"You said you would tell me about your time at Luskan," Isaviel's voice made Sand start from the book over which he was bent, the low-burning candle on his bedroom desk flickering at his startled outbreath.

"Did no one teach you to knock?" he suggested, gathering his wits as he stood from his chair to turn and face the Moon Elf, who stood on the top step of the stairs leading up to this mezzanine area which he called his bedroom.

"The golem let me in readily enough," Isaviel shrugged, not moving from her place in the darkness, her eyes flashing gold in the candlelight, her hair like a second dark cloak about her shoulders.

The wizard felt irrationally vulnerable in his half-laced tunic and simple breeches. He was without doublet and boots, in as dishevelled a state as the Moon Elf had ever seen him. Sand pushed aside his automatic fear, in spite of her cruel expression, noticing that she was unusually poorly armed. Just the kukris on her hips today, not her bow or any of her daggers. Her boots were muddier than they had been when last he saw her, as was her cloak, and he could not help but wonder where she had been. Duncan had said she had been absent for three days after the death of Lorne with not a word to anyone, and Sand suspected that had something to do with it.

"You have chosen an interesting time to question me on this matter, have you not?"

"And you have been avoiding me," Isaviel pointed out, "I think you owe me some answers. Luskan has treated me poorly of late, and I want to know where your allegiances lie."

"Hypocritical, coming from one who stalks the streets with one of that very city," Sand sighed, pulling on a long jacket and heading past her down the stairs. She did not respond and instead followed him to the ground floor, not even blinking when he lit his fire with a simple cantrip and the cluttered room flared with dull orange light.

"Very well, if you wish to know of Luskan, I will tell you of Luskan. I think you will be disappointed, although you may learn more of yourself."

He pulled back a chair for her, though he preferred to stand, and she took it, watching him as he paced by the fire, her expression unreadable. Six days had passed since the combat and he had managed to avoid her scrutiny, seeing that she seemed so ready to distrust him as she did with everyone else. Sand had spent his time selling his potions and other wares during the day and studying his spells throughout the night. When he could he had been travelling to the city's libraries to learn more of the shards, and of Haven and anything he could about Isaviel's heritage. He had recently uncovered some interesting pieces of information, but there had been no opportunity to speak with the Moon Elf.

Duncan informed him that she was spending ever more time with Bishop (a polite way of inferring to the wizard that the pair were sleeping together, no revelation for him) and undoubtedly working for Neeshka's guild as well. The way she watched him now unsettled him, for the look in her eyes was bleak, the set of her mouth hard in a way it never had been before. She was thinner, but stronger; practicing her acrobatics, her bow and her monk training daily no doubt. She had also begun combat training with several of her friends; Shandra no doubt helped her ego, honest and willing to learn as she was, and her kindness could go a long way for Isaviel. But she also trained with Bishop, and his cruelty was as damaging as his greater strength was clearly proving useful to her own improvements.

"Well?" the Moon Elf prompted impatiently while Sand paused, momentarily letting his thoughts distract him; he sent her a disapproving frown.

"Torio did not lie. I did indeed once work for the Hosttower, though it was two decades ago now. After Shayla and Esmerelle died in the Battle of West Harbour our adventuring band went its separate ways. Daeghun and Shayla had been eager to settle down and had been unwilling to continue for half of the decade in which we were officially travelling together. He became taciturn and distant after her death and devoted himself to his life in West Harbour and your upbringing." Was that a vain hope?

"Enough of my foster father, you all tell me too readily of his love for me but I never saw any of that. You didn't have to live with him."

