83 - Rest While You Can

"A Deathbringer has no family. Not in his heart. His one, full, and sole commitment must go into the swing of his blade." -Deathstalker Krashus D'ai, instructing a band of recruits

The Harbormaster's staff had laid out an impressive feast, especially considering the odd hour and short notice. Trays of tin lined the long table, piled high with steaming sausage, beds of diced tubers, and bowls of dill-speckled cabbage and fruit jelly. There were cups of tea on offer as well, which had Imoen thinking that this all might be the morningfeast that the folks here usually whipped up, just served an hour or so earlier than normal.

Shar-Teel was the only one to dig into the meal with any gusto, hacking off hunks of sausage and stuffing her face with them while she gulped down cups of wine (she'd asked for drink, and the staff had obliged.) The rest of the guests just fiddled with their forks, stared at their plates, or politely sipped their tea. Imoen certainly didn't have much of an appetite.

The Harbormaster, a sturdy halfling sailor with a weatherbeaten complexion, watched them from across the table, his face lined with concern. "Eltan," he eventually called. "You should eat."

The grand duke just glared at his plate. "If I can hold it down."

"Try," the Harbormaster suggested. "Remember that advice you gave one of your people, that night before the ugly business on Mintarn? 'Even if it tastes like ashes,' I remember you saying, 'persevere, and spoon it down.'"

"Hm. Yes." Taking that advice, Eltan speared a bit of potato. He gave it a long, uncertain look though. It barely seemed like he could lift the fork.

"You'll need all the strength you can muster. The city's turned upside down."

Imoen figured she ought to take the halfling's words to heart as well, even if her stomach was tight and cold, so she attempted to pick at her plate. How long had it been since she'd last eaten, anyways?

And strength. Ugh. Yeah. That was something she felt rather short on, now that they had finally stopped to sit and take a breath.

Garrick had hummed his healing song over the wound at her brow, and Xan had helped her cover it with a bandage, but it still stung whenever her face so much as twitched. That was just an annoyance compared to the rawness and pain in her upper chest, though. Felt like one wrong move might open the wound all over again.

Xan sat beside her, and —no surprise— he had yet to touch his plate. He was looking at her too, weary and disheveled. Imoen turned to fully face him, with her one good eye, and tried to chew her food and give him a reassuring smile at the same time. Munch - smile - munch - gulp – swallow – smile.

Xan gave her a slight shake of his head. "I thought you were…" he whispered "…and then you leapt from that tower…"

"Ack. Yeah," Imoen whispered back. "Sorry 'bout that." She contemplated adding a 'No harm done' or an 'All's well that ends well,' but given the circumstances that didn't feel right. All wasn't well. So instead she just reached over, found Xan's slender fingers, and gave his hand a squeeze.

The Harbormaster and Eltan were still speaking. "…if I had known what you were going through…" the halfling apologized. "Just figured it was the usual Fist business. Recovering from the latest battle. If-"

"Don't worry about it," Eltan grunted. "Safer that you never got involved. It seems Commander Dosan has been trying to get rid of everyone who might threaten his rule."

"Had been," Garrick corrected. "He's dead now."

There was a sharp clink from Shar-Teel's side of the table —a fork tapping a plate— and Garrick seemed to tense and suppress a gulp. He was sitting right next to the woman, after all. Then Shar-Teel went back to shoveling her food into her mouth and the tension abated.

"Good then," Elthan muttered. He reached for the edge of the table and tried to push his chair back, but he had barely risen before his arms went shaky. For a moment it looked like he would teeter to the side and bring half the silverwear down with him, but Garrick managed to grab the duke by one bony shoulder, and Moruene's apprentice leapt to grab the other. Together, they steadied the poor old fellow and managed to get his butt back into the chair. It took several long gulps of air for Eltan's breathing to grow steady.

The Harbormaster was standing as well, brow furrowed. "You need rest, friend."

"Seems so," Eltan gritted.

"We'll find you a safe bed. And soup. This feast was probably a bit much."

Eltan winced. "True. But I need to talk to my soldiers, soon as I have the strength."

