"Get the prisoners," Lysara told the other two when she was sure that the last of the bandits were gone. "I'm going to make our presence known."
Without giving Imoen or Jaheria a chance to reply, she held her bow up high and threw back her hood, stepping out of the trees' cover and into the open sunlight.
She was spotted immediately, and had a score of arrows nocked and ready to fly at her with the slightest provocation. "Peace!" she yelled as loudly as she could.
One of the men – he wore a full plate mail, enameled in exquisite detail with the stone hand and lidless eye of Helm - reached over and forced one of his soldier's weapon arms down, yelling "Hold fire!" in a loud, authoritative voice.
"Who are you that walks out of the enemy's lines claiming peace?" the man demanded. "A bandit seeking to surrender?"
"Just a helpful traveller, sir," Lysara called, lowering her bow to rest on the ground next to her. "My friends and I eliminated the bandit mage who was ferrying additional troops in against you, and have taken several prisoners. May we approach?"
"If your claims are true, then you're our best friend right now," the man called back, voice muffled by his helmet. "Approach, then," he added with a 'come here' gesture.
"Your name, milady?" the man asked, gesturing for her to stop when she was still about six paces away. His eyes, the only visible part of his body, took her in from head to heel, resting on her weapons especially.
"Lysara Vantress, of Candlekeep," she introduced herself. "The ten men filing out behind me I do not know. But the girl in the purple blouse is Imoen Catari, also of Candlekeep. She threw the fireball responsible for that." She pointed her free hand towards the scorched bodies and earth. And the blonde woman with a staff is Jaheria… um… I don't know her family name, actually. I'll have to remember to ask. She's a druid of no small power, and credit for that lightning bolt goes to her."
"Sir Ajantis Ilvastarr is my name, Paladin of Helm and Knight of the Most Holy Order of the Radiant Heart," the man introduced himself. "Not technically commander of these men, I'm afraid, though I was their patron. I just stepped in when their actual commander was slain in the opening volley."
"Cowardly dogs," one of the men spat. "Deserve the rope, all of 'em."
"First we'd like a few answers out of them," Lysara replied delicately. "But before that can take place, are your wounded being tended to?"
"Only a few of the soldiers that were hit at all survived. I have the aid of a most unlikely priestess in restoring them to health."
He stepped aside slightly, gesturing towards the wagon he was standing in front of. Just inside the open door, a woman was kneeling. All Lysara could see of her was silvery-blonde hair and the back of a coal-grey robe.
"Viconia was one of our few actual passengers. She is a drow, and I nearly killed her on the spot when I learned of it. But she doesn't serve Lolth, and was willing to help keep our men in the fight, so I spared her life."
"A drow that doesn't serve Lolth?" Lysara asked. "I thought that was just a rumor."
"As I thought surface-dwellers with an understanding of my people were," a cold, almost sneering voice – if voices could sneer, hers would have been - called back in heavily accented common.
Choosing to turn away from the open door, she turned to Ajantis. "What brings a Knight of the Radiant Heart this far north? I thought your order was based in middle Amn."
"Indeed, fair lady," he replied, removing his helmet. "We are based out of Athkatla, one of the largest trade cities in Amn. My superior, Sir Keldorn Firecam, dispatched me to investigate the matter of this iron shortage that is threatening to spark war between the Council of Six and the Grand Dukes. To that end, I commissioned this caravan as bait to draw our enemies into an attack. I underestimated the strength of their assault however."
He had a rugged sort of look to him, though he was clearly a few years her senior at most, with long dark hair and broody-looking blue eyes. And he had a scar down the right side of his face. And then there was the fact that he was a real live Paladin. She felt her cheeks coloring just looking at him.
He continued, affecting to have not noticed the effect he was having on her as he approached. And perhaps he didn't. Men could be thick like that, in Lysara's experience. "It was fortunate for us that you decided to interfere. Without your aid, we likely would all be dead by now."
He gave her a small bow and looked over her shoulder. And she reluctantly turned her gaze away from the handsome paladin to watch her companions. "Fortunate for us both, Sir Ilvastarr. My companions and I have also been looking into the iron shortage. We were only too happy to have rendered aid."
"You were happy. I would have preferred to keep my nose out of it," Jaheria's voice came over her shoulder. "Stand down, child. Let me talk to the nice Paladin."
"When are you going to stop speaking to me as if I'm a child?" Lysara asked, turning to Jaheria. "Didn't I just prove that I'm capable?"
"You've proven yourself in battle. But if you think that makes you an adult, think again. Among your people you're not even of age until you hit forty-four."
"Ladies, please…" Adjantis started.
