"I say! How did my manor get so dark – and cold!" Aldanon exclaimed, "Why have all the carpets been removed? Anyone! A little light, please!"
Sitting up with a jolt from the hard bed, the old scholar momentarily still did not comprehend where he was until he saw the glowing blue wards around the heavy iron door of the prison cell, and the tall, impossible slender form standing by the window.
"You must know that your words will go unheard in this place," his companion sighed, her voice calm, all but whispered, with an odd humming timbre that was alien to the humanoid races Aldanon was familiar with.
"Oh, forgive me, I would not have raised my voice if I had known someone was so close. We should go and look for someone to give us some light," the scholar suggested, but the one who shared his prison shook her hooded head, still staring out of the window, which was too thin even to reach an arm through.
"The door is sealed. But Garius will come for you soon enough."
"Garius? The Master of the Fifth Tower?"
"Yes, and you are alive because he requires your assistance – as he once asked for mine."
"I'm sorry, I can't see you too well at this angle – whatever do you mean?" Aldanon inquired, "I'm always willing to help anyone, you know…"
"In this matter you should choose death," the strange woman told him, "For your sake, and also for the sake of your plane. Garius seeks knowledge of an ancient Illefarn ritual that will grant him the power of the King of Shadows, but his understanding of the ritual is…narrow."
"I can help there!" Aldanon beamed now, as if he had already forgotten her warning, "Knowledge is something of a hobby of mine. Perhaps I could shed some light on the trouble, especially if it involves books or cryptic rituals. I will say that this Garius fellow chose a poor place to do it, though – this does not look remotely like an Illefarn site."
"It is not, you are correct," the unknown woman's eyes flashed towards him, glowing a sharp yellow shade through the darkness, "But power lies deep within the stones of this structure; it is one of the sites of the war against the King of Shadows when he touched this Prime Material Plane decades ago. Part of him still resides here, and it grants strength to his worshippers."
"Well then," Aldanon huffed, rubbing at his eyes but still unable to see any detail in the shadowy room, "No good comes from tinkering around with ancient powers – all this ritual nonsense doesn't sound very wise."
"It is madness," his companion agreed fervently, "But with the madness comes power; Garius will not turn away from that."
"I am Qaggoth-Yeg; leader of hordes, cleaver of the babau and the bebilith, the hunter who does not tire. From the yawning and clamorous layer of Yogguul was I plucked and now I hunt at the bidding of my Master. And who are you my mortal friend? You have a wonderful scent about you. Beneath your weariness and sweat you smell of lives shattered and hopes trod underfoot…of millions of screaming souls. I know that smell…your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think."
Neeshka had heard every word of that, spoken in a terrible, ground-shaking rumble, all of those who had made it out had heard it. She, at least, had felt guilt fill her body and soul thoroughly. Isaviel was trapped in there with that beast – Neeshka's only true friend! The only person who had consistently looked out for her…and she had abandoned her.
The Tiefling saw Bishop's expression, before he composed himself, the stricken look on his face. Blood had welled over his leather jerkin where the Moon Elf had bitten him to break free, but he did not seem to notice. He just looked angrier than ever now, ready to kill anyone who crossed him. Even when he had tried to save Isaviel, he had been trying to betray the others; Khelgar, Shandra and Grobnar. The Tiefling could only hope that the beast they faced was not so fearsome as it had promised to be, and that they had some chance against it.
"We have to go back to them," she said into the uncomfortable silence that had settled, turning to those who remained; the two injured Watch men were slumped against a wall, pale and fairly unconscious from the effort of their escape, and their comrades sent her incredulous looks.
"That's not in our orders," they denied angrily, and Casavir pulled himself to his feet, starting to turn to them in righteous indignation, still pale even after Elanee's healing spells, "And we won't be sent to our deaths by a demon-girl who might be on that monster's side for all we know."
Before any more words could be uttered, Bishop rounded on the one who had spoken, unsheathing his longsword and smashing him in the face with its pommel, then grabbing him by the throat and dragging him to the door which led back down to the cellar.