"There may be others loyal to Sarevok," Xan put. "And the grand dukes are being targeted by assassins. We must be cautious."

The Harbormaster nodded. "Might be wisest to get you to a ship," he told his friend.

"I'm not leaving my city," Eltan insisted.

"Then at least lay low. I'll send some of my sailors out. See what they can do. And we'll look to…retrieving the remains from the tower. See if something can be done for Moruene. Maybe Grand Duke Belt can work some miracle."

"If he has not been assassinated yet," Xan said, earning a glare from the halfling.

"We'd best get busy before that happens, then," The Harbormaster stated. "Or…I'd best get busy. Me and some of my trusted people will go get the lay of the land. It would probably be wise for you folks to stay out of sight while we do. We've plenty of rooms to put you up in."

There were no objections, even from Eltan. Man of action or not, the poor sod looked like he was about to pass out.

If the death of her father had affected her, Shar-Teel sure wasn't showing any outward signs. She seemed her usual blustery self as she shoved her way into one of the guest rooms and gave the place a quick inspection.

Having shared inn rooms with the woman a few times, Garrick recognized her usual routine. First she'd circle the room once or twice, checking any corner or closets that that could make for good hiding places, then she'd shrug when all seemed clear, shimmy out of her gear and then her clothes, and be under the sheets and nodding off within minutes. It was an ability that you just had to admire: being able to plop down in almost any location and nap like a wolf. In all of Garrick's travels he'd never really mastered that. He was just too light of a sleeper.

The guest bedroom was tiny, with the character of a cramped ship's cabin, so Shar-Teel's inspection went quickly enough. Garrick gave the one bed an incredulous look while the woman set her things down. There had always been at least two beds, the times they'd been forced to room together before. Will I be sleeping on the rug? Or get murdered in my sleep?

"Looks cozy," Shar-Teel grunted, throwing back the sheets and beginning to unbuckle her armor. As she did that Garrick eased around her and over to the room's one roughewn chair and desk, turning his back and siting down. "And don't be a coward," Shar-Teel added. "I'll leave you some space. Just don't hog the blanket."

"Thanks. Don't think I can sleep yet, though." There was a significant amount of sunlight peeking in through the curtains, and after the events of the last night Garrick's mind was still racing. He rummaged through the bag that he carried at his hip and found his leatherbound journal, along with his ink pot.

Behind him there was a lot clinking and rustling. "Whatever," Shar-Teel muttered. A creak/thump followed: the sound of her flopping onto the bed. "Smart to get rest where you can, though. From what that pipsqueak said it sounds like the enemy's on the move, and who-in-the-Hells knows what'll come next." There was a little more rustling as she got comfortable, and then she added: "But I'm not your mommy. Put your own damn self to bed."

Ignoring her, Garrick raised the little ink-stick he had been using as a writing implement, twirling it between his fingers. Now that there was a moment to stop and take a breath, it would be good to get the events of the past few days down on paper. Jot down all the details, still fresh in his mind. That sort of thing.

Slowly, in fits and starts, Garrick began to scrawl. There was quite a bit that he did not know, of course. They had been separated before, and here they were scattered again. Hopefully, when everything was over, he'd be able to get more of the full story from Ashura. If she was still alive, that is. Ulp.

Garrick bit the non-stained end of his pen. Hmm. Of course, if the coup attempt they had stumbled upon really did succeed…well then it would be even more important for him to get to Berdusk with his journal, wouldn't it? Find a printer fast as he could and get the story out there about the Tyrant of Baldur's Gate and his brutal rise. Even if their heroic efforts to stop him-

Again the pen twirled over a mostly blank page. Shar-Teel's breaths were slow and even now. She had dosed off long ago.

'Heroic efforts.' Those words didn't quite feel right, what with all the fires and dead bodies they'd left back at the Flaming Fist compound. They were wanted criminals now, and had basically gone to war with the local law.