"Cormick joined the Watch here, ever honest and noble – he reminds me a lot of Shandra. As for Tarmas and I…we had grown up together even before we met Daeghun or Cormick. We both lived in Neverwinter's Merchant District at that time. But my father was from the bloodline of Myth Drannor, as was your Esmerelle, and in our teens he taught us both much of magic. He had been brought up in Waterdeep and been educated in magic at Candlekeep where he remained as a scholar for some two centuries; my mother was from Rashemen, a place famous for its fear of magic but also for its witches, and the ever-present threat of nearby Thay and its Red Wizards. She had a healthy respect for magic then, and feared what the Hosttower stood for as only a Rashemi could. But her fears and my father's lessons together only fuelled my interest in magic. Especially after all the stories Esmerelle told me of her adventures; she talked of the great wizards of Thay who she had fought during her time as a mercenary in the Rashemi army, of Rashemen's own witches with their ever-present masks. She had dared to disguise herself with a former love and go down to Menzoberranzan in the Underdark, that famed city of beautiful magical adornment. She learned of Myth Drannor – our shared ancestral home, through my father. Also of Rashemen and its myths, which I believe may interest you…"

"Why would that be?" Isaviel inquired, sounding far more curious than she would have wished to show through her apparent sarcasm, "And this has little to do with Luskan."

"Oh, but it does, because all of these teachings and stories only added to my fascination with the wizarding arts, and once I had reached adulthood and had a few adventures of my own I wanted nothing more than to learn the secrets of the Hosttower. They hold many artefacts within their walls, and both Tarmas and I had been somewhat naïve in our understanding of what went on there. He did not make it through the initiations and for a time we were estranged while he went to live nearer Daeghun in West Harbour, given an undercover post for the Neverwinter Watch by Cormick, in truth. I was more…determined to reach my goal. Less constrained by morality, perhaps. I remained in their service for almost a decade."

"So you do not pretend to have quailed at the Hosttower's requirements?" Isaviel demanded, leaning forward in her chair and affecting a threatening air. It was Sand's turn to sneer.

"Sit back, girl. You can't threaten me. I have three decades on your age, and all sixty years of my life have been spent in diligent and focused practice of the wizarding arts. You have been less disciplined, I know. My restraint in showing my power does not represent any lack of it, trust me."

Isaviel looked a little guilty, running a hand through her dark air until it fell again to pool around her shoulders and down the back of her chair. But her expression remained hard and her other hand rested close to the hilt of her kukri. It made Sand sad to see her distrust.

"I did not 'quail' at them…at first," Sand admitted at length, leaning on the mantelpiece now and staring into the newly summoned flames, "But their demands worsened, and I became increasingly aware that not all they did was to improve their personal power and knowledge in magic. They wanted to control the city, and to compete against each other. To kill each other, and anyone else who stood in their way, as well as any innocents in the city who might have affected their rises to power. Your lovely Black Garius is one such. I could not face that, and when they started to try to force me into their politics and scheming I refused and fled the city. As an informer I found refuge in Neverwinter and my payback for the protection they gave to me has been to act as a spy for the Neverwinter Nine in the Docks."

"Against Moire," Isaviel stated flatly, her expression darkening.

"Yes. And didn't she treat you so well."

"Did you ever inform on me?"

"No, first for love of Duncan and Daeghun. Now I refrain for you, and it puts me at great pains to cover my tracks. They know, though I do not say. Perhaps Cormick is less loyal than I to my companions of old."

She looked surprised at his words, and much of her aggressive demeanour lifted, her eyes brightening, the line of her lips softening. Her hand moved away from her kukri, tapping absently on the table. She was on edge still, he could see clearly, but at least she believed him. He felt comfortable enough to move closer, and perched on the edge of the table near her. When he stilled her hand with his own she looked up at him with eyes that showed a great deal of fear. There it was, all that youth she hid behind her anger. Though she had lived for three decades, as an Elf who could expect to naturally last for almost another seventy she was still so young at heart.

"You cannot let the others cloud your perception so much," he told her softly, and something about the way he said it seemed to keep her from retorting – though her expression flickered and it looked like she wanted to, "Bishop is so jaded and Shandra is so blind. Casavir and Elanee are too idealistic, Khelgar too headlong, Qara too headstrong, Grobnar is a fool, Neeshka is too selfish and Duncan loves you too much."

"What does that make you?"

"Me?" he schooled his expression carefully, "I am too restrained."

She smiled at that and quirked an eyebrow but looked away, her hair veiling her face from his view as she spoke.

"You mentioned my mother."

