"—Yeah, I needed a teleport spell," Imoen explained at last, sitting in the ruins of Ramazith's house. Faldorn's healing chant finished; Jaheira bent over me as if to check her work. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate being sure of it, or that I wouldn't turn into a wolfwere. Never mind that. Jaheira straightened up with a nod.
"'Cause Mr G. getting murdered—by Anchev—was really what started this thing," Imoen said, "and I should've been home in Candlekeep, not that I'm sorry I did things, so that'd be the best and fastest way to get back there and go through the stuff he left me. Paperwise I'm his ward, next of kin, for all Winthrop's my name—and it's not just that I'm missing ol' Puffguts, I thought it'd be best way to find out quickly without being away too long when I could be helping here. When, well, lots of other people are getting killed," she said baldly. "Er.
"I got the spell from Ragefast's collection right here, like I guessed 'cause it's conjuration, but it says I need the rogue-stone component to go with it. Anyone got a spare piece of incredibly expensive pretty shiny rock?" she asked. "Two spare pieces of incredibly expensive pretty shiny rock? I knew I should've been more careful about what I left behind in the Tower—"
Claudia Besancon spoke up. "The F-flaming Fist would have consfiscated rogue stones. They're on the list and they say...no, their mages are good at casting finding spells. But my aunt has one." Imoen seemed to think a lot of Claudia as a wizard; I hadn't known her from before, though she'd known me. "Isn't it...a very d-difficult spell? You are more powerful but I know I could not..."
"Not a problem, I've read it before from this elven mage even if I didn't get to learn it and I got dimension door," Imoen said. "Lookin' at it now I know I can get it. But hey," she said, turning to Jaheira and Khalid. "Maybe it's easy after all! With you being the old friends and all, did he let you in on what the kid here was important for?"
They shook their heads. Jaheira stepped forward. "For the rescue of this creature of the forest I was willing," she said. "But so much as attempt to drag us once more into mad personal schemes when we have so many other duties, Imoen, and I will turn you over my knee as I am sure your foster father long wished to do and make you regret sitting for a tenday." Imoen grinned nervously.
"Well, let's flee the coop, right?" she said in thieves' cant. "Don't want too many curious face poking in the mage's tower now the explosions and hordes of wild wolves and bears've stopped." Faldorn gave a self-congratulatory smirk.
"C-come to my aunt's," Claudia said to Imoen; Jaheira and Faldorn began a heated debate over which of them was best qualified to resettle the nymph in her appropriate environment.
"Faldorn, let Jaheira do it," I said; and the odd thing was that she listened and came with us.
Emerie's secure place was below a store operated by a woman known as Silence. No sound of voices was heard in the building, but there was a constant susurrus that might mask other sounds: wind-chimes with the metal of them wrapped lined the ceiling, always rubbing against each other in a neverending noise of cloth rather than bell-like ringing. It wasn't the way we had come to meet with the League the first time, from that noise; Emerie Jannath possessed a cellar below. The place seemed deserted, though Claudia said that there were strong enchantments to detect theft. Some of the daggers seemed well-crafted, a few engraved with runic symbols that showed a magical enhancement, and Imoen briefly eyed a potion of a violent violet colour.
"Should we rescue Tevanie first before we go back, Imoen?" I said. It might be better...
"No, this's important," she said, though she scowled; "I hate making these decisions. But you shut up and listen to little ol' Imoen."
Emerie wasn't there; Claudia opened a door with a whispered password. It was a mage's laboratory in here, festooned with bright cushions and books, spell components and potions. Her niece looked worried.
"She ought to be h-here at this time," she said. "There m-might be—"
She cast a spell on a chest of drawers, then and there, clearly the lockpicking spell; it was impressive. Imoen and I exchanged a brief wink. Then she slid open the second drawer and seemed to open some sort of secret compartment there; and in Imoen's hands she placed a box lined with cotton wool, carrying inside the gem for the spell. Rogue stones are beautiful, all sorts of different flashing colours and very bright; but mostly it is only mages who use them for their own sake, though once I had a dress ornamented with subtle fragments of a rogue stone stitched into the hems and sleeves. Imoen looked satisfied, and sat down on some of the cushions she pulled together.
"Nice place here," she said, pulling out the scroll, "if'n only Dradeel hadn't showed up when he did I'd've already—well. Poor bloke," she said, and settled down to her study. Claudia fluttered around to look over her shoulders, offering her small cakes and elderflower wine. I paced; time was running out. The Grand Duke was entrenched, his wars ever continued, down at the port we'd already been defeated and if even Imoen couldn't turn the tide...
But we'd get Tevanie back, and then Shar-Teel could fight anything. Everyone needed some sort of hope to cling to. Faldorn sat on the bare floor and meditated, scornfully. Imoen's lips moved silently and her finger touched the lines of text of Ragefast's scroll.
She looked up. "Yeah, I've at least halfway got it—but want it for more 'n one..." she said, and lowered her head once more, Claudia still lurking behind her. I paced further; twenty-one circuits of the small room, back and forth. Imoen absently signalled me to stop it, and turned back to the scroll. My left-hand ring finger nail had become ragged, I thought, feeling it lie restlessly on a swordhilt for the moment.