Well, it had all been a tragic mistake, hadn't it? (Tentatively, Garrick began to scrawl again.) Yeah. A tragic mistake. There was a wonderfully wrenching scene at the end of the first canto of an epic poem Garrick had once read, where the heroine of the saga —a paladin— discovered that she had just been tricked into slaying her own order. The next canto began with the fallen heroine being freed from prison by her unlike drow squire (they had, of course, avoided murdering any of the jailers…) so that they could search for the true villains and find redemption. Sadly, as Garrick recalled, that particular saga had gone famously unfinished.

Well, he was determined to see this story to the end! (Provided he survived. Urm…best not to think about that.) And make it just as compelling and romantic as all those other heroic tales! There was an evil knight in baroque armor seeking their deaths, after all. How can you not squeeze some romance out of that?

Behind him, Garrick's new roommate shifted a bit beneath the sheets, and then farted in her sleep.

Hm. Yes. Very romantic. Again Garrick twirled his pen, having still gone some time without writing anything more.

Fallen paladins searching for redemption? That wasn't really this story at all, was it? This was…this was…

…the story of the Bhaalspawn, wasn't it? It belonged to them. Beings of death. And beings of divinity, able to shape the Realms in ways mortals cannot. This was the story of three of them (apparently) all converging in one city and bringing chaos and destruction, willingly or no, wherever they go.

Yeah. Not a tale of heroes at all. Again Garrick whetted his pen, and bent over his journal. The next round of scratching went faster.

"Whew," Imoen exclaimed, snapping her spellbook shut. "All the symbols are just sort of running and warbling together now. That's the point where it's best to stop, right?"

Xan nodded. He was perched upon the edge of the bed with his own book in his lap, though he had closed it long ago (not for being a quick study, but because he was simply far too tired. Apparently Imoen had learned that same lesson.) "I should think so," he said. "You may find it easier to hold the forms in your mind after a good night's sleep." He had suggested that she go to bed as soon as they had been shown the room, but Imoen had insisted on taking to the desk and her book instead. Beyond the curtains the world was growing bright.

"Nah. I'm still not sleepy. And I think I've got all the magic stuffs straight enough in my noggin." Putting her book away, Imoen stood, straightened her shirt out, and crossed the handful of steps between them. The bed wobbled a bit as she plopped down.

Xan reached out, tentative and gentle (there was this irrational fear that he could not shake; that she might dissipate at his touch, like a ghost), and placed a hand on Imoen's opposite shoulder. The shoulder, and the young human woman attached to it, were blessedly solid.

Imoen was not careful or gentle at all: her arm snaked around his waist and she collapsed against him, making him wobble a bit before steadying. "Oof!" she said with a giggle. Eventually she added: "I'm too jittery to sleep. You know that feeling?" Before he could answer she looked off and continued. "And…well, I think I actually slept a real long time after I…" Reaching up, she placed a hand on her chest, covering the torn, darkly stained hole where the sword had gone through. Xan had seen the wound earlier, when they had cleaned and bandaged the spot: raw, red, and scabbed shut. "It was like I went into some sort of coma. And when I woke up, well…guess I was pretty dern well-rested."

An odd and chilling thought occurred to Xan. "That appeared to be a mortal wound that you suffered. I was sure that you were lost. Did it…did it perhaps..?"

"Did I die? Dunno. Think I read somewhere that Bhaal's most powerful Deathstalkers could come back from the dead under the right circumstances. And it did feel really cold. And…" A little shake of her head. "But the specter didn't say I was dead. Said I had the power to heal myself. You've seen how Shura heals, right? Yanking life out of her enemies. Think I did something like that." She let out a nervous breath. "The power of a god, huh? All a lot to take in." She suppressed a shiver, and Xan moved his arm, finding a more full and secure grip.

"You seem the same as always to me," he replied, adding a squeeze and hoping that counted for comforting words. He had never been quite sure about those.

"Good. We'll get through this. Just a little to go, huh? We see what the big spiky guy has planned, and then stop him."

"Uhm." That did not seem like 'a little' at all, to Xan. "Yes," he said, with absolutely no conviction.

She plowed right past that. "And then you'll have truly done what you left yer home to do, against all odds! Bet the elves'll be in for a shock when you tell them the full story, huh?"

"I had not given that much thought." He paused. "You know," Xan mused, "there would be no reason, should I start out for Evereska, for you to not…join me."

