onto her feet. Xan tried to follow, sitting-

A wave of something heavy and grey struck them all, and with another painful bang Xan was flattened against the ground once more. This was no explosion, but something soft and heavy. He looked around. Some sort of glistening netting covered them all, and the others were struggling. Getting tangled too. Ashura snarled and shook against the stuff. Viconia cursed. Edwin drew in a deep breath and chanted something, rhythmic and quick. A shimmer ran over his body, he faded from sight, and the netting around him slackened…

…and then he lurched back into existence with a faint woosh of displaced air and the webbing expanded a bit, holding him tight. A long string of Mulhorandi curses followed.

Xan turned his attention ahead, flat on his stomach beneath the webbing. A line of Flaming Fist soldiers was cautiously approaching them now, and in the lead strode a man in a crisp red-and-white uniform, a longbow resting against his shoulder. Angelo Dosan, the Flaming Fist warmage.

Xan narrowed his gaze, tried to catch his breath, and focused solely on that man, looking him in the eye. Once the distance had nearly been closed he opened his mouth and carefully intoned the words: "I suggest you dispel thi-"

That was as far as he got before Angelo bolted forward and the oaken butt of his longbow cracked against Xan's jaw. He twisted to the side beneath his bindings, cheek scraping the stone. He tasted blood.

"Gag this elf," Angelo ordered. "The Thayan too. And do it quick. Don't want any of them slipping the noose."