"Stay out of it," both Lysara and Jaheria snapped at the man in perfect tandem.
"Perhaps we shouldn't be having this discourse where others can witness it," Lysara offered after a moment of mutually glaring at Jaheria. "Not very mature of us, is it?"
"You seldom are," Jaheria quipped. "Oh you have your moments…"
Lysara had to fight down the urge to slap Jaheria as the druid trailed off with a smirk. Instead she just smirked right back and shook her head, feigning a chuckle. "And you're supposed to be the mature one," she replied.
To her right, she heard one of the merchant guards mutter, "I'm not going anywhere near that."
"Will you two be silent?" The drow's voice suddenly sliced into the conversation just as Jaheria had opened her mouth to retort. "I'm surprised the goddess can hear me over the sounds of your petty cat-fighting."
Viconia had appeared, her skin a shade of grey that Lysara thought looked somewhat less than healthy, and sat wearily on the wagon step. "I have done what I can," she said, addressing Ajantis. "But I have only so much strength, and I was keeping your soldiers in the fight far longer than they should have been. Will you allow me to continue unhindered?"
"I don't suppose any of your friends have healing abilities?" Ajantis addressed Lysara before Jaheria could sally forth a doubtlessly witty reply.
"I am but new to the Morninglord's favor, but what powers he grants me are at your disposal," Lysara replied. "The druid will be glad to lend Sylvanus' favor to those with minor cuts and bruises, I'm sure."
"Absolutely not," Jaheria said firmly. "We've wasted enough time already on…"
"Didn't you hear me earlier? Or has your age dulled those ears of yours to even flatter tips?" That made the druid's eyes sparkle dangerously, and her back went a little stiffer. "I will not turn my back on any who need my help. Go question the bandits if you refuse to heal. Be sure and separate them first so they can't match up stories, hmm?" Feeling that she'd gotten the upper hand in that exchange, Lysara hurried into the wagon she'd taken to be the 'wounded wagon' before the druid could respond.
"Show me to the worst wounded," she told the drow before ducking away from the door.
"Very interesting," Viconia commented as she pointed to the last bedroll on the floor.
"What is?" Lysara asked, fishing her holy symbol from beneath her blouse and kneeling next to a girl a year her junior. She looked almost ready to bleed out right there, especially with that nasty gash open across the belly of her chain mail.
"Your relationship with the druid. Is she your mother?" the other priestess asked.
"Nine hells, no," Lysara murmured before launching into a healing prayer and directing its energies at the gash.
The drow let her finish her spell, examining her handiwork before leading her to the next worst. "It was only a passing thought. Your level of contention just now reminded me of my own mother and one of my sisters."
"Is there a purpose in your observations?" Lysara asked, healing a gaping wound in a man's shoulder. Flesh and bone knitted together seamlessly almost instantly.
"You're pouring far too much energy into your spells."
"And you would know about casting Lothandar's spells… how?"
"I do not," she drow's pretty face smirked. "But I do know of casting clerical spells in general. You will burn yourself to a cinder channeling that much of your fiery god's power constantly. How do you… what do you envision when you pray to your deity for power?"
"Lothander is Lord of the Dawn, the Morninglord. I see myself reaching towards the sun. Why?"
"Try positioning the sun differently in your mental scenery. For simple wounds like this one," the drow gestured at a man who only had surface cuts, "try envisioning yourself reaching towards the sun just as its rays first peek over the horizon."
Frowning, Lysara did as the drow bade, healing the man's cuts. The warmth was less, so much less than it had been the last few times she'd tried to cast a spell. The man's wounds healed more slowly, but at least she wasn't feeling the need to jump in cold water. "That's much better. Thank you."
"We can't have our only other healer wearing herself out too quickly, now can we? That pompous oaf will likely blame me if you keel over from tapping too much power. You have never received training in clerical magic, have you?"
"Not a tenday ago, deep in the woods, was the first time that Lathander granted me his boon," Lysara replied, moving on to the next person in line.
The drow smirked. "I know not precisely what powers your god will deign to grant you, nor even which domains' abilities he is able to grant. But if you can channel as much as you were just now and live while you are yet so new, you will be quite the powerful little priestess with training."
"Why are you here?" Lysara asked, seeking a change in topic. She wasn't about to debate the nature of power with a drow.
"My history is my own, ibblith," Viconia answered testily. "I am no servant of the Spider Queen… nor have I been for many years. I am not here for nefarious purpose, and have no allegiance to any drow city, outpost, or colony, nor these bandits whom you've just helped to slaughter. That should be sufficient for you, Lysara Vantress of Candlekeep."