"Oh!" There was a smile in her voice. "Hm. The great secret vale of the sun and moon elves? That's definitely on my checklist of sights to see in the big wide world!" A little laugh. "Dunno if Ashura would be interested though."

Xan frowned at the thought of that, and she probably felt him stiffen, since she added: "Can't leave her behind, I'm afraid. She'd be lost without me. And I know you don't exactly, urm, like her and all…"

"I respect her," Xan hastened to say. "She is an…impressive warrior. She simply makes me wary, at times." He was wary around all warriors in these barbarous lands, in truth. Especially the ones whose blades seemed to go flying about with little thought or provocation.

"Guess she has that effect on people. To me she'll always be the one who stood guard with her wooden sword, back when I used to get night terrors."

"A protective older sister?"

"Suppose so. Even though, for all we know, I'm the older one. Was always shorter though. And I always remember Shura with the wooden sword."

A silence lulled between them after that, and eventually Imoen scooted and then leaned back, dragging him with her down across the sheets. Xan turned slightly, and found that Imoen's uncovered eye was shimmering a bit in the morning light. A blink, and a tear tracked down her cheek.

Was it because she was thinking of home? Of course, the poor girl had countless reasons for tears, didn't she? Xan found that his vision was a bit murky as well, and there was a tightness in his chest. Not knowing what else to say, he simply cupped a hand against the back of her head and pressed his forehead to hers. She was warm against his touch; if she had truly died and come back, there were no signs now.

Warm and solid. He closed his eyes and held on.

—

When he awakened he found that the cracks of light behind the curtain had brightened further, and Imoen was gone.

Xan's blood ran cold. He rolled over to look from one side of the bed, then to the other. Nowhere. Hands fumbling –panicked– against the sheets, he shot up to a sitting position.

Something rustled and crinkled against his thigh. A piece of parchment, he realized, snatching it up and staring with bleary eyes. The letter must have been resting on his chest as he slept.

Slept. He had been so exhausted that he must have lost consciousness, splayed out across the bedsheets with Imoen. Or had that been a…a dream?

Holding the parchment up before him, Xan blinked a few times until the big blocks of letters resolved into something legible. He recognized the handwriting for Imoen's, just like the spells she had copied from him into her book. The letters were compact and legible, with a slight rightward slant and bubble-like circles or diamonds where most people would put dots or periods.

'Xan,

Please don't worry. I couldn't sit around all day, so I went out for a bit to see if there was a way to track down A and the rest of the gang (I'm just using initials in case this letter falls into enemy hands. Come to think on it, we should probably come up with a good super-secret code for name-dropping and stuff.)

Anyways, just thought I'd make myself useful and do a little reconnaissance. Maybe make sure we're fully stocked up on everything too. I checked your spell pouch and it looks like you need more dried snake's tongue, rose petals, and tree gum with eyelashes. I might stop by Halbazzer's while I'm out.

But DON'T worry! I found myself some plain sailor's clothes, along with a hooded cloak. I won't be parading around the city in pink or purple or showing off my bow or any of that. I'm incognito. And I've got my inviso spell ready. AND that spiffy ring (thanks for that.) So there's no need to worry. So please don't.

Ugh. I just know that you'll worry anyways. Well, hopefully I'll be back before you even wake up, so there'll be no need. But if I'm not, DON'T WORRY!

-I'

Biting his lip, Xan fidgeted with the piece of parchment, re-read it a few times, and tried - tried - tried to follow Imoen's advice.

Ashura came awake flailing, kicking at the sheets and clawing at the air. They were coming! She wriggled until her back pressed against the headboard of the bed. They were coming with the pliers!

But there was no one else in the dimly lit room. And there were no manacles on her wrists, either. She blinked a few times, squinching her eyes tightly shut, and fought to catch her breath.

No manacles, no chains, and no dungeon walls. Instead, brightly colored silk decorated this place from floor to ceiling; a small, gaudy bedroom. The place practically stank of perfume and incense, though that didn't quite overpower…

Wrinkling her nose, Ashura lifted an arm and sniffed. Gods! She really needed a bath. Some fresh clothes too. She had collapsed on the bed completely dressed, her armor left in a pile on the floor.