"How about I throw you in too? Might be that your pathetic hide proves more appetising for that monster," Bishop snarled, shaking the man in his grasp, who had blood streaming from his nose and a black eye already blossoming.
"No…no! I'll help you, just let go of me!"
The others moved to help him, shouting out threats and insults, but Casavir blocked their way.
"Though I cannot agree with Bishop's methods, he is correct to fight for Isaviel's life. I will not allow you to worsen our odds."
"There is no way that I am going back down there," Qara threw in now, and Elanee sent her a disgusted look.
"Then you must go and inform the Watch that we need help…and the priests of Lathander that we may require them once more," Casavir told her sharply, pointing down the street, "The temple and the garrison are but two blocks that way," he gestured to one of the dissenting men, wincing a little as he moved but otherwise determined, "You – take your injured fellows to the temple as well. Lord Tavorick – we require directions through the other doorway you spoke of."
Neeshka hardly listened, watching Bishop release his terrified captive and stalk back towards the others, his sword still in his hand. Elanee had paid attention however, and morphed immediately into the form of an owl, propelling herself ahead into the dark night, and the others raced after her.
Qaggoth-Yeg fell to the cellar floor at last, black blood gushing from many wounds across its greyish hide and welling from its hammer-toothed maw. Its size was immense; its long arms were probably the width of Isaviel and Shandra combined, and when it had swung them against the wall holding the doors the stone had cracked and crumbled. Massive spikes ran the length of its spine, dripping some greenish slime that was probably poisonous, while its form somewhat resembled a giant bipedal toad.
Isaviel and Shandra leaned on each other as the room shook upon the demon's collapse, dropping their weapons and gasping, while Khelgar slumped to his knees from exhaustion. Grobnar had been unable to help them, pinned beneath the heavy wooden shelves as he was, and his leg looked to be broken – as was his bow. At some point in the battle he had fainted from the pain, but he was still breathing.
The demon's body had begun to smoke and dissolve in the air, collapsing in on itself, when running footsteps became audible to them. Isaviel saw the shine of Casavir's hammer before she saw any of the others. She could barely comprehend them through the exhaustion and the pain, ever more aware of the gash the demon had opened across her back. The wound already felt hot as though from infection – or poison – and when she tried to step forward it burned in more ways than she could have imagined possible. She smiled to see Neeshka's concern, surprised that the flighty Tiefling had plucked up the courage to return to help. The same could not be said for Qara, who was nowhere in sight, but that was far less surprising for her.
Bishop's expression was unreadable as he approached her, a little ahead of Casavir and Elanee – who were also accompanied by two wide-eyed Watch men. The ranger caught her as her legs buckled, and she could at last recognise rage, relief…and then fear in his dark eyes as he stared down at her. She managed a weak smile which she wished was mocking, trying to keep herself upright with a hold on his leather jerkin, but her grip failed and she realised her hands were slick with blood.
"Even when I try to save you I end up wishing you dead," he snarled, and she choked out a laugh, her strength failing before she could manage to touch his cheek. And even when I wish you dead I want to save you.
"The feeling's mutual," she told him in a weak whisper, "Do you wish me dead now?"
She did not hear his response, for the pain and the poison claimed her consciousness.
The Moonstone Mask, located at the centre of the Blacklake District, had become one of the most renowned – and expensive – festhalls of the Frozen North since its refurbishment after the Wailing Death. Once it had been a commonly known 'secret' that the establishment was less than…reputable, but now those rumours were less widely whispered. Ophala Cheldarstorm, the Moonstone Mask's owner, had made her true identity known to Lord Nasher and no longer needed to be covert in quite the same way. Amidst the expensive wines and foods patrons whispered to the serving girls and dancing girls when they were drunk, and those girls came to Ophala with everything they heard. That was the well-known aspect of her spy network, at least.
Tonight was like any other at the Moonstone Mask; busy and rowdy, full of laughter and music, wine being poured into cups on every table. Ophala had been making a circuit around the room when Melia entered, conversing with some of her more distinguished guests – ageing a little now, tending towards plumpness, she remained an elegant and comely patroness. Her greying hair was hidden beneath a black wig, knotted elaborately with long tresses falling down her back, a string of delicate pearls around her neck. As soon as she saw Melia, however, she paused, raising her eyebrows in inquiry and gesturing towards the stairs beyond the bar. The younger woman nodded and pushed through the crowd in that direction, ignoring the comments and grasping hands of the drunk patrons she passed.
Melia stepped through the door to the upper levels of the Moonstone Mask just as the bell was rung to announce that serving hours were over. It was very late, and darkness hung heavy and thick over the streets of Neverwinter outside. Someone had lit the candles on the table at the corner of this wood-panelled corridor and Melia took one of these up as she turned to see Ophala following in her footsteps, closing the door behind her.
"Do you have it?" the mistress of the Moonstone Mask asked.
"I do. Tavorick played his part…with enthusiasm, and the guards Nasher sent did not catch the tune we harped," Melia nodded, producing the shard she carried and watching it glint in the candlelight, as large as her hand, a red jewel glinting at its centre, just below the surface.
Ophala's smile grew wide at her words and they stepped through into one of the chambers reserved for Melia herself.
"You need not speak in such riddles," the older woman laughed now, "My wards are strong, reinforced by a few old friends of wizarding repute. The other Harpers will be pleased to know of this, and I speak for the Cloaktower with certainty when I say that the Many-Starred Cloaks are most pleased as well."
"I should take this to Sir Nevalle at once."
"Of course, once the patrons have left I will have the guards waiting downstairs for you."
Once Ophala had gone Melia changed quickly from her long, heavy dress into simple leggings and a leather tunic, pulling on the blue and white tabard of the Neverwinter Nine. Once fully dressed, her hair plaited plainly down her back, she girded on her sword-belt and pinned the badge of the Harpers to the top of the lacing of her tunic. The shard fitted neatly into the pouch hanging from her belt…and once she could no longer hear the sounds of the crowd downstairs she knew that it was time to leave.
Even before Melia reached the door of her room she heard the crash of wood breaking downstairs and the candles in her room flickered momentarily, relighting with blue flame. Dread filled her at the sight, and a ringing scream cut through the brief, fear-filled silence. She heard the baying of hounds, running footsteps, the brief ring of steel…and all was still and silent once more, the Harper agent of Neverwinter still standing, frozen, listening to the throb of her pulse in her ears. There was no time…it had all happened so fast. They had been found out; the one they sought to deceive had instead deceived them.
When no more sounds came, Melia wrenched open the door and, skidding briefly on the floorboards in her urgency, turned for the window to her left, at the far end of the corridor. Below that stood the roof of the stables where Ophala kept her horses; if she could break through the window she would have a relatively painless route to the ground below, and a chance of escape…
"I would not flee if I were you," a deep, gruff voice suggested coldly from behind her and a wall of flame erupted barely a foot in front of the window, forcing her to come up short with a yelp, dropping to one knee as she twisted around, smoke drifting from the heel of one boot.
A strange man stood watching her with cold amusement evident, a pair of gigantic black dogs flanking him, their eyes glowing a deep red even in the dim bluish light. He regarded her with a hard smile on his bearded face, white-grey eyes glowing from beneath the deep hood of the dark cloak in which he was wrapped. Red veins of light pulsed across his cheeks, flashing over his eyes with every blink. As the dogs snarled, drooling blood from their recent kills – the blood of her friends! – green fire grew around the man's fists, and Melia pulled herself to her feet, unsheathing her shortsword with a determined ring.
"You should have offered to give me the shard," the man sighed with affected weariness, shrugging as he raised his flaming hands, dripping green flames to hiss upon the floor at his feet, levelling emotionless eyes towards the woman before him, "Instead you have chosen to die. Allow me to oblige you."
"Your incompetence never fails to astound me, Torio," Garius noted coldly, his pallid hands placed to either side of the scrying bowl as he stared down into its silvery depths at the image of the sharp-faced ambassador who was so ready to profess her snivelling apologies from the comfort of Luskan, "But what you have achieved this day may yet save you."
"My-my lord, I live to serve…as ever…"
Tired of her sycophancy, Garius turned away from the scrying pool to face the old scholar seated at his cluttered table in the stone chamber, peering down into the books of forbidden necromantic lore with an odd, detached calm. He was nodding as he read a certain passage, looking up at last to blink at the Lord of the Fifth Tower of Luskan with innocent trust. This had once been a council room for Neverwinter's knights of old, but now it was crumbling, its tables smelled of rotten wood, its floorboards smelled of rotting rats, and the guards who held the door of the large circular chamber were Luskan wizards. It did not matter that rain was leaking through a hole in the patched roof or that the dust was an inch thick on every deserted bench and shelf; they did not need to be here for long.
"Yes, I believe you have all the components you will require now," Aldanon nodded now, "My studies – thank you kindly for giving me the opportunity to study amongst the books you have amassed, by the way – my studies have told me that you simply need to carve out these runes in this shape," he turned a book around, indicating an appropriate drawing, "And the ritual can begin. I must say, I am impressed by the unusual angle of your academic interests…"
"Silence, old man. You have played your part," Garius interrupted disinterestedly, gesturing to the men at the door, "Take him back to his cell with the other one. We may yet need him – and her – alive to see through the stages of the ritual."
"Surely you do not mean to go through with this spell, young man?" Aldanon inquired, more with surprise than horror, standing obligingly and allowing the men to lead him to the door, "There are so many ways it could go wrong! Would you not prefer lichdom? Surely that is an easier path…"
His voice echoed along the corridor beyond and then faded with the clang of a grate. Garius sneered to himself at the old man's innocent words, lifting the book the scholar had indicated and staring intently at the runes before him. Yes, this looked right. Soon he would have no need for the wretched shards, no need for the King of Shadows. He would transcend them all.
… your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think.Those words haunted Isaviel's fevered dreams and continued to unsettle her even when she achieved delirious consciousness. She had been dimly aware of someone settling her into that bed in that small, white-washed room with that great glass roof through which the sun shone so brightly, with no curtains to shield her.
She remembered a strong arm around her as if the one who carried her there had slept by her side for the first night. Bishop. When she woke fully she was alone, though only briefly, for the healers came, forcing her to drink the bitterest liquid she had ever tasted. Whatever it was, it had stopped the burning spreading through her body from the wound in her back.
At times she heard Sand's voice, or Shandra's. She caught a glimpse of Casavir, and of Duncan standing by her bedside wringing his hands, Sal patting his shoulder but not looking much less distraught. Elanee brought her Mere berries, and that made her dream of her childhood hunting with Daeghun, learning how to fight with blades, how to shoot with a bow, how to fletch arrows and how to make do in the wilds. In those days she had not spoken a word of the Common Tongue, and when she woke to see Sand she spoke to him in garbled Elvish words. He had humoured her and responded in the same language, but Shandra's confusion had forced her to remember where she was. Neeshka sat with her for several hours of the second night, and Khelgar came to check on her in the morning, bringing her a pie and an apple. The fruit was small, probably among the last to be seen for the year, but it tasted good and made a change from the bitter drinks and plain foods the healers brought her. There was no more sign of Bishop, and not once did she see Qara.
By the morning of the third day Isaviel was strong enough to sit up, able now to recognise the sunburst insignia stamped on the wall ahead of her, shimmering in the light of the real sun overhead, comprised of plates of yellow gold and red gold and rose gold. This was the Temple of Lathander, the Morninglord; god of youth, the dawn and renewal among other things. The bed was comfortable and the bath they left for her was warm and refreshing with soap scented with the flowers of summer. Still, it had made her aware of all the scars she had amassed, and the dented mirror in the bathing alcove showed to her the injury on her back. It had been stitched neatly and carefully, but it curved in a thin crimson line across her spine almost from her left hip to her right shoulder, where the puckered line of one wing began at her shoulder-blade. She had felt what remained of her wings before, but she had never seen them until then, and now she could only think of one thing at the sight. … your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think.
The light blazing in from above was unendingly uncomfortable, as was the goodly piety of the priests who came to check on her once she had pulled on the simple white robe they had left for her. She would be glad to be back at Duncan's dingy establishment where the ale was good, the food homely and the company…beloved, though only now did she recognise it. It was all the more endearing that The Sunken Flagon never seemed to draw in as many customers as it was intended to…but it seemed to have attracted a rather lively set of regulars and a strange set of live-in adventurers.
When Khelgar brought her another pie from Sal that afternoon she kissed him on the cheek, such was her gratitude, eliciting a half-hearted grumble and a telling blush from the Dwarf. He still had several cuts and bruises evident on his face and his upper arm was bandaged, but otherwise appeared healthy – Shandra when she joined them, Casavir in tow, was in a similar condition. The paladin seemed greatly recovered from his leg injury, thanks to Elanee's quickly administered healing spells.
"We…wanted to thank you," Shandra began almost as soon as she entered, her blue eyes so honest, her voice so heart-felt, "For wanting to come back and help us. Without that we all would have died, or Grobnar surely would have."
"The Gnome lives, though his leg is broken and taking longer to heal than expected," Casavir volunteered, "He conveys his thanks. As does Lord Tavorick."
"That bastard," Isaviel groaned, and the paladin looked at her reproachfully…though it seemed for a second that his lips twitched and he might have smiled instead, "What does he have to say for himself? Duping us just to get the shard to safety?"
When her words were met with three identically grave expressions, a chill went up her spine.
"It didn't work, did it?" she asked through gritted teeth, "They risked our lives for a plan that failed."
"They did," Casavir admitted softly from his place by Shandra's side, the woman sitting on the end of the bed, "Whoever was hunting for it knew Lord Nasher's strategic style well, and sent the demon you faced as a distraction while something far worse followed Melia to the…Moonstone Mask at the centre of the Blacklake District. She was a Harper agent, as well as a member of the Nine acting under the orders of the Many-Starred Cloaks, an organisation run from the Cloaktower in service of Neverwinter."
"…and whatever reached her killed her?" Isaviel did not need to look at the responses of her friends, pressing a hand to her forehead in frustration, "So whoever wanted the shard got the shard. The last person on Faerûn who I would want to have it. Is it Black Garius? The King of Shadows himself? Who sent the thugs to capture Aldanon? Whoever they were, they weren't the same as the master of the demons and devils."
"You are right in your assumption," Casavir nodded, "The men questioned for breaking into Aldanon's house have informed us that Luskan sent them; their leader said a black-robed wizard spoke to him with an illusory image, informing him to make sure the mage sent with the group could take Aldanon alive. There is yet hope that we can recover him. Whoever commands the demons and devils seems to be working both against Neverwinter and against Luskan. And they have great power at their command, as well, evidently."
"Why would Garius want Aldanon alive without a shard? Where has he taken him?"
"I believe I have word on that score," Sand's voice agreed, and Isaviel looked past Shandra and Casavir to see the half-Elven wizard standing in the doorway watching her thoughtfully, "Lord Nasher has asked to see you, if you have the strength. He has some more information on Black Garius and Aldanon, Sir Nevalle assures me. Though nothing more about their lost shard."
"We kept yours safe for ye, don't ye worry," Khelgar promised from his seat beside her, producing her sword belt from the pack in which he had carried his offers of food.
Her kukris were tellingly absent; once buried in the body of Qaggoth-Yeg they had not been retrieved. Only her daggers remained, sheathed in the belt, but the shards were still safe, all four of them, now held in a separate pouch which could be worn strapped tightly against her back, along with their hilt. All together they weighed less than they did separately, thanks to their extra-planar magic.
"I will go to Nasher, then," Isaviel nodded, swinging her bare feet to the ground, "I am well enough."
She was relieved to find that she could stand steadily, without the help the priests had insisted upon giving her when she was led to her bath earlier in the day. She felt perfectly strong, rejuvenated in fact, and determined not to be cowed by the poison of a wretched monster she fought and bested, no matter what he said about her parents. …your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think.
"I will thank the priests of Lathander for you," Casavir nodded, relief evident in his eyes, and the Moon Elf sent him an exasperated look for his chivalrous manners.
"I brought your other things – some clothes, instead of that invalid's robe," Shandra smiled as Sand and Khelgar left as well.
Nodding her approval, Isaviel took the garments from her and moved into the alcove to change, sensing that the woman wanted to speak to her alone. She was pleased to see that Shandra had thought to bring her the embroidered white tunic she favoured for city life, along with her familiar black leggings.
"I know you don't like it when Casavir expects you to be as…paladinic as him, and I know you hate it when people tell you something's your duty and you have to do it for the 'good of all'. But…I just wanted you to know that I think you're better than all that. Nasher's words were cruel when he blackmailed you towards that knighthood; he knows you don't want it, and he still said those unjust things."
"Shandra," Isaviel sighed, lacing up her tunic and beginning to twist her hair into a knot behind her head, "I have done a lot of 'bad things'…not so heartless as Bishop, perhaps, but I do work for Neeshka. And I like it, I won't stop it just because you admire me for one brave act of madness. You know what that means…"
"I don't care," Shandra responded stubbornly, ferociously, as the Moon Elf sat beside her on the bed to pull on her boots, "You saved us when we fought the demon, even though Bishop tried to stop you. So many of our companions snigger about Grobnar behind his back…and you're not guiltless. But you decided to save him anyway. Maybe against your better judgment."
Isaviel did not know how to respond to those words, her hands stilling as she had begun to lace up her first boot. She sent an uncomfortable sidelong glance towards Shandra to see the woman smiling at her warmly.
"And you did well to make the men stay when they looked like they'd help us no more. And you helped me when I was afraid," her eyes became sad at the memory of the horrors they had seen that night, "You might feel uncomfortable right now…but I don't. And I'm saying thank you. You've shown me you're really worth fighting for. We're all with you…against this 'Black Garius', to get Aldanon back…and to get to my grandfather's Haven. We've got your back."
Isaviel smiled weakly, her heart flipping. But when she looked back quickly at her boots, yanking at the laces now, all she could think of was …your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think.
Elanee was relieved to see the others in good health. The priests of Lathander in the temple, outside which the druid had been waiting, had done well in saving Isaviel from her poisoned wound – they had acted quickly enough that the Moon Elf even seemed healthier than before. She walked with purpose, as always, nodding to the druid with an all but disinterested acknowledgement, simply expecting her to fall in with the others. Growing used to the others failures to listen to her warnings, often to acknowledge her at all, Elanee had learned far more of them than they had of her.
Isaviel had indeed looked rested, all but completely healed, not limping or struggling to move, matching Sand's stride easily, talking earnestly with the wizard. Her eyes were sad, a small frown on her face, and Elanee worried at that. The Moon Elf ordinarily hid behind a mask of sarcastic humour and a crooked smile; before she had been scarred, her expressions were deceptively angelic. Truth be told, she was far from disfigured, beautiful in an exotic, mysterious way beyond what Elanee could hope for herself. She had those large, emotive golden eyes and the way they changed to foggy grey in the darkness, to red when she raged added to her allure as well as her frightfulness. Her hair was longer and thicker than Elanee could hope to have achieved, such a deep, deep blue, like the deepest stretches of sea visible on the horizon from the coast. Her skin was far from flawless now, and the druid took a little comfort in that. She had helped the priests with the unconscious Elf, observed the new injury across her back, the raised scars where her wings had been…
Still, they all listened closely to Isaviel's words, believed with such conviction that her goals were worth following, and that they were the right ones. Somehow she had managed to gather together her strangely mismatched group of friends and allies who, to varying degrees, loved her, loathed her, wanted her, needed her…resented her. But they all agreed that she was the one they should follow, and the Elders had told Elanee that the shards Isaviel was to learn more of, ultimately to gather together, would help win the war against the coming King of Shadows. That meant that Elanee intended to follow her as well, for the good of the Mere, for the good of her Elders, the Elves who had taken her in as a tiny human baby.
Elanee felt more of an Elf than a human thanks to her unorthodox upbringing, and still felt uncomfortable in the city – none of those actually of Elvish blood in Neverwinter seemed to share her difficulty. Sand and Duncan both seemed far more human than Elvish anyway, and Isaviel had no problem fitting in here either, though her upbringing shared more with Elanee's than it did with any of the others. Thus the druid had wandered the boundary of Neverwinter Wood alone for most of the days after the trial, when they were not caught up in some new difficulties, trying to avoid Grobnar's love songs. When none of the others paid her any heed, she wondered why it was that the Gnome who they all laughed at in derision had to be the one who wanted to follow her around, singing grating, poorly rhymed love songs.
Isaviel did not have such problems, evidently. She had managed to half-tame that cruel, sneering monster of a ranger, enough that he would not leave her in the Temple of Lathander until he knew she would recover. She had made close friends with the Tiefling, and increasingly shared a smile or two with Shandra, as well. The wizard, Sand, who walked so close to her then on their path to Castle Never, was warm and gentle with her, solicitous in his attentions. Now as they reached the main square of the Blacklake District, just before the hill rose up sharply on its ascent to the castle, the two shared a laugh, the Moon Elf's frown dissolving, the look illuminating her face, and she slipped an arm through his. Elanee could not avoid the feeling that Isaviel was using Sand's affections somehow – she was so changeable with him; one moment completely uninterested in his kindnesses, the next laughing and joking.
The druid followed in the wake of Shandra and Casavir as they made their way up the hill now, struggling to keep up as she always did on the busy streets, disorientated by all the chatter and the imperiously unswerving paths of knights and off-duty guardsmen heading away from the castle. So few birds sang in the trees, which were all so artificially placed at odd intervals on street corners, in gardens, by walls, and around the Blacklake waters themselves. That always made her feel uncomfortable.
Worst of all for Elanee, more than the indignity of the others' dismissals of her, or of Grobnar's attentions, or of the wretched, unnatural stone city itself, was the way that Shandra and Casavir responded to each other and moved together ahead of her. She could watch the paladin a day long and more, the bright shine of his eyes, the clarity of his skin, how it glowed to her eyes in the sun! Without his armour, dressed humbly for one of his background, she could see the curve of impressive muscles on his upper arms and, when he turned to speak to his companion, his chest as well. He strode with purpose, his handsome face always so calm, his expressions so gentle. His words were invariably well-chosen, perfectly uttered in his deep voice, and more than any of the others he made an effort to be kind to Elanee, to include her in discussions. He would make sure she was informed when she had been away, and had even offered a few times to practice in battle training with her, as he and the others did together. She had declined; her spells and her improving shapechanging would serve her better than any feeble attempts with her sickle. She was naturally weak and fragile, and truth be told she did not want him to see how poorly she fought in her human form.
All of these observations of Casavir came with a pang, however. He was smiling now, more brightly than he did for the others, at something Shandra had said. His eyes glinted with mirth as he regarded her, flickering to watch her lips as she talked, lightly touching her elbow as they moved aside for a donkey and the wagon it pulled for its hard-pressed master. The closer they walked to Castle Never, the nearer the farmer and the paladin became, and by the time they were stepping through the great front doors his hand had not moved from her lower back for a sizable length of time. It made Elanee feel angry…guilty…and then angry all over again to see how the pair interacted, two beautiful, perfect-hearted people together. Every time Casavir spoke, Shandra would look up at him with a certain flick of her hair, a bright smile, a twinkle in her eyes.
The guards at the gate observed Elanee as she passed with significant incredulity, their eyes lingering on her brown robes and on the branches she wove into her hair. She still did not understand the distinction here; from what she could make out, Isaviel also wore a wooden stick through the bun in her hair. And the druid at least wore a dress, by far the more favoured clothing for women in this city, while the same could not be said oftentimes for Isaviel, Shandra or Neeshka.
They were ushered into the main hall of Castle Never almost immediately, before Elanee could properly begin to comprehend the vast atrium, bustling with people, rigid, expressionless guards at every door in heavy armour. She heard Isaviel make some derisive comment about this being the 'throne room of Lord Nasher, though he tried to pretend it was not'. To Elanee, the enormous hall ahead, with its cold, hard marble floor and those forcibly carven pillars, was terrifying, monstrous, and horribly ugly. The ceiling – what a woe that it was there at all! – rose up so dizzyingly high, ridged and graven in so many ways, with a great circular hole to allow only the most meagre amount of rainwater in. To make it worse, all the elaborately dressed men and women nearby, glinting in gold and diamonds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, with shimmering silks and smooth velvets, gawped and sneered so unashamedly at the group of adventurers walking down the centre of this hall.
Just when Elanee thought that the walk would go on forever, they reached the partitioned area within which Lord Nasher sat upon his throne. He was cut from the same honourable stone as Casavir but without any of his evident kindness, grace or beauty. The door clanged shut behind them, blocking out much of the sound from the great hall beyond, and here there were far fewer people, though no less unnatural stonework and artistry.
Nevalle was at attention by his Nasher's side, but relaxed a little when he saw Isaviel and her four companions – evidently they had been waiting for her. Nasher's eyes fixed upon each of them in turn, and it warmed Elanee's heart a little that he looked upon her with no more judgement than he did Shandra or Casavir. He sneered a little when he beheld Sand, now standing a little behind Isaviel, beside Shandra. The Lord of Neverwinter's eyes were hard when he saw Isaviel, and the Moon Elf stood straight and proud to withstand his distrust and dislike, the bitter look she wore reminiscent of Bishop most of all.
"Squire, I am relieved to see you are well again. It grieves me to admit that our attempt to divert the shard's seeker cost us the dear life of Lady Melia, but it seems that there is little more that can be done at this time. Her killer was a powerful spellcaster and has covered his tracks well; if there were a trail I would ask you to hunt him down, retrieve the shard and end the threat he poses – whatever threat that be," Nasher explained, but Isaviel's expression only grew colder, her eyes flickering distrustfully over to the one at Nasher's right, an enormously fat woman with one drooping eyelid and three chins, a dark triangular tattoo over her left cheek, "Now, however, a new threat has occurred which you must deal wi…"
"I think you'd better explain yourself," the Moon Elf snapped, "I don't care what you think you can tell me to do…not until you tell me exactly why it is you thought it was just and good to risk my companions and I for one shard – when I carry four."
"This wizard who summoned the demons against Tavorick has made no effort to kill you personally, squire. It may be that the shards you carry are fakes…"
"Oh, I assure you they are not fake, Lord Nasher," Sand put in smugly now, and the lord's expression flickered with brief annoyance.
"Or perhaps they do not hold the power this wizard seeks. Tavorick was willing to give up his life for Neverwinter. The least you could do is…"
"Die obligingly for you? You'd dance on my grave, I'm sure…if it didn't befoul your honour and your boots to get that close to me," Isaviel smiled bitterly, "I've half a mind to rip out the shard I have lodged in my chest and give the lot over to you. You'd have no more need for me…and I'd have no more need for you."
"I would watch my tone if I were you, squire. You wear those daggers out of privilege for what you have done for me thus far. I would happily have them taken from you."
"My lord," the fat woman by Nasher's side interrