Tarsakh, 5

My very dear Harcourt,

The meeting went ahead as agreed. An unassuming brown-clothed servant brought me to her in her conservatory perched like a plump grey wren in a wickerwork chair, a miniature shrine to Tyr facing her, and an embroidery hoop in her lap. In her dimensions, she resembles her daughter – diminutive, for a human, with paw-like hands and fingers like fat little sausages. But her colouring and bone structure is totally dissimilar, to say nothing of her expression. As I recall, her late husband boasted a thick red mane, and his skin was wont to turn the colour of a plum when he was angry, much as Qara's so often did.

I began by offering up a few topics of small talk, which she accepted with cool grace but at the same time negligently, idly, like someone too tired even to feign interest. Yes, Waterdeep was a marvellous city. The conservatory had been expensive to create, but had been worth it because it reminded her of the sunlight of her native Sembia. She missed Neverwinter, and regretted its current state.

Then there were a few moments simply of quietness. I looked at her, and she scrutinised me. Again, without pretence or pretensions.

"Tell me about my daughter, Master Sand." I was somewhat taken aback. No – the feeling was stronger than that. I believe I was in fact astounded. I had come there as the inquisitor-in-chief, and she was turning the tables on me before I could even begin my work.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, Madam."

"How she died – I want to know how she died." The voice betrayed no grief, no passion, no rage. The words came out in flat and uninflected succession. But my life hitherto instructed me to proceed with caution. The lady no doubt had connections across a large swathe of Faerun. People with large mansions in one of the most expensive districts of Waterdeep generally do. And I think that I can admit to you that some gentler instincts than I'm known for made me desirous to put a bridle on my tongue.

"I was not there - when she fell -" (when a massive rock fell on her, as I had heard from Neeshka.) "I was badly injured -" (by her daughter) "- at an early stage of the battle. As soon as the King of Shadows was destroyed, I teleported away. Not very heroic, I fear." Though I didn't vanish as quickly as Zhjaeve. The gith had jumped to the Astral Plane before Neeshka could even finish swearing at her. "She was unconscious when I last saw her." (Khelgar knocked her out to stop her from burning me alive. If he had not, I would be resting in pieces in the Merdelain.)

Madam Veres turned her head to look at the spring garden beyond the glass panes of her new conservatory. "That book - " she gestured to her desk where a copy of A Short Account of the Second Shadow War lay open on the title page "- it said that Qara fought for the King of Shadows at the end."

"Yes."

"But before that, she fought for Lord Nasher and Neverwinter?"

"Yes. Occasionally. We – I mean, myself and Captain Farlong – tried to keep her away from the front lines as much as possible." She had no self-control, and I was often more afraid of her than I was of our real enemies. "But she wanted to fight. She seemed to want it more than anything else." I braced myself for recriminations, or suspicion, or questions about my motives. It seemed that I had walked into the conversation about her daughter that she should have had ten years ago.

But Veres merely nodded thoughtfully. Her mouth curled up a little. "Her father was the same. It is why he left me. And why she did too, I think. Though when she was a little girl, she loved me so much; she was so affectionate – she would trot up to me every morning and hug me as if I had been gone for a month-" She paused. "Tell me, Master Sand – why did she change sides? I could believe much of Qara, more perhaps than you would credit: but I cannot believe that she was a traitor or coward. She was too much my daughter for that. Why did she turn to the shadows?"

The great question. You see, my dear Harcourt, I do not know why she let Garius entice her to him at that last moment after so long spent trailing after Lila Farlong's collection of misfits. I do not think her betrayal was forced on her by any hostile enchantment, for I perceived nothing, and can recognise domination spells better than most. Qara's actual words I wrote down shortly after my escape, and I was able to repeat them to her mother:

"Even if Sand wasn't against you, I'd stand with you...I'm tired of him and all the rest telling me what to do and how, when I'm the one with the power, not them."

Albeit I may have slightly distorted the phrasing, omitting minor details such as the entire first sentence. I did not want her to think that I had killed her daughter. That would give an entirely false impression of the status quo. So I believe.

Why would Qara be tempted by Garius's promises of power? She had the power already, and she knew it. Disgruntlement then? An objection to following orders? But as I recall, she invited herself to Crossroad Keep, and ignored orders when it pleased her to. She could have left whenever she wanted to. Belief in the King of Shadows? Unlikely. She wanted to survive as much or more than anyone in that chamber, and had seen what happened to the King's servants.

"Did she have any friends?" Her tone hinted that had little hope of a reply in the affirmative.

"One." It was a stretch to define Shandra Jerro as Qara's friend; still, Shandra sometimes spoke to Qara voluntarily, so I suppose she might be counted as such without offending the gods of pedantry."But she died some time before we reached the Vale of Merdelain."

"When did Qara's particular gift manifest itself?" I asked, trying to regain my forensic poise.

"Late – unusually late. She was thirteen, and we were staying in a cabin in the Neverwinter Woods to escape the plague. It was terribly cold at night. I was – unused to such a life. We had no store of fuel. And one evening she was sitting, staring at the empty hearth. And all of a sudden, it wasn't empty."

Veres smiled. As she smiled, the muscles on the left side of her jaw flexed unevenly. While trying not to show that I'd noticed anything, I looked more closely, and saw a line of faintly mottled skin half-concealed by her (no doubt expensive) cosmetics. The husband or the daughter? That was my immediate thought.

"It was a good time for both of us," Veres continued. "She was relieved to be away from the Academy, and felt special – felt blessed. She had her new talent, and even her father couldn't take it away from her. I was so glad to be with my darling girl, to see her happy. Put alongside that, what did the dangers and troubles of the war against Luskan matter?"

I was lost for words. I do not think that has ever happened before, nor is it likely to again.

"Here – Master Sand. Take this," she said, leaning forwards to hand me a small velvet pouch. "I have very little left of my daughter. The convoy that was supposed to carry my possessions to Waterdeep was attacked by bandits, and they stole almost everything. Please send it back to me when you can. And if you find out more about her -" she hesitated "- if you find out anything else about why she died or how, don't tell me. I would rather remember her as she was before she changed."

I assented, and forced one last question out. "Madam Veres – before I go, I must ask: why did you allow Qara to go and live with – people like us? Ex-farmers, rogues and Luskan deserters?"

Unconsciously, she put a hand up to her cheek. Then she smiled again. "Why did you let her stay?"

And that, give or take a few stories about the infant Qara's bouts of chickenpox, colic and Turmish Burping Sickness, concluded my interview. The pouch, by the way, contained an old jotter that my erstwhile teenage arch-nemesis had once used for handwriting practice, long before she discovered that combustion was more to her liking than calligraphy.

Before the visit, I had prepared a long list of questions designed to give me a picture of the girl's mental "totems", from which I could infer the motives of her later actions. Whether she preferred elf-made, dwarf-made or human-made toys; if she had experienced a religious crisis; whether she was afraid of crossing bridges; what her favourite colour was, and other nonsense. Another of the superficial fads contracted from what passes for the intellectual set in Athkatla. Of course, I asked none of it. Nor do I suppose it matters that I failed to do so, for I feel sure that the answers I seek are to be found elsewhere, if at all.

The same discreet brown servant showed me to the door, and I departed for my lodgings, which are in a much less financially injurious area of the city. (The Lost Lion near the south gate, if you are following my itinerary.)

It took me the whole of last night to write this account up from memory. I hope your patience is not yet at an end with my little project. Have you followed the advice in my last letter? How are your affairs? I will be travelling north again in a few days, as far as the Mere of Dead Men that was. The return journey could certainly encompass a visit to Candlekeep. Even if you weren't there, I could hardly resist the lure of its labyrinth of books.

Your faithful

Sand