Ugh. Yeah. As she recalled, she had laid down with a racing mind and aches all over her body, assuming that she wouldn't be able to sleep after everything that had happened. She must have just blacked out after that.

There was a cough from somewhere beyond the silken curtain that served as the bedroom's door. "Ahem."

Ashura winced as she turned towards the voice. Her neck was stiff. Everything was stiff. Sore too. There were some spots on her back that felt especially tender. "Coran?" she asked. Sounded like his cough. It had been his voice that had woken her too, she realized.

"Indeed," the elf replied from the other side. "Apologies for disturbing your beauty rest."

"Don't worry about it. Come in here."

The curtain shifted and Coran stepped in, dressed in his usual flamboyant purples. His eyes were strangely downcast; he seemed almost shy.

"How long was I out?"

"A while. It's around the second bell of the afternoon."

"Oh. Damn." Again, Ashura rubbed her face, scooting to the edge of the bed and fumbling for the glass decanter on the nightstand. Coran rushed in to help her pour a cup of water, and she gulped it down in a few quick chugs.

"I've been poking my head above ground," Coran said as she drank. "Haven't seen any sign of Imoen, I'm afraid. Though everyone's talking like the folks who smashed up the Flaming Fist fort all got away. I suppose that's a good sign."

"Yeah."

"And everyone's talking about Grand Duke Silvershield's death. At the hands of Shadow Thief assassins, apparently."

"Of course."

"And it seems that all the well-to-dos are pouring into the Ducal Palace."

Ashura grunted. "We'll need to go there." She looked over to her armor. Didn't exactly feel like leaping up and strapping it on just yet. "Tamoko said that there'd be some sort of election. Sarevok might be-"

A voice from behind the curtain interrupted her: "There is still time." Tamoko shouldered her way into the bedroom. "Enough for preparations. I have put an ear to the ground, much like your elf, and it seems that the landed are still assembling for the election. And bickering. The remaining grand dukes were caught flatfooted by last night's events, and will delay if they can."

"Well good," Ashura muttered. "I'll at least have time for a bath." She stood and straightened, again wincing.

"Viconia's about," Coran put in. "Might want to have her see to your injuries."

"Eh." Didn't feel like she was bleeding anywhere. Just needed to stretch. Although…those really sore spots were where the hot irons had been pressed, weren't they?

"I shall inform you when the election grows immanent," Tamoko stated curtly, turning and taking her leave. She hadn't offered healing, though that was likely for the best.

"Where's Skie?" Ashura asked.

"Sleeping in the next chamber over."

"Good." Best to let her sleep. They'd need to come up with a plan soon though, and, being one of the city's 'well-to-dos,' Skie would probably be their best bet into the palace. But for now: a bath (Ashura was desperate to get rid of the grime that had accumulated in that damn dungeon), and then maybe a meal. Oh, and: "Hey Coran? Can you do me a favor?"

"What is your bidding?" He smirked.

She fished a pair of silver pieces from her pouch. "Is there a tailor's shop nearby? Up top."

"I can find one. Sure."

"Just some simple leggings and a shirt. Warm wools." She pressed the coins into his hand. "And no flamboyant purples or anything." Suddenly, sending Coran out to scrounge up clothes seemed like a terrible idea. He would dress her up in something gaudy, given half the chance, wouldn't he?

"Of course." He gave her a long look. "And…I'm sorry we couldn't come to your rescue sooner."

"Eh." She shrugged. "We didn't get hanged. We're muddling through this."

"Are you?" Damn. He seemed genuinely concerned.

She met his eyes. "Yeah. Absolutely." And she meant it. Time to get moving.

Going through his spell book. Yes. That would help pass the time. Then perhaps he could…do another accounting of his reagents? Clean his sword? And after that…well, he would just have to think of something else to fiddle with.

Knuckles tense, Xan opened the book in his lap, took a moment to relax his breathing, and let his gaze linger, unfocused, over the diagram depicting the forms and barriers of self-deception (a key element that many basic charms harnessed and built upon.) Next came the runes of-

It was about then that the door burst open and Imoen came tromping in across the threshold, her plain brown cloak damp and dusted a bit with snow. She was hugging a tall basket to her chest, with a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Scooting into the bedroom and using her heel to nudge the door shut behind her, she gave Xan a mildly guilty look. "Oh. Urm. So yer awake," she said. "I was kind of hoping…"

"You mentioned that hope in the letter, yes." He felt this sudden urge to toss the book aside, leap to his feet, rush over and embrace her. Instead (since he did not want to crush whatever groceries she carried or alarm her with a sudden outburst like that), Xan clenched the hidebound covers tight between his fingers, forced himself to remain seated, and gave the girl the widest smile he had ever given anyone in his life.

Ah! After the bath she felt almost human again!

Rubbing a cloth against her soggy hair, Ashura made her way back to the boarding rooms, dressed in the stiff new wools that Coran had been nice enough to snag for her. To her surprise he'd picked out grays and blacks: comfortable trousers, a long sleeved, formfitting undershirt, and a lightweight blouse to go over that. She also wore her swordbelt and her blades, of course.

The Undercellars were quiet and nearly empty now, either because it was midafternoon, or because most of the usual patrons were barricading themselves in their estates after the events of last night. Entering the suite they had rented, she looked from one draped doorway to the next. Probably a good idea to check on Skie, if she was still in the room Coran had indicated. The poor girl had broken down shortly after they found her; blood-splattered, huddled against a wall, and for some reason dressed in an absurd outfit of transparent silk. Seemed that, like most of them, Skie had had one Abyss-colliding-with-all-the-Nine-Hells-and-a-few-other-lower-planes-on-top-of-that sort of a night.

A curtain rustled before Ashura could approach any of the rooms, and Tamoko slipped out, fully kitted in her enameled black plate. The Kara-Turan woman stepped towards Ashura, inclining her head as she neared. "I must depart now," she stated plain.

"Oh?" Ashura asked.

"You have all you need now, for the coming trials. And-"

"You don't want to be there," Ashura realized. "When we attack."

A conceding nod. "Correct." Tamoko glanced back, in the direction of Skie's room. "Unfortunate that we did not stop the assassins until they had taken one of their targets, but the Silvershield girl shall prove useful. A key into the palace. And she will know the compromised courtiers by sight."

"Yeah. Was just about to speak with her."

"Then, as I said, there is no further need for me." As the priestess approached and walked by, Ashura's hand drifted to her longsword's hilt, just in case. Once Tamoko had passed and reached the drape that led out of the suite (a few paces out of immediate sword-range), she turned, and for a moment she simply gave Ashura a pondering look. Then she spoke again:

"Since I have assisted you, perhaps you could consider a favor in return." She paused, and when Ashura just inclined her head slightly in response, Tamoko went on. "Once the coup has been averted, Sarevok will retreat. When this occurs, I ask that you simply consider letting him go. Consider walking away from this ugly business, and going on with your life, rather than hunting your brother across Faerun." Her words were even more measured than usual, and her stance was tense. No doubt she was ready to send a wall of fire billowing up to block the doorway and beat a hasty retreat at any moment.

"That 'brother' sent assassins to hunt me," Ashura replied, her jaw tightening. "He cut my father down because he was in the way-"

"How many have you cut down because they happened into your path? I saw you hurl Cythandria off the tower without a thought."

"I'm not going to argue the difference. Maybe there isn't one. You've watched me, right? You know me. So you probably know what I'll do if Sarevok flees." The thought seemed kind of absurd and abstract anyway. She remembered that cocksure, towering warrior she had sparred with when she was young. And later: the man who had fended her fury off, laughing, with only a quarterstaff.

Tamoko glared. "I do. From what I have seen you are as foolish and hardheaded as he. With the divinity that sleeps in your veins you have the power to reshape the world in ways few of us can. You can choose, yet the choice you make is to look to the ground and ram ahead along the obvious course." There was more emotion in the priestess's voice than Ashura had ever heard. A swell of anger.

Then the priestess took a long breath, and some of the tension lifted. "I should never have asked," she sighed.

