86 - Partings

"Fickle be the winds, my love

Uncertain be the sea,

Yet I know one day that they shall turn

And steer you back to me" -a nameless ghost, singing in the Elfsong Tavern

No!

With a great and deliberate effort Ashura forced her claws apart, dropping Varscona to the ground. Her other hand shot up in the same instant, claws parting for a frantic grasp.

Impact. Squirming. A flaring pain.

Off-balance and entangled, she stumbled, and then they both fell. "No," she hissed all the while. "No! No! No!"

Her eyes had shut tight, closing off the smoky dreamscape. There was a scraping sound and a stinging sensation. Steel ground and rattled. They rolled in the sand.

The wrist that Ashura was gripping twisted and flailed, trying to break free. Through it all she held her eyes shut tight. "No. I won't. I WON'T!" She was on her back. Being shaken. (She remembered the wolf, on the road out of Candlekeep, clamping down with its jaws and worrying the wound).

Then, all of a sudden, the shaking stopped. Imoen was stiff and still. The clink of damaged chainmail abated, and for a moment all went quiet. "Oh…" Imoen broke the silence with a horrified breath. "Oh…what..?"

Ashura opened her eyes. No smoke. No hellfire glow. No daemons lurked at the edges of the clearing. There were only ruins now. Imoen was no daemon-girl with gleaming teeth, and there were no sparks in her sharpened eyes. Now those eyes were just wide, glassy, and blue.

There were no claws on Ashura's fingers, she was wearing a cloak –not wings, and the temple beyond them loomed silent and dark. It had all winked out in an instant, if they had ever been in Gehenna at all.

Rocking back, Imoen lifted her dagger, clasped between limp fingers. She stared at it, disbelieving. The blade was smeared with blood. She looked from the dagger to Ashura. "What…gods…Shura…" Getting to her feet, Imoen stumbled back a step.

Ashura winced when she tried to sit up too. Her armor was a mess, and she was a mess beneath it. How many wounds? How deep? Her hand went to the most recent rent: a spot by her collarbone. Stung quite a bit. Still, she managed to wobble and sit up. Didn't seem like anything vital was leaking out.

The dagger between Imoen's hands shook. She was trembling all over.

Ashura managed to shift and raise an arm. She held out an open hand. "Imoen." Ugh, was her voice raw! "Imoen. It's okay."

Teeth chattering and eyes fixed on the stained dagger, Imoen just replied with a pained whine. Then she threw the dagger aside, whirled around, and fled as fast as she could.

Several days later, in the crowded feasthall of the Friendly Arm Inn, Imoen found herself a corner table and plopped down behind it. A few sips of ale followed, and then, idly, she drew her dagger and balanced it in front of her. A single finger kept the blade standing upright, point first.

This was not Montaron's old weapon, of course. She had left that cursed thing back in the underworld beneath Baldur's Gate. Her new dagger was just a modestly priced piece of steel that she'd bought today from Bentley Mirrorshade. 'Forged with fresh iron,' he had promised.

Not Montaron's old dagger, but it was keen enough. Looked like it could easily cut a throat or two.

'You have my gratitude, for saving both my life, and my city. I hope that you understand, however, why you can never set foot within these walls again.' Those had been Grand Duke Eltan's words. Not spoken unkindly. And yeah, Imoen had certainly understood. Even if they had been pardoned, there were a lot of people in the city who probably wanted revenge for the deaths they had caused. So, in the dead of night, they had been thanked, quietly smuggled onto a ship by the Harbormaster's people, and then shipped across the river.

The dagger slowly spun, and the hole that it had nicked in the tabletop began to grow. Imoen pondered just tossing the weapon away, like the old one. But then, how would she cut up her apples, sausages, or the bits of spit-roasted rabbit they often ate on the trail? How would she whittle improvised tent stakes? Or slice tripwire-traps? In truth, she had used Montaron's old blade a lot more for that sort of thing than for killing.

There was a clinking sound at the other end of the table, and Imoen glanced up to see Ashura ease onto the opposite stool. She still wore her chainmail all the time. Probably wise that way. "Don't think Bently'll be pleased if he catches you destroying his tabletop," Ashura noted.

"They've got worse marks in'em." The dagger kept spinning. A little sawdust was gathering around the point.

"Just don't want to get banned from any more inns. We're close to running out of places to stay." Shura's tone was light; her usual gallows humor. Imoen didn't respond, and after an awkward pause, Ashura tried a different tack. "I've been wracking my brain, trying to remember another time you've looked this morose. And I can't think of any."

All along the journey south through the farmlands Ashura had tried to be reassuring, in her way. Pats on the shoulder. Kind words. 'It's okay, Imoen.' Hadn't made it okay, though. Imoen turned her head, leaving the dagger imbedded and upright. "Yer the one acting strange, you know. Not being upset 'bout what happened."

"We're alive, aren't we? We all survived-" (Not true. After the battle they had found pieces of Voleta scattered across the floor of the cavern, blasted by the first explosive arrow. Not like Shura would care about the death of someone she'd never even met, though) "-miraculous as that is. And this ugly business with Sarevok and the assassins is done."

"Ugly isn't the half of is." Imoen looked up. "And I stabbed you-"

"It's healed now. And that wasn't the first wound you've given me. Imoen, it was…" She breathed in deep. "…it was just another spell. And we broke it. And we're alive."

Imoen flung her arms up and out in frustration. "But don't you see?! That arrow-wound, back at Feldpost's! That was probably our dad's doing too!"

"It was just an enchantment-"

"I caught ya flat-footed, despite yer arrow-dodging boots." Caught a lot of folks flat-footed, recently. All those arrows and spurts of blood. Thump - zip - thunk -crash, and then the folks would go still. "And don't tell me you didn't feel it," Imoen added "out in front of the temple. That pull. You know what…what our dad intended." She placed two fingertips against the pommel of the dagger once again, eyes on the blade. "I don't want to be a monster."

Ashura's hand shot across the table, knocking the dagger over. "Good thing you're not one, then. You're an adventurer. A clever, quick, city-saving adventurer, just like the ones in all those tales we grew up reading. You remember? Reading out loud, under the maple tree? And the days with my dad?"

"He did the best voices."

"Yeah. He did."

Imoen took a long breath. "Thanks." A pause. "Still…you suppose that after all of this, and knowing what we know…"

"What?"

"You suppose we might should take separate roads? Just for a bit. This curse we've been living: maybe it's worse because it's been both of us traveling together. And then worse still when we got near our big, stupid brother."

Darn. Ashura looked hurt. Like, really, really hurt. "I won't stop you," she replied, voice soft, looking down.

Imoen hastened to reach across the table and take her sister's hand. "Sorry. I love you, Shura."

"Love you too, Ims." A little silence, and then a tight smile. "You thinking of going north? With Xan?"

"Dunno." Evereska had finally called Xan back, after he sent the latest news to his superiors, and his offer to take her with him still stood. On the one hand, who doesn't dream of going to an enchanted elven enclave, where people can float from story to story of the crystal towers as easy as walking up stairs? And maybe it would be peaceful, after all of this. Maybe there'd be a house with a garden to tend to, and a little half-elf or two would follow…

On the other hand, Imoen had a hard time picturing what she, being a restless and impulsive twenty-year-old human girl and all, would actually do for long in a quiet elven city. And she wasn't just any human…what if something ugly followed her into the sacred place? What if, being what she was, she put Xan and his family in danger?

"Just something to think about," Imoen finally said. "While we wait for the others to recover. And, truth be told, I just don't want to get wrapped up in Edwin's next stupid plan. That heist was enough for me. I know you feel like you owe him, but I don't. Would rather at least take a detour and fulfill some promises of my own." Hm. Now there was a thought. She had a little unfinished business back at Candlekeep; far more important than the schemes of red wizards.

"If we do part ways-"

"We'll meet up again." Imoen thought for a moment. "I know! We can get back together the way adventurers always do. Set a date, and meet in an inn!"

The world was white; the sleeping woodlands covered by a solid layer of snow. Side by side, Ashura and Garrick led a horse across the weathered drawbridge of the Friendly Arm, then down the southern trail. They stopped at a copse of trees, to make sure that all of the saddle bags were secure, and then Garrick got ready to mount up. He turned to Ashura first. "We'll see each other again. I promise." The smile he gave her was a little forced.

Ashura patted his shoulder and ruffled his cloak, careful not to nudge the opposite arm, which was hanging in a sling. "Hope your hand heals nice and straight. And if it doesn't, you find yourself a decent priest or something. Alright?"

He nodded.

"I'd miss your music." Her voice caught and her eyes stung a bit at the edges.

"If the book sells I'll be able to afford all sorts of healing." A nervous chuckle. "But I'm sure it'll be fine. Just got to remember to only hold the reins with one hand. All careful-like."

"You could stay a little while longer-"

Another nervous chuckle cut her off. "Best to be going before Shar-Teel starts asking for her money. And there are probably lots of folks itching to tell the full tale of the Iron Crisis. I've gotta beat them to it."

This was not a place they all could stay for much longer, anyway. The Friendly Arm's guard was independent, but the Flaming Fist patrolled nearby. If Ashura and the others stuck around too long, in one place like this, there'd be someone coming for revenge. Xan had already started his own journey north, after a long talk with Imoen and quite a few tears.

"You be safe," Ashura said, scooting in as close as she could get to him. Their kiss was brief, but the embrace that followed lasted a lot longer, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. She felt his chin nuzzle against her crown, his good arm clinging to her, and for a time neither seemed inclined to let go.

Eventually they did untangle their limbs and step back. Turning around —and wary of his injured hand— Garrick gripped the saddle horn, found a stirrup, and swung up onto his horse. A fine horse too: a sleek, palfrey mare. She was fast and light, and if Garrick bumped into any danger on the road, she would be the perfect sort to outrun it. Hopefully.

Blinking against the glare of the snow, Garrick gave Ashura one more look and a nod, then he turned south. The palfrey began to trot. A few strides down the road, however, Garrick and his mount paused. He looked back. "Oh. Hey. Ash?"

"Yes?"

"Is it okay if I call it 'The Unauthorized Biography of Ashura Adrian?' Figure it might sell better if it's unauthorized."

She snorted. "It can't be unauthorized if you have to ask, idiot-" and then she stopped herself, laughing. He was grinning down at her. A joke, and it had been one of his better ones. "Write whatever outlandish drivel you want," she told him, grinning wide.

He saluted. "That I will, sir!" Turning in the saddle, he started down the road once more.

"Be safe!" she shouted after him, and then, for a time, she watched him amble on, her vision swimming. Eventually she turned away and bent her head, cheeks warmed by tears. Truth be told, she hoped that she really never saw him again. Go on to Berdusk. Find a printer for that book, and then maybe write some songs. Find a nice bard-girl too, and then maybe some little bardlings will follow. It was better that way.

There was a long stretch of open road between the looming forests, here on the trail south from the Friendly Arm. If she wanted to, Ashura could have watched the horse and its rider trot along a good ways before it disappeared behind a bend. But she didn't. She walked away.

A bag of holding makes packing up and moving out pretty simple and trivial. Still, just to be sure, Imoen rummaged through the bag and went over what she was carrying one more time. Wouldn't want to skedaddle without fairly divvying up the loot. Nosir.

Seemed like she was only carrying what she needed: an oilcloth tent, provisions for the road ('multiple feasts' would probably be how other folks would describe all the food she had stuffed away), several bottles of rum, a tin pot and a cast iron pan, a fair share of coins and gems, multiple changes of clothes (all varying shades of pastels), toiletries, thieves tools, caltrops, alchemical smoke bombs, alchemical incendiary bombs, alchemical bomb-bombs, her arrow collection, her scroll collection, writing implements, her spellbook, multiple spellbooks lifted off of dead enemy mages that were full of arcane formulas that she would totally transcribe one of these days, healing draughts, haste potions, sundry enhancement potions (cat's grace, eagle's splendor, bull's strength, bear's endurance, insight, mental clarity, thievery, and genius), a few invisibility potions, a grappling hook, lots of rope, and a trenching spade. You know: just the necessities.

Oh. And lest we forget, down there amongst the various spell-scrolls in her bag sat a couple of very important, newly purchased ones. Gellana Mirrorshade had been nice enough to give her a discount on those, once she had explained what she needed them for.

With everything accounted for, Imoen turned to the door and silently padded out of the room, then down the hall. She'd miss her sister. She'd miss most of them, in fact (though it would be good to get away from Edwin). Navigating by moonlight and infravision, she crept down through the hall and made her way to the ground floor, through the common area, and then out the exit of the Friendly Arm's keep. The courtyard was an empty canvas of blue-white, sleepy and silent until Imoen's careful steps crunched the snow.

Hopefully no one would complain about what she'd taken, and hopefully the note she had left behind would put Ashura's mind at ease.

As she neared the Arm's outer walls, a suspicion that she was being watched came over Imoen. She looked back, and her heart about leapt out of her chest at the sight of a formless figure in black, just a few steps behind. Her hand swished down to her dagger, but then she realized that the cloak and cowl were pretty familiar. Biting her lower lip, Imoen gave Viconia a guilty little wave. "Sorry 'bout not sayin' goodbye," she whispered.

Silent, save for the faintest crunch of snow (how did she do that anyway?) Viconia slipped in at Imoen's side. "Perhaps there is no need for goodbyes?" the drow replied, one eyebrow raised. "I owe you my life, and-"

"Hey now. No need for that. I'm sure you've saved my life a couple'a times over since then."

"Regardless. If you would have me, I wish to follow you on the road."

"Oh. Well, sure. Thought that you and Shura had become pretty good pals is all." Imoen started forward, and together they made their way towards the drawbridge.