When Lysara didn't reply, instead focusing on her spellwork, the drow pressed on. "You appear to be darthiir… a full-blooded elf native to the surface. Why do you claim to be of Candlekeep? I thought that it was a library run by humans, not a… mixed settlement."
"Is there some reason it cannot be both?" Lysara retorted as she set a broken thigh bone, then cast yet another healing spell. "If you must know, I was raised there, one of exactly two children, the occasional visitor's child notwithstanding, raised and living among librarians and monks."
"The tedium must be what drove you from its walls. I certainly would not stay there had I a choice."
"Ah yes, getting nostalgic for the ritual murders you used to commit in Lolth's name?"
The drow bit her lip, her face a mask of fury. "I left behind everything, all for a single failure," she spat, barely controlling her rage.
"Then we're alike," Lysara said as she finished healing the last of the wounded in that batch. "In that much at least."
Viconia's eyes narrowed, and her face moved from furious to thoughtful. "I had never thought to have anything in common with darthiir," she commented. "When you leave this place, perhaps I will accompany your group. Your task seems an interesting one. An amusing diversion, if nothing else."
"When we leave, we might take you. But it's up to the others."
"How do you mean?"
"All of us must accept you. I won't be responsible for causing divisions to crop up."
"The divisions are already there," the drow said offhandedly. "You and the tu'rilthiir have not had your last argument. And unless I am much mistaken, she will continue to attempt to assert her control. Ultimately though, it will be you who has the run of your… band. She leads because she's used to it and because she wants to. You lead because you're born to."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have seen it dozens of times over. You are born to lead. Those around you will follow when you take charge, especially when it's something you know needs to be done. Your druid… ally… implied she was reluctant to come to our aid. You are the one who convinced her to come, aren't you?"
"You overestimate me," Lysara muttered. "Are there any more?"
"Perhaps… but perhaps you underestimate yourself," the drow replied. "I believe that was the last of them who could be saved."
"Time to move on to the dead then."
Viconia snatched Lysara's forearm as she tried to rise. "You are too new yet to even consider attempting a raising," she warned.
"I know that. I meant last rites. Between the two of us and the paladin, there's a good chance we can commend everyone who died here."
"Oh." The drow looked chagrined, but released her.
"Why is that following you around?" Jaheria asked when Lysara emerged from the wagon with Viconia in tow.
"Oh, she's not so bad," Lysara replied lightly, winking where the drow couldn't see and gesturing for Jaheria to fall in step. She was surprised when the druid did. "Gave me a bit of help and everything."
"Likely only because doing so would help save her own skin."
"Learn anything from the prisoners?" Lysara asked quickly, before Viconia could respond to that.
"The only thing they would agree upon, after a little convincing, was that their leader's name is Tazok. He's apparently an ogre, or maybe a half-orc. Those two possibilities popped up most often. Their camp moves periodically, likely after each raid returns, and this is apparently the first one which isn't coming back."
"So we can expect another strike then," Lysara commented.
"Likely with more force than the first," Jaheria confirmed as if she'd heard a question in Lysara's voice which wasn't there. "And likely they started mustering the moment that the portal collapsed."
"Tell Sir Ilvastarr, or whoever is in charge to get us ready to leave immediately," she said to Viconia.
"And the dead?" the drow asked.
"We haven't got time to dig graves, and I'm not leaving a pyre that size unattended," Lysara said quickly. "Nor am I willing to leave them simply rotting. Pack them in one of the wagons, and we'll attend their souls when we reach Nashkel."
"Nashkel is to the south. This caravan was bound north."
"And the raiders know that. Which is why it's going to turn back around and head back where it came from," Lysara insisted. "Their next strike is going to hit the road to the north of us, not the south."
The drow bowed her head and scurried off, causing Jaheria to chew her lip and shake her head.
"What?" Lysara asked.
"Never trust a drow. Especially one who is acting servile," the druid counseled.
"I meant it when I said she doesn't seem that bad," the elf replied. "But yes, I know… I don't intend to trust her as far as I could throw Neverwinter… until she earns it."
"But you're going to take her with you."
"That's up to you, Khalid, and Imoen. Maybe, just maybe she's not as bad as the rest of her race. We both know of drow who aren't evil. She did, after all, turn her back on Lolth."
"Or so she claims. Drow are very, very good at lying."
"You cannot lie to the gods," Ajantis said, joining them. "I've heard her calling out to Shar, not Lolth. And I made her crush a spider as a price for not killing her, which she did with neither hesitation nor remorse. If she were still in the Spider Queen's service, she would have been burned to a cinder even if it were a pretense. Viconia told me your suggestions and requests, and I agree with all of them. We turn south within the hour. The bodies of our fallen are being wrapped for transport as we speak, in the wagons."