Conscious and deliberate, Ashura made her hands drift away from the hilts of her swords. "It's alright. I…appreciate your advice." Even if I won't follow it. "'You cannot hope to chop down the world,' right? I'll think on it."

They shared a long look. "Know that you always have a choice." And with that Tamoko turned and slipped by the curtain, vanishing from sight.

As soon as the priestess was gone a bright red presence drifted into the edge of Ashura's vision, robes whispering. "She will betray you, of course," Edwin stated.

Ashura glanced at him, then back to the swishing curtain. "Eh," she grunted, noncommittal. "Does the word 'betrayal' even apply when there was no loyalty in the first place?"

"I suppose not. Good to be able to recognize a tenuous alliance." He took her hand and shoved a small metal object between her fingers. "You will borrow this," he commanded.

Ashura looked down at the thick little ring, pink on the outer edges and a ruby color along the center. It was decorated with a little red sunburst. "Uh. Another ring? Are we getting married?"

That earned her a genuinely confused look from Edwin, albeit brief. Then he realized. "Ah, yes. The courtship rituals of this barbarous region. No, I am merely attempting to protect my investments. Especially after all you have put me through. You are only to borrow this, until this business is concluded, with your hide intact (and hopefully unburnt.)"

"How romantic."

He rolled his eyes.

She slipped the ring on. "Thanks, though. I appreciate it."

He bristled. "Simply remember that you owe me, and act accordingly when the time comes."

"Sure. So long as you fight with us until Sarevok's defeated." Not like she could afford to think longer term than that.

"You may trust me not to shirk any bargains we make. Although, it pays to be more cautious when placing enchanted rings of unknown origin on one's fingers. They could be cursed in any number of ways. One who has earned the right to wear red would never make such a mistake."

She glared.

"It is not cursed, of course. As I stated, you may trust me. I am simply chastising you for your reckless incaution."

Still glaring, she slipped the ring off of her finger, resisted the urge to throw it in his face, and then put it back on. Cursed items would not allow you to remove them, supposedly (and she had a little experience with that.) "Thanks, then."

"If you truly wish to display your gratitude for all that I have done," he gestured towards the curtain of her bedroom, "this appears to be the perfect setting."

"How romantic," she repeated. "I'm going to go check on Skie." With that she turned away and started off.

"Then I suppose I shall see what entertainments this glorified basement has to offer while we wait."

"Knock yourself out."

The bed in the grand suit at the top of the Three Old Kegs Inn sat unoccupied this eve, its blankets undisturbed. Instead, Sarevok Anchev sat cross-legged on the carpet beside it, clad in only a breachcloth. A single candle burned before him, The Sword of Chaos rested at his side, and a bed of coals glowed in the hearthfire at his back, warming his bare skin well enough. He had toyed with the notion of sleep, but there was too much disquiet in his blood for him to yet rest. That, and he simply could not shake the feeling that something was coming.

Thus, it came as no surprise when a great force thudded against the bedroom door, the wooden latch rattling. Yes. No sleep tonight. Calm and swift, Sarevok snatched the crossguard of his sword and shot to his feet.

The second blow against the door sent splinters flying, and the third snapped the latch. The door came crashing inward on its hinges, the room flooded with light, and Sarevok drifted a few steps back into the shadows, keeping out of a direct line with the door should crossbow bolts come flying in.

No bolts; instead an armored man thundered through the doorway, a longblade raised and clutched in both hands as his eyes swept the room. The intruder stopped far out of Sarevok's reach, and their eyes locked.

The man was a stranger, with a weathered face, a shaved head, and a distinctive braided beard that dangled from his chin. He wore some sort of banded armor with quilted padding over the arms, and stamped to the breast was —Ah. That explains it.

Stamped to the breast of the armor was the white-on-orange crest of the Iron Throne.

"Sarevok Anchev," the intruder hissed. His accent was thickly Sembian. Seemed he was one of those fools who wished to banter before the inevitable, too.

"Yes?"