"Ah, yes," Sand smiled wryly, "Daeghun really did tell you nothing. My family was closely connected with her – and if it had not been for Esmerelle, I would never have been born. You see, Esmerelle had a love for several far-distant lands from here, but none more so than Rashemen. My mother was from Immilmar, the capital of that nation. They met when Esmerelle was travelling there; your mother had long ago divorced my half-brother, though as I have told you before, they remained fast friends and she always made the effort to go and visit him and my father.

"My – human – mother proved herself worthy of Esmerelle's friendship and they travelled much together for perhaps two years. Eventually, they ended up in Baldur's Gate, where my brother lived near my father's then-home of Candlekeep. It was then that Esmerelle introduced my mother and father to one another. After that, Esmerelle was gone for over a decade. My brother suggested that she might have gone as far south as Chult; when I spoke to her she had definitely been to Winterkeep in the Great Wastes beyond Rashemen, and she mentioned the great Castle Perilous in Damara. She had acted as a mercenary guarding caravans in Calimshan…and I think she may well have…well…" he could not help but pause, seeing how still Isaviel had become. She had not moved her hand from under his and at last he thought to let go, moving back over to the fire.

"You knew her well," the Moon Elf noted softly, and Sand did not deny it.

"I did, better than Duncan and Daeghun, but never so well as Shayla. My brother would have been the one to ask about these things, however. He was far older than I – far older than my mother as well, don't forget – and he and Esmerelle travelled together for perhaps a century many, many years before she met my mother. It is…a little unorthodox, but my brother never seemed to bear her any ill will for it, his mother having died long before, and it never seemed to bother my father. He loved my mother greatly, if I do say so myself. He did not long outlive her."

"Where is your brother now?"

"I…" Sand paused, feeling that familiar pang, "I do not know. We were never very close, for he has nearly three centuries on my age and just as much wanderlust as Esmerelle did. Last I heard of him, he had travelled to Evermeet, that fabled island refuge of the Elves, two decades ago."

"But where else did my mother go? Why did you hesitate?" Isaviel demanded, quick to change the subject – Sand wished he could believe it were for the preservation of his feelings, but in truth it looked more like impatience.

"Esmerelle…she spoke in such great detail of the planes. I believe she may have been more bound up in this Battle of West Harbour than the others know. Giths, demons, devils, shadows – they all fought in that great battle; denizens of the Shadow Plane, the Astral Plane, the Abyss and the Nine Hells. She had a fascination with such places and she would have loved to have lived through the Time of Troubles. That time made Faerûn aware of the gods and their lands as it never had been before. Many saw Helm deny Mystra a return to her own plane. And we all know the stories of those who, not yet gods, even before that turbulent era, travelled to the Fugue Plane, to the gates of the City of Judgement when Jergal was then god of the dead."

"Yes, yes, but what does this have to do with anything?"

"A great deal, I fear," Sand sighed, directing her towards the alcove and his personal work table, upon which were strewn a multitude of tomes and scrolls, "As I have been trying to find out more on your heritage, something Daeghun and Merring so utterly failed to do, I have been going through my old journals, to see if there is anything Esmerelle told me that may be of use. Eventually, I came upon a story she told me. I do not remember it in any great detail, but it seems…relevant."

"Go on," the Moon Elf urged, though there was nervousness in her tone.

"She told me an ancient Rashemi tale, of Akachi the Betrayer, an inhabitant of her old home of Mulsantir several millennia ago. Somehow he became a seneschal of the god of death of the time, Myrkul, but for some reason turned against his god. Wielding a silver sword of the Githyanki he led a great army against the City of Judgement and, inevitably, lost. He and his bloodline were afflicted with a curse, which has manifested itself in many ways over the ages. Every few centuries it comes about that there is a 'Spirit Eater', one who must devour the spirits of the living to survive. It is a Rashemi myth, as far as I can make out, used to frighten children and suchlike. But it is said that those of Akachi's bloodline manifest a fierce temper, an uncontrollable rage at times, and that in this madness their eyes glow red."

"A pointless myth," Isaviel shrugged his words aside, "If you think that explains my heritage you are a fanciful fool. What about my wings? And how many other potential explanations are there?"