"Leave the cargo. It'll just slow us down."
"You mean to join us then?" the paladin asked with a smile. "For your information, 'our cargo' was a large quantity of iron manacles."
"Found a good use for them, I trust."
"A few pairs anyway. Some of the men want us to put them to the sword."
"And waste both their lives and the lives of the men who paid for what's in the prisoners' minds?" Lysara asked, sickened.
"I agree. And that very argument held their swords at bay. You seem a very capable woman to see it as such."
She felt her cheeks warm at the man's compliment. "A simple excuse, truth be told. I don't like the idea of men being butchered," she admitted.
"Mercy for bandits?" the paladin asked incredulously. "The only reason I protected them is because of the information they carry."
"So if they knew nothing you would simply kill them?" Lysara asked, feeling put off.
"They are murderers."
"Guilt by association then? How do you know if they've actually taken life before?"
"They were a part of this raid. Even if they hadn't struck a killing blow before, even if they have never been part of a raid before, they intended to," Ajantis argued.
"Intentions can change. People can be redeemed. Killing them denies them the chance to do so."
"A person who has murdered once will do so again."
"And are you any better?" Lysara asked, the faces of her first victims once again flowing into her mind's eye. "Murder and execution are no different. They both steal something which, barring the gods' own intervention, can never be returned."
"I said you were capable before. Now I see that potential is mired down in naiveté," the knight scoffed.
"If by that you mean I refuse to be a servant of murder, then I take it as a compliment," Lysara returned hotly.
"This bickering is pointless," Jaheria asserted. "Save your philosophical debates for the road."
"Agreed," Lysara bit the word out, irritated that the druid was right, and that she'd needed to be reminded. "You've recalled Khalid with our mounts and supplies, I assume?"
"Of course. He's on his way now."
"I think that's everything. We should get going."
[-]
If she thought that travelling with Jaheria had been dull, barring that werewolf attack, helping escort a caravan was absolute torture. Lysara felt like a duck sitting on a nice, wide open pond's surface, moving very slowly and being watched by unseen predators on either side. She kept to the back of her own horse the first day, her eyes constantly roving the woods on either side of the caravan. One of her companions was always somewhere nearby. Imoen took to sitting next to the driver of the lead wagon while reading her book and doing various exercises that were written within. Then Jaheria would ride up and scold her for getting involved, when they could be in Nashkel days sooner if they'd just left the caravan behind – not that she objected to having helped them, not anymore – but the delay was interminable. Lysara had to remind her – twice – that they wouldn't have as much information on the bandits as they did now if they hadn't 'interfered' this time. And for once, the druid had no snappy remark or comeback to that. Khalid kept his distance, riding on the far side of the column from her, but the way he moved showed he was being just as vigilant as she was.
Adjantis and Viconia took their turns at her too, though it was painfully obvious that the drow and the paladin were making pains to avoid each other. Adjantis wanted to bring Lysara around to his way of thinking, and she was almost impressed enough with his paladin-ness, and the fact that he was just too darn cute, to overlook the fact that he was trying to console her conscience with something that she knew in her heart was wrong. She got the impression that he'd stay his hand from the bandits' throats only until they'd handed them over to the guard in Nashkel, or if she relented. And she was determined not to relent in this.
Viconia was sycophantically trying to get into her good graces. It was when she wasn't being flattering that Lysara would actually pay attention. She actually knew quite a bit about clerical magic, and not just that pertaining to the gods that she'd worshipped in her life. There were general principles that seemed to apply to tapping any god's power, about something she called 'spheres' that pertained somehow to the elements and various aspects of life. The drow administered a little test, not even trying to disguise what it was, and simply told Lysara that she was strong in the domains of healing and air, and weak in earth and death as a result.
A few discreet questions to the paladin when he took his turn confirmed most of what Viconia had told her, even the 'sphere test' that she'd undergone. But paladins weren't priests, and he did things with what powers he had very differently then she with hers. He was much less helpful in that than Viconia was.
If there was one consolation to the endless badgering and constant worry, it was the fact that campfires were allowed, as Jaheria couldn't, and didn't bother to try to stop that many men from having a bit of warmth and a proper supper at night. Her first hot meal since the inn was divine, even if the stew tasted like something out of Imoen's cook book. She devoured it hungrily, and even took a second bowl, which she scarfed with equal voracity.
"Up for a lil' game, girlie?" one of the men asked with a lecherous grin after she'd finished her food.
"Lysara is not…" Jaheria started to say.