"You've much to answer for. You will drop that ridiculous sword and come with me for questioning. Your men below have already surrendered to my comrades." He was referring to the little retinue of guards and servants that had been housed in the lower rooms; men brought along for appearance more than anything. When Sarevok rode through the gates of the Ducal Palace in the morning it would seem odd if he arrived alone.

"Oh? I will?" Sarevok had his sword raised in a high guard now. A quick lunge and sweeping motion would not be enough to strike the Sembian, but the fool would try to block, and then Sarevok would be able to bat his sword aside. The next step from there would be a killing blow.

"If you know what's good for you," the Sembian snarled, pointing with his sword but not yet advancing. From his perspective he likely thought that he had just surprised a half-naked merchant prince in his bedroom. The fool had no idea what Sarevok's greatsword was, or what he was capable of doing with it.

Of course, it would not be wise to give the Sembian —who looked to be an experienced enough warrior— time to assess the situation; to get a good, clear look at Sarevok's muscles, scars, tattoos, or poise. Careful not to show any outward signs, Sarevok silently drew in a long intake of breath and prepared to spring.

"I will allow you the dignity of-" the Sembian began to add, but before he could finish the sentence or Sarevok could strike, they were interrupted by a flash of amber light that settled like a halo around the intruder's head. "-of ddrr" the man slurred, his arms going limp at his sides and his bastard sword scraping the floor. "Ddddrrree…" A lulled look had come over him, empty eyes aglow as his body went slack.

Some form of enchantment, by Sarevok's guess. He did not wait to search for the source, or give his thanks, instead tilting his greatsword back and dashing forward, aiming to cleave the intruder's befuddled skull in two.

"Stop!" a voice hissed from the darkness, just as Sarevok began to swing. The voice of Winski Perorate. On reflex, as he had done many times during his training, Sarevok obeyed, his sword halting in mid-flight.

"This man might prove useful," Perorate added, still invisible somewhere in the dimness. "And he is under my sway."

"Indeed?" Sarevok lowered his sword.

The Sembian spoke in a rattling, listless voice: "Indeed I am." His posture straightened, the glow lingering in his blank eyes, and then he gave Sarevok a slight bow.

"His name is…Rahvin, it seems." Winski spoke slowly. Seemed he was delving into the mind of his new puppet. "He was sent here…at the behest of Sfena herself, to investigate the numerous failures of your little cartel." Rahvin turned around as Winski spoke, shutting the door like the handy little servant he had suddenly become. "He and his operatives seem to have been hunting for you."

"Ah," Sarevok said. "To be expected. And I suppose we could send them hunting after someone else instead?"

"Precisely." The old Rashemi finally shimmered into visibility, dressed in his usual near-rags, arms crossed at his chest. "The spell of domination will last quite some time, and I can make him act convincing enough to command his subordinates. There is an ogre among them. An interesting lot."

Sarevok chuckled.

"What say we send them hunting after Tamoko? Rahvin's underlings can be told that she is the one responsible for the chaos in their organization."

Despite himself, Sarevok found his eyes narrowing on his old master. This was one of Perorate's tests, wasn't it? In his training, the old man had emphasized many times that a Deathbringer must have no attachments. A family would inevitably be used against you by your enemies, and worry for others would hold back the full swing of your blade. "My sister is far more of a threat," Sarevok said eventually. "And our greatest priority at the moment is the election."

"Tamoko must be dealt with."

"Everyone will be dealt with," Sarevok snarled. "Look how many have fallen so far! There's barely any left to stand in my way, and tomorrow morning they shall all be in one place."

Winski inclined his head. "It is your decision."

Sarevok grunted. 'How many have fallen so far.' Those words certainly rang true. He was fast running out of enemies and allies. Though perhaps that was how it was meant to be. 'A Deathbringer has no family' indeed, for he must view everyone as expendable.

Turning, he pondered what to do with this new slave.

Author's Note: Whew! Just a few more chapters to go, and then an epilogue.

The 'epic saga' that Garrick muses about is a reference to one of the more popular Neverwinter Nights mods, which I believe was called Twilight. It was a lot of fun: you play a paladin but get a decent amount of roleplaying options. There's a sequel called Midnight, but sadly the third mod in the planned trilogy (Dawn) was never completed, as far as I know.