"I respect her, yes. The moustache-stroking Thayvian pig is another story, however. And she seems intent on following his latest scheme."

"Ack? Do you think he's going to betray her?" Imoen thought about turning around then and there.

"Hardly. More likely they will bed each other within a tenday. And he means to protect his interests. I simply have no desire to be counted as one of those interests. If I have to listen to one more comment about red-blooded wizards and 'Thayvian technique…' Bah!"

That made Imoen giggle. "I'm a little surprised that you, of all people, wouldn't at least check to see if he's all talk or not. Urm. No offense."

"None taken. But I knew the instant he opened his mouth that he was all talk. Bragging of the 'moans of concubines.' Does the fool not know that it is a concubine's job to fawn and coo over the pig who owns her? I should know. And I've no wish to be anyone's property again."

Imoen swallowed. She knew that story: how the poor drow had been captured and taken as a pet by a wealthy merchant the day that she set foot, blinded and disoriented, on the surface. And how the asshole-guy's guards had nearly killed Viconia a few months later, when she had given the man a heart attack while they were doing the deed. Reaching out, Imoen gave her friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

But that just prompted a fierce look from Viconia, followed by a shake of her head. "Do not pet or patronize me. I simply state fact."

"Alright, alright." Touchy subject. They fell silent after that, walking along through the snow and the moonlight.

'This isn't goodbye!' Imoen's letter read. 'I mean that. I just think that, like we've talked about, it'd be good for us to see what happens on separate roads. See if this curse is less pernicious when we're apart. Let's meet again at the Friendly Arm, say Ches 19? Okay? We can swap stories over some ale, just like old times.

'And if that doesn't work, feel free to track me down. I think I'll be pretty easy to find, after I de-rock-ify a certain Rashemi HERO. You will know us by our trail of heroic tails! Yargh!'

Carefully folding up the parchment, Ashura packed it away, stepping out of her room. There was no mention in the letter of Viconia, though it was pretty clear what had happened. Couldn't really blame them, either. The nineteenth of Ches it is.

Down in the bustling common room, Edwin looked impatient as ever, standing near the door with his arms crossed. With a roll of her eyes, Ashura sauntered on towards him, Coran and Shar-Teel rising from a nearby table to follow her (Shar-Teel had spent a lot of her time lately near the wood elf, constantly taunting him. Something going on there, it seemed like).

"About time," the red wizard huffed once they had neared. He waved at the door. "Provided there are no more distractions, let us go!"

"Yeah," Ashura muttered. "Lead on, master." She was glad that she had recovered her offhand blade —Montaron's old short sword— after the battle with Sarevok. It was the perfect weapon for stabbing someone in the back.

Edwin snorted. "I would call that a rare display of wisdom, but I do recognize sarcasm when I see it." Together they passed through the doorway and out into the morning light. "I will require greater obedience, once we are in the Wood of Sharp Teeth."

"This is a trap you're leading me into, isn't it?"

"Obviously. But it is a trap of my making, for my enemies. All will be explained (or at least, the parts of the plot that your feeble intellect can grasp) along the way."

If Imoen were still here she'd probably have come up with a good way to make this windbag huff and puff by now. Probably would have called him 'Eddy' a few times too. Already, Ashura was beginning to miss her sister.

With an unwelcome, agonized gasp, Winksi Perorate shot up and pressed a hand to his chest. It burned. Gods did it burn! Where? How?

His hands scraped at the floor around him. Tiles. A mosaic. And a lot of dried blood. He remembered falling to the temple floor, cold and fading. Then, a field of endless, chalky white, littered with people praying to be lifted up by their gods. That all felt like a dream now, though. This was real: the cold floor, his worn old bones, and the pain.

"I imagine you were eager for some rest, old friend" a woman's voice called out, and Winski turned to find a familiar figure sitting on the steps of the temple's altar. Her hair was a strawberry red, her face was ruddy, her smile was crooked, and she was dressed in sturdy trousers and a green tunic slashed by a stripe of bright red. On her head rested a circlet, wreathed in feathers.

Well, that certainly answered the question of how he had been brought back. He thought to reply to his fellow Deathstalker. 'It has been a long life, indeed.' All that came out was a labored cough, however.

The woman straightened and stood, towering above him and grinning down. "But our master was not perturbed by his own death," she continued, "now was he? No reason for you to be either. And we have work to do."

Author's Note: I went back and forth a lot on whether or not Ashura and Imoen should actually part, and wrote several versions of this chapter. Still, in the end, it felt like where they had been heading, sort of becoming separate *adventuring party leaders* for the time being. Judge for yourself though (all comments are welcome).

And that's the last chapter-chapter. Just the epilogue to go, and then this monster will be complete! Thank you so much for reading!