Then they came through the door after us. There was no warning; complete silence, Imoen continuing to read, and then the door was shattered and an armoured man of the Fist stood with a large crossbow in his hands. There were more behind him.
"Under arrest," he spat, "and most likely execution for rebel scum like—"
The dreadwolf leaped up and tore the weapon from his hands with its teeth. Faldorn stood up and cast, and I rushed forward with the sword. In the doorway at least one did not have to fight all at once—
A slash across my shoulder and arm; Claudia screamed, then released a spell past me, a fan of rainbow light spilling from her hands. Faldorn chanted an entanglement in a loud voice. My right arm slowed; I was tired. Swords arced toward me.
"Go," Claudia called to Imoen, her voice suddenly definite. "Cast it—on Skie Silvershield!" She flung a potion; gas filled the air between the soldiers, and I saw her drinking from another flask. Imoen chanted. There were too many, even a mage among them, a priest reaching for his own spells. The rogue stone was in her hands. I heard the desperation in her voice—
She reached out for my shoulder, and then the world warped and changed around us. The rogue stone's powder crumbled from her hands. We looked up at the walls of Candlekeep, grass below our feet.
"I meant all four," she said, half incoherent, on her hands and knees and exhausted. "It's not fair—left them—Faldy—"
Sixteen...come Midwinter.
"How long before we teleport back and rescue them?" I said. She reached inside her robes.
"Too long, but thanks for trying," she said grimly, and brought out one of the Ulcaster tomes from her robe, her pink bookmark three-quarters of the way through. "This'll do it."
Candlekeep. Imoen's home: I ought to have remembered how it looked, having come before, she'd said. One of the guards called a greeting to both of us, once we were inside and looking for Imoen's First Reader. It was a tall grey towered castle, secure and safe, with wide green gardens and the sound of voices raised in chants. I'd read a little of Alaundo before, of course; and the chimelike sound reverberated around us both. Imoen raised her head to catch the silver voices, singing their prophecy of doom:
And the Lord of Murder shall
Perish
And in his doom
He shall spawn a score
Of mortal progeny
Chaos shall be sown from
Their
Passage
So sayeth the wise...
Alaundo—!
"—If ol' Tethtoril manages to forgive me for borrowing his wand of magic missiles. That I just haven't remembered to return yet. Technically and feasibly defunct and dropped somewhere in the woods though it might or might not be," Imoen said. "Don't'cha remember me telling about it, Skie?"
I shook my head, staring at the castle's grounds. Some of the flowerbeds bloomed in red and yellow blossoms growing late. We walked between them; pools of clear water were tranquil and settled inside marble baths. If one stayed in this place it would be difficult to remember that there was a war outside its quiet confines. By us was a garden of roses, heavily fenced by tall wood palings interlaced with thorns and even shards of broken glass embedded into a dried clay mixture at their top. Beauty and close passionate care strangely combined with a level of security unexpected for a garden in Candlekeep's peace. Through the slats I could see that the roses grew in rare shades of purple and truescarlet by one of the keep's walls, some distance below a narrow window. Multiple thick padlocks in silver, gold, and iron hung across the single gate. The harmonious perfume of the fine blooms hung freshly in the air, and a single perfect petal in a pure indigo shade had fallen to the ground outside the fences.
"—And that! Ulraunt's roses, Skie, remember holding my ankles while we nicked 'em for Greengrass?" Imoen said; but the truth was I could not. "Then you're going crazy again, kiddo, and I don't have the time for it," she said abruptly. "Follow along and don't do anything stupid, all right?"
The main doors of the keep were open though guarded; they welcomed Imoen home, and she answered back happily. "Off to Gorion's old room," she said, "hasn't been that long, so still—"
The library shelves stretched in every direction, Toril's greatest collection of books. Our boots almost slipped on the polished stairs, going further and further upwards.
"—Get at Mr G.'s old stuff, scribble a note to Puffguts saying I'll come visit again, get to Tethtoril and ask nicely for a stone..." Imoen muttered. There were dark circles below her eyes; I wondered if she was strong enough to cast without resting. She leaned on my shoulder, suddenly, and looked down at the scroll she had studied. She swore.
"Cyric's sheeppoking stick—Nine Hells—" I could see that the writing was smudged; she bent hastily down over it. "It was in my mind a second ago! I've got to remember—I can remember—"
She took out a quill from her pack and began to obsessively scribble over it. "This way—that way—every which way. Single mistake and you're scattered in the planes. Teleport; hard version of dimension door." She sat down firmly next to a shelf, her head bent closely to the paper to read it. I didn't know if it was good for her or not. "Teleport-two-'stead-of-one. Conjuration, transmutation, transmuters can do it too. Left or right? Up and down? Someone's killing everyone! Can't be tired and stupid when you're doing everything. Claudia! You know boring stuff about magic, right? Come on, remember!" She burst into weird laughter. "Teleport, teleport all over Toril! Lift people more times a day than there're seconds in it! Three-quarter somatic turn or two-thirds? Swift concluding of twenty-first half-syllable or long? Is there a twenty-first half-syllable at all? Think, because they're dying right now! I can't..."