"What kind of game you got in mind?" Lysara asked just as sweetly as she could, neatly cutting the overbearing druid off.
"Oh it's real simple it is. We've got this jug o' spirits, potato whisky, you see," the man explained, "Real good stuff. We take turns taking shots an' the first one what passes out loses."
"Lysara…" Jaheria started again in a warning voice.
"The stakes?" she asked, ignoring the druid again.
"Well, could go in for just money, or maybe something… a lot more interesting," the man said, openly eyeing her body.
"My cloak, boots, and body are off limits," she told him, raising her own warning. "My blades and bow wouldn't serve you even if I were willing to wager them. I'll play for coin if you like, but nothing else."
"Fine. Rules are simple. Each round we buy in, say five bits to a shot. Then each of us takes a drink. If one of us doesn't pass out, we start another round. Pot keeps getting bigger until one of us keel's over or goes broke. Whoever's still up at the end gets it. Spit it out and you forfeit. Pass out and you forfeit. Run off to upchuck and you forfeit. If more'n one of us is up when the liquor runs dry, we split the pot, minus the cost of the booze – that goes to whoever brought it."
"Make it a silver to a round," Lysara replied, drawing a dagger stare out of Jaheria, "and you've a wager."
"Anyone else in?" the first man asked loudly. "One silver a round."
"Let's get going then," Lysara said when once two other men had joined in.
"Absolutely not," Jaheria said.
"Stay out of it," Lysara snapped. "I'm a grown woman, and…"
"You're only 'playing' because you know I disapprove," Jaheria interrupted crossly.
Lysara shrugged. "I know what I can and can't handle," she replied, not even denying the druid's accusation. Tweaking the older, domineering woman's nose was indeed part of the fun.
Jaheira shook her head, standing and looking furious. "Very well then, oh grown, mature woman," she said condescendingly. "Do not expect me to pull you out of some lecher's blankets when you're too drunk to realize what they're doing to you!" After that, she stalked off.
Lysara felt a stab of guilt, but consoled herself to the fact that at last she was going to prove to the overbearing druid that alcohol didn't have much, if any, of an effect on her. Soon enough a crate was set up between the four of them, everyone else watching expectantly as the first man, whom Lysara suspected was at least twice her age, set up exactly twenty small clear cups dead center, filling them with an equally clear liquid from a bottle that he pulled out of his cloak. "Right then, simple enough. I drink first since it's my game, then you lot match me if you can. Last one awake wins the pot."
He picked up a glass and tipped its contents back without ceremony.
The other three players took their cue and drank. The potato whiskey, or whatever it was, certainly packed a bigger punch than the wine that she'd been guzzling at the Friendly Arm. It burned on the way down after she'd swallowed. Gasping, she slammed the glass facedown as her opponent had done, coughing and tearing up.
"Ha! Girl can't 'old 'er liquor," the letch teased. "That pot's as good as mine. Next round!"
Lysara, whose mind was still quite clear, pulled another silver from her pouch and dropped it on the board. He drank again, and casually put his glass down next to his first. Picking up her own, she tipped the contents back, this time braced for the sheer acid that she knew was coming.
"People actually drink this stuff?" she asked as she reached forward, quite calmly and steadily depositing her second glass.
Her opponent scowled at her. Likely she'd insulted his favorite drink, his favorite game, his taste, or all of the above. Perhaps he was disconcerted about how steady she knew she looked. He tipped back his next glass, and she downed one of her own, placing the glass down with just as level and even a hand as she'd done the second. By the fifth round, the man's hand was shaking, and his words were slurred, and one man had forfeited by running off to vomit.
"Such a pretty lass. Oh you'll make a fine bed partner I'll wager… hic!" He tipped back his sixth glass, not even seeming to notice that she was still perfectly sober when she took another shot. "You'll… change yer mind yet girl…"
The first bottle was done and the challenger could barely sit up straight as he tried to set the game back up for the second. By now the betting around them had changed substantially, those who had bet on their comrade trying to change their wagers. There were a lot of those, but the bookkeeper wouldn't hear of it.
"What are you… a bloody dwarf in elf's skin?" her other adversary asked, drawing a general chuckle out of the crowd. He took his eleventh shot and almost missed the board setting his cup down. Then he fell over.
"Oh, I'm just Lys," she replied to the first man without a hint of a slur. "Cheers," she added as she tipped back her own.