"True. It was but a thought. Esmerelle spoke ever more often about this in the last few years that I knew her, and I know she had a new love in Rashemen. There may be some connection, at least. Either way, he wielded a silver sword, as you have the pieces of one – and I would assume one must have shattered at the Battle of West Harbour for a shard to lodge in your chest."

"What's to say it's the same one?"

"I do not know that it is. There have been very few lost by the Githyanki from what I can uncover in the histories. Eveshi, Akachi's son, fled with his silver sword, and it was through him and his half-human, unnamed brothers that the curse is said to have spread. He was a deva, a former servant of a god, with great power of his own. Wherever he chose to flee…it may be that it is the same sword. No more than five were ever known to have been successfully stolen from the Giths."

When Sand looked back at Isaviel she was regarding him doubtfully. He had told her far more than he had expected to, and they had been conversing for far longer than either intended. It was almost morning; the birds were beginning to chirp and sing to the dawn, even while the cold wind and rain buffeted the walls of his house, rasping against the windows in his kitchen area and by the door.

"All I know for certain is that Ammon Jerro, once a court wizard in Neverwinter, owned a silver sword. His haven is presumably far closer than Rashemen, or at least has a nearer entrance point, and he was a scholar; he probably made written records," Isaviel pointed out, "That is where I must go to find more answers, and if you or Aldanon can find it for me, then that would be far more useful. I do not think knowing who my father is, or the horror stories of my mother's…homeland will make any of this go away. Zeeaire spoke of the return of the King of Shadows. I haven't seen any evidence of him yet, but I want to be ready. Black Garius feared that I might collect all the pieces of this silver sword, and I gained the first at the Battle of West Harbour, where that King of Shadows was last defeated. None of that is coincidence."

She spoke with steady resolve, as if Sand's speculation had not shaken her. He felt guilty for having told her of those Rashemi stories, for she had grown pale and still as he spoke, her eyes wide and anxious. Perhaps it would do no good to learn more of her heritage, or of what it might be with so much more to fear. Still, it unsettled him how much Daeghun had kept a secret from her. That did not seem right, either.

"Thank you for being honest…and for telling me more of my mother," Isaviel mumbled uncomfortably now, standing and wrapping her cloak about herself, pulling her deep hood as far forward as it would go. He could only see her lips as she spoke now, "But I should go. I have asked Cormick to contact Aldanon for any more news on Haven. I cannot afford to sit still and lose my focus now the Luskans have been pushed off my trail. I don't know how much time I have to spare."

"Isaviel?" he asked it on impulse just before she reached the door, and when she looked back all of her hard façade was gone. She looked so vulnerable and afraid! "Did Bishop kill Elgun or did you?"

"Would you tell the Watch of my answer?"

"No," the wizard replied, at once guilty for that admission and guilty for being doubted so.

"It was him," her voice broke ever so slightly on the last word, though her face was still and there were no tears in her eyes. She wavered just before the doorway as the wizard approached, "But I almost killed the girl." Alaine.

"You did not do it, though," Sand stated carefully, without a doubt in his tone, "Your anger almost got the better of you, but it did not succeed."

"No. And I won't let him kill her either. She was stupid and easily misled…but I don't think that makes her guilty. If we want vengeance then it's Torio or Black Garius, maybe both, who should answer for it."

"Better," the wizard nodded, "But I must say I am more pleased by your mercy than I am by your requirement for revenge."

"Aren't you too restrained, though?"

She tried to laugh, but it almost came out as a sob. He pulled her into a hug for that, and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as his settled around her shoulders. She felt so small, shivering against him, her cheek against his shoulder.

"Yes. That is evidently not a fault of yours," he conceded, "Though it is not restraint which I council, but rather…more trust in yourself. And yes, I admit it, a little more discipline. That way you might not go around threatening defenceless girls at all."

"I gave her a knife…to defend herself. I thought it was all I could do…I felt so…guilty."

Better that you keep them all around you for when he turns on you.

In spite of Isaviel's wishes for haste, the days passed and became weeks. Sand still toiled, pouring over tomes and annals, delving as far into the past as his knowledge of Illefarn and Illuskan script and language would allow, he assured her. None of it seemed likely to be enough. She had heard no word from Aldanon, and there were still no signs of this threat 'the King of Shadows' who Zeeaire had mentioned with such venom. It felt strange to be without a way of moving forward, no clear path to take. She could not just step forth on a journey as a stepping stone for furthering her situation. Instead she had to wait, and wait…and wait.

Neeshka preferred to stay in her hideout, employing Bishop and Isaviel as her lieutenants along with Mae'rillar. The Drow was quiet, withdrawn…and undoubtedly very dangerous. Isaviel wondered how they had met, but did not doubt what held them together; the bond of mutual alienation from Neverwinter society. That and a love of gold and trickery. Meanwhile, Khelgar, Shandra and Casavir all had varying posts in the Watch, for which Isaviel remained a lieutenant, thanks to the combat skill which Cormick had emphasised she possessed. She was officially on leave from that post thanks to the trial by combat. As for Elanee, the druid spent much of her time in the wilds outside, not suited to city life, and Grobnar did not seem to lack for money. Qara remained at The Sunken Flagon, employed originally for her debt and now because she seemed to have nowhere else to go.

Shandra was becoming a strong and challenging opponent; that was satisfying. Of course her improvement was not all the Moon Elf's work (it was probably mostly Casavir's) but Isaviel knew that her own unorthodox fighting style helped the woman to learn some useful new tricks. She was a quick learner and a diligent student.

All of the members of Isaviel's group trained together, out in the woods where there was some space, apart from Qara and of course Sand. Grobnar could still best Isaviel with a bow, though he would never be as good as Bishop. The ranger had begun to help her with that though, and her shortbow was seeing far more use than it once had. Neeshka was a useful sparring partner, but a brief attempt at the hideout against Mae'rillar had taught her the folly of facing a Drow on even terms. It had only made her resolve stronger. If she faced him again, she would best him. She was determined.

Thus it was that Isaviel began to practice ever more with Casavir, borrowing Bishop's longsword and fighting, falling and fighting again until her strength was far greater, along with her speed. Shandra had been right, the paladin was patient. He understood her frustration and never argued against it, instead urging her back to her feet. She did not doubt that in a fair fight she was a match for most of her friends, but she was forcing herself to train with more difficult odds. The paladin seemed to appreciate this determination, and it looked to her like his glances had become more affectionate as well as compassionate. Though they could not agree on morality, they had this agreed time in which to call a truce, and they could respect each other's skill.

Khelgar paid regular visits to the Temple of Tyr, and that unsettled her. He had not spoken much of his wish to become a monk since first they met, perhaps because of her dislike of the subject and all it entailed for her, but he had begun to train elsewhere. Tellingly his armour and weapons saw less use, and his frame was even more muscular and far less rotund than it had been in the weeks when first they travelled together.

Amidst it all autumn was creeping by, growing colder seemingly by the day, and the nights were drawing in. Neverwinter would not freeze over, thanks to its heated waters coming from the Crags, but the trees of the Neverwinter Wood were beginning to drop their leaves, the grass crusted with frost in the mornings. The air was cold, clouding in front of their faces with every outbreath. Gloves and cloaks were a necessity to keep warm, and soon this would not be enough. The gear they had used to travel the icy mountains near Triboar would become their daily attire. If ever there was a time for the shadows – and their King – to swallow the lands, it was then, when winter tried to claim the sun from them.

Isaviel's dreams were still plagued often by the memories of fire and death, but as Sand had promised her they were lessening as time passed, especially in this lull. Sometimes they still woke her, and it was on one such night, more than a month since the combat with Lorne, that the city went mad.

The Moon Elf had been unable to return to sleep and sat by the fire in her room at several hours past midnight, wrapped in furs, petting a drowsy Karnwyr while Bishop remained sprawled asleep in her bed. It was at this time that Sir Nevalle and Duncan came rushing into her room, wild-eyed. The knight spared a moment to cast a derisive glance at the angrily awakening ranger before turning to Isaviel.

"I would rather not interrupt at this hour, squire," he admitted rather pointedly, "But…Aldanon's house has been attacked and Marshal Cormick held prisoner there, gravely wounded. To make matters worse, during the night another noble has been murdered, and Lord Nasher demands your presence as soon as you can spare it."