She was so tired. I took her right hand away from the paper, and placed my other hand over her eyes. "I don't think you can cast in this state, Imoen. Sit still. You've got to rest sometime."
I could call for help; one of the monk-readers, ask them to fetch...Imoen's adopted father was called Winthrop. Or Tethtoril, indeed. You just had to speak to people as if you were an aristocrat.
"Inform the First Reader that this mage and I must speak immediately to him; and Winthrop of the Candlekeep Inn."
Imoen was on a cot in the room used by Gorion, asleep; collapsed not long after Tethtoril had come.
"Only the greatest mages could have cast us all the way from Baldur's Gate to Candlekeep, Imoen," I said, though she didn't hear. "It's all right. You should be resting. You've got to..."
Tethtoril had left us alone until she was in a fit state to speak to him; he had said that Gorion's legacy was intended for her. Alone in a room with Gorion's locked chest.
A cloak that seemed to be enchanted like Viconia's; gold; a sealed scroll with Imoen's name. I laid them out beside her. We could get back to Baldur's Gate. Tethtoril would help us, help her. He'd said to stay calm and stay here. Mages needed rest. I sat down beside Imoen, leaning against the wall. I thought I ought to close my own eyes, as much as crawling worry would keep me awake; and then the world was black and nothing moved for some time.
"—You buffleheaded sleepyhead."
Imoen shook me, trying to gloat. There were still shadows below her eyes, though she didn't look so wild and disturbed as before. "Aww, come on, you gilt-cracking rum-dubber," she canted, a light layer of levity below what we were doing here. "Have to both open up the fair maiden's chest, right?" she said, and giggled for the slang.
"It's your letter."
She cracked the seal open quickly; and scanned the pages in spidery writing I assumed was the sage Gorion's. Imoen always had read fast. In a few moments she held it out to me.
"I do trust you, Skie," she said, pale-faced.
I think we clung to each other, reaching out a hand each to grip; half-sisters, if Gorion was trusted and it explained, and Sarevok the true Lord of Murder—
The door slid open once more; instead of Tethtoril there was a shorter man wearing the cold grey-black robes of a mage, Mystra's and Oghma's symbols both around his neck. Behind him stood two of the guardians of Candlekeep, armoured. I blinked slowly.
"Imoen Winthrop," he said, "and girl who is quite likely not Skie Silvershield: by my authority you are under arrest within Candlekeep..."
—
The letter lay open on the floor.
Hello Imoen,
I suppose if you are reading this, it means I have met an untimely death. I would tell you and Daniel not to grieve for me, but I feel much better thinking that you would. There are things that not telling you would have kept you far safer, that I would have liked to save at least until your fortieth year, other than the talk referencing that you should stay away from young gentlemen until then. And yet you have grown by now into an intelligent, generous young woman. Dan Winthrop and I are both proud of you. Never doubt that.
Twenty years ago, Imoen, Dan and I fought against cults of the god Bhaal, the Lord of Murder, forced into a mortal shell and killed during the Time of Troubles. As Alaundo's prophecy states, he foresaw his death and took steps to prevent his end. For reasons unknown to me, he sought out women of every race and forced himself upon or seduced them. Your adoptive father and I found evidence of children he bore, and sought them out upon the orders of the Harpers. Many were sacrificed at birth for ends we know not.
When we found you, Imoen, you were divined and sought by us as much as you chose to seek out the gold chain of Dan's pocket watch—of which, by the way, he laughs over your dextrous precocity still! Of your birth mother we know no more than you have been told. The blood of that dead god runs through your veins, though suppressed; you are one of such children. You have given no signs of it, and it was the hope of us both that you continue free of such knowledge. Your cheerful innocence has been your shield, and under other circumstances I would advise that you remain within Winthrop's inn as long as you can.
And yet Alaundo's prophecies say that the children of Bhaal can have no such fate. Of late, Imoen, I discovered the existence of another within the area of Candlekeep. The Duke's daughter has such signs; I have divined and know that she is the same as you, Imoen. Her mother died for the birth of such a child. Whether you trust her to know this or no I leave to your choosing. Continue your friendship with her, for you are an influence to the good. If you can, protect her; protect others. Ensure she does not become the murderer that other children of Bhaal have become. Sarevok Anchev is the worst danger. He is, like you and Skie, a child of Bhaal. I am already his enemy for inquiring too deeply into his affairs, and I know that his agents have discovered that I have found a child. You must remain hidden as long as possible, Imoen. Sarevok has overlooked you.
Imoen, I leave you with the message that I believe you have some of the skills needed in such times. Your daring agility, your nascent talent for magic—yes, despite your lack of patience, I believe you have the power to become a wizard, even an archmage someday. Live through this time. Live happily; live by your native innocence and goodness. Trust those who harp to aid you.
With my love,
Gorion.
—