"Oh. I think it's starting to affect me," she said as her foe was reaching for the fifteenth cup. "A little tingling in my fingers…"
"Ha! Told you lads… the girl can't hold her liquor," the last man bragged as he downed his fifteenth cup. Then with an almighty belch, he fell over sideways, only missing landing in the fire because one of his cohorts caught him. As much booze as was in him, Lysara wouldn't have been surprised had he burned to a cinder just touching an open fire. Or exploded. He could have exploded. Either way, she took her shot, and one more for good measure, before scooping up her winnings into her pouch.
Standing up, still perfectly in control, she took a bow to the crowd, and received a mixture of applause and halfhearted grunts. Imoen caught up to her before she'd gone five steps past the edge of the crowd, a rather large purse jingling in her hand.
"I take it you bet on me?" Lysara asked, feeling pleased with herself and her friend.
"You know it," Imoen replied with her characteristic grin. "C'mon, Janty emptied out a wagon for 'the women folk' to sleep in, so we don't have to fend off lecherous perverts, y'know?"
Lysara found herself giggling and shook her head. "Sometimes," she said, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. "It's good to be a girl."
"Most of the time," Imoen agreed readily. "Just that one time every…"
"Let's not talk about that, okay?" Lysara replied delicately. She didn't know if it was because she was more fertile than Imoen or simply because she was an elf, but her cycles had tended to be more difficult to endure than Imoen claimed hers were.
"Ok, how about we talk about the way you keep swooning over that paladin instead, hmm?" Imoen teased. She put the back of her hand to her forehead and feigned a fainting spell. "Oh Sir Ajantis, I'm so weak-kneed just being near you…"
Lysara made the predictable move and tried to slap Imoen on the shoulder, which the impish girl dodged with a cackle. "Always had a thing for knights, haven't you, Lys?" she pressed, dancing just out of reach, but keeping herself moving towards a wagon that had Jaheria sitting outside of it. The druid was studiously not paying attention to the spectacle of the two friends at play, instead mending her jerkin.
"Had fun tonight?" Jaheria asked testily without looking up as they approached.
Lysara spared her a weary glare. "Yes, in fact," she replied a touch defensively, "it was a great deal of fun. I had a bottle and a half of that… potato stuff that burned like hellfire, but as you can see, I'm not drunk in the slightest."
"Gave some to Imoen, did you?" Jaheria asked, shooting the human woman a glare.
"Nope, I haven't had a drop all night," Imoen laughed. "This's just how I am after a good party."
"Pardon the interruption," the aforementioned Sir Ajantis said, appearing around a corner.
"You're not interrupting," Lysara said a touch too quickly. Why was she breathless all of a sudden? How much had he heard? Why was he so handsome, damn it? Jaheria rose and wordlessly went into the wagon and Imoen was simply not there when Lysara tried to look at her again.
"That is… good to hear," he said, looking puzzled at suddenly being alone with her. "I have been… rather rude. I hope you'll accept my apology, Lady Vantress," he said with a slight bow.
"Were you?" she asked, feeling her heart beat a little faster. "I hadn't noticed."
"Fair lady, I have been unspeakably rude to you. Not the least of which is that I haven't even offered to reward you for your service to us. We wouldn't be here now if your party hadn't come along."
"I need no reward for saving lives," she told him, finding her mental footing at the reminder of the carnage. "Nor will I accept one for ending those that I had to."
"A noble sentiment, milady," he said with another bow.
"Please. I am not a noblewoman," she told him with an upraised hand. "I grew up in a library, surrounded by monks and scholars… and Imoen."
"Your arms are fit for a warrior queen, Mistress Vantress," he insisted. "And if they will serve no hand but yours… were they made for you?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea whom they were made for. My father told me that they served my mother's bloodline, and that they're ancient. That she was an elf is all I know of her. Please, call my Lys; or Lysara if you must."
"As you wish, Miss Lysara," he said, making her roll her eyes when he bowed his head. "About your reward…"
"I believe I told you that I will not accept one," she insisted. "Besides, my friend and I just cleaned your men out of their income. It wouldn't be fair to accept anything else."
"Ah, but I have something which I believe is already yours. It has the same look as your scabbards and bow, and burns people who try to wear it. Our scryers believe they are locked to a particular bloodline, and… well… they look like they were meant to go with that belt."
"Assuming that this item is part of the same set… how would you have come by it?" She was intrigued. Rewards for killing, even with cause, she wouldn't touch. But if it was part of her forebear's arms¸ didn't that make it already hers? There was no shame in accepting that which already belonged to her, was there?
"The Order has accumulated a large number of artifacts over the years. What I speak of is actually two items: a pair of bracers, matched and identical. Here, I have them with me."
He produced a pair of metal bracers, and Lysara could tell at a glance that he was right about their origin. The black metal, gilded on the edges was unscratched, unscarred, and untarnished; the black substance coating the interior could have been created yesterday, just as the grip of her sword. She took them from him, fighting the urge to just put them on. Each of them were engraved with two runes, each enclosed in a circle. Each of these she'd seen before, gilded onto the surface of her bow.
"How did the order come by them?"
"A skirmish in the Black Hills, in Amn," he said. "One of our squires, a man named Delryn tripped in a mud hole while trying to catch up to his superior and they came loose, or so he says. They shed the mud instantly, looking even then as they do now. Those few who have tried to use them – he was the first - have suffered burned forearms that resisted magical healing and were unable to fight for weeks as they mended naturally. When we determined their rightful owner wasn't in Amn, they were given to me. As I was coming north anyway, I was instructed to take them to Candlekeep, should time and circumstance allow, and see if any of the great scholars there could trace their origins and rightful heirs."
"I'll have my friend Imoen check them before I try them on. You understand of course," Lysara said, clutching them to her chest. "It isn't that I don't trust you, but these could be some ancient, cursed replicas simply designed to incapacitate enemy warriors or thieves who are poking among the dead."
"Yes, we thought the same might be the case. Our own divinations, both divine and arcane, revealed that they weren't created for malicious purpose, but to protect. I should warn you though: they don't like being scryed on. In any event, if you can wear them safely, the Order will acknowledge them as yours, and I am empowered to say 'keep them.'"
She really wanted to press him, see what else he would apologize for, but decided to let it go at that. "Good night, Sir Ilvastarr," she bade him. "Perhaps we shall speak again on the morrow?"
"I look forward to it, Miss Lysara."
There was an impish giggle as soon as the paladin was out of sight, and Imoen - whom Lysara suspected had never moved in the first place - sprang back into sight. "Lys's got a boooy-friend," the younger woman teased, "and new toys for me to try out divination spells on!"
"Im, try and be serious for a change…" Lysara protested weakly, knowing her cheeks were afire.
"Being serious is boring," Imoen countered. "I've had quite enough of that over the last couple of weeks without grabbing for more, thank you very much. Anyway, let's have a looksee here…"
Lysara didn't even bother trying to keep the bracers out of Imoen's hands. She just followed her inside and sat down on the first open cot with a yawn. Imoen was still poking and prodding the bracers when sleep claimed her.
[-]
The dawn was still hours away yet when Lysara jerked awake, a particularly pungent odor dragging her mind from the depths of sleep. She came up retching, coughing and gagging at the fumes that seemed to be permeating the whole of the cabin. She bolted to the door and encountered the drow, the druid, and four female soldiers clogging up the entrance as each tried to get through first.
"By every god and their mothers, what the in the abyss was that?" Lysara demanded when they made it out into sweet, fresh air.
"Umm… sorry," Imoen said when she could finally speak. "They didn't like me poking around their enchantment structure."
"What are you… talking about?" the drow demanded through a cough, wiping her eyes. "I thought we were under attack again!"
"I was checking out the bracers that Adjantis gave to Lysara… wanted to make sure they weren't cursed, ya know? They're not, by the way. And the bloody things set off a stinking cloud when I tried to take a peek at what they could do."
"You must be the most inept excuse for a wizard I've ever met," Viconia sneered, once again haughty and self-assured, now that she wasn't choking. "And I have known a lot of magi in my days."
If Imoen was hurt by the completely unsubtle stab, she didn't show it. Even Lysara couldn't tell what was behind her friend's eyes as she looked at the drow with a quiet little smirk on her face and no vocal reply. Jaheria uttered a short incantation, and the wind picked up, blowing the whole cloud away from the caravan. "That should take care of the cloud, and the smell as well," the druid said. "Those bracers, whether or not they're hers, are obviously ancient and powerful. And they seem to dislike being scryed upon. The most logical course of action is to simply put them on and see what happens, or else simply give them back and forget about them."
Lysara knew that the druid was right… again. And it infuriated her… again. She stalked in, right over to Imoen's bed, and thrust her left arm into one of them, crossing the strands that she knew would hold them closed, if they were part of it.
The soft layer molded itself to her forearm, and the metal part started to glow, growing hot for just an instant before shrinking to the correct size to fit her. As long as the strands were crossed, and she suspected that only she could un-cross them, it seemed glued to her arm. It was light and comfortable, and obviously very well made. The other brace did exactly the same thing.
"We need to see about getting you some sort of hauberk," Jaheria said as she settled back down for the night. "Chain mail, I think, from your fighting style."
Lysara shot her a curious glance, and the druid laughed. "You think perhaps that I do not care for your safety, child?" she asked. "You are a dear departed friend's daughter, adoption aside. And you are a good person, if a touch innocent and naive."
"I'm a grown woman, Jaheria," Lysara reiterated crossly.
"Yes, I know that. But there are dangers, and wonders, in the world of which you know nothing. If I am… occasionally overbearing, it is because I wish to protect you from them. I… apologize."
The last came out as a mutter with the druid averting her eyes, and Lysara saw Imoen, out of the corner of her eye, lift her book up unreasonably high as she turned to a random page and started reading. Coincidentally the book blocked the druid's view of her grin. "Sorry?" Lysara said. "I don't think I heard that."
"Yes you did, you little…" Jaheria snapped, visibly straining to withhold whatever insult she'd prepared. "I rarely admit that I'm wrong, and never twice in one breath. Take the apology or leave it, but it won't come again any time soon."
"Sorry. I accept your apology, Jaheria," Lysara said, feeling a bit chagrined at her own behavior. "And I admit… a few things I've done recently have been strictly because they went against your… 'advice.' I'll try not to let myself get carried away like that again."
Jaheria considered her for a moment. "I'll choose to believe that came from you and not the massive dose of alcohol which must even now be pouring through you," the druid said.
"When are you going to believe it doesn't affect me?" Lysara asked.
"Drink a dwarf to the tavern floor, then if you're still sober, I'll believe you."
"There was a dwarf who came by Candlekeep a while back. Old Winthy actually had to stop serving booze 'cuz that guy drank his entire stock – paid for it and everything – in one night. I literally saw him guzzle a whole keg of beer without stopping for breath once," Imoen declared with her usual mirth-filled tone as she put her book away again.
"I am not surprised to learn of humans rolling around with dwarves on the tavern floor," Viconia interjected as she sat cross-legged on her own cot. "I hadn't thought even darthiir would stoop that low though."
"You do realize if we say no, that Lysara will leave you on the side of the road, right?" Jaheria asked the drow.
"Take me as I am, or not at all," the dark elf retorted. "I'm sure even a half-breed like you understands at least that much of pride."
"Why are you so intent on accompanying us, anyway?" the druid pressed.
Viconia shrugged. "It seems an amusing diversion, and the goddess insinuated to me that it could prove worth my while. I also see a priestess who didn't even know how to manage her power levels this morning, and feel oddly compelled to teach her the basics."
"The basics as taught in Arach Tilinith?"
The drow cackled at that as if Jaheria had made a grand joke. "I hail from Ched Nasad, not Menzobaranzan," she informed them after a moment. "I have only set foot within the Spider Queen's high temple twice in my life. But I swear on my goddess's name: even if she had been born a drow, she would not survive ten minutes under Mistress Baenre's curriculum. Likely not even one."
"Baenre?"
"Triel Baenre, first daughter of House Baenre, which is the first House of Menzobaranzan. Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Arch-Tilinith, Mistress of Teir Brache, High Priestess of the Lolthite Sisterhood," she said dismissively. "At least, that is what she was when last I was in Menzobaranzan the Mighty. That was some fifty years ago, and may very well have changed by now."
"Do you miss your home?" Lysara asked, trying to be sympathetic.
"What does it matter?" Viconia retorted. Lysara thought she detected a hint of sadness behind the woman's veneer of haughty indifference, but she couldn't be sure. "I am an apostate now. If I come into the sight of a Lolthite of any significance, she will know instantly what I am, and likely spend years killing me. I did no less when my sister was found to worship Eilistraee."
Lysara had absolutely no idea what it was about the drow woman that she liked, but it was there. "You tortured your own sister?" she asked quietly. Everything she learned about the drow as a race made her like them less.
"Our ways are not yours, girl," Viconia sighed as she leaned back. "The will of the Spider Queen is absolute in any drow city. Her judgments are law, enforced through the ruthlessness of the women who serve her. Putting loyalty to anyone or anything before your loyalty to Lolth is sacrilege. Sacrilege is punished by death, at the gentlest."
"Why did you turn against her worship then, if you were raised and conditioned to hold it above your own wellbeing?"
Viconia lifted her head again, considering Lysara, visibly weighing her question in her mind. "I think that I need to reverie," she replied after a time, "preferably without a stinking cloud going off. We have an early start on the morrow, and I expended a great deal of energy today." She closed her eyes where she sat, her back against the wall, and looked almost like she was asleep. She recognized the way she was sitting as Reverie, and wondered once more how it was done. She lay back down again and not another word was spoken. She fell asleep some time later still wondering, not for the first time, what it was to be an elf, what it was that set her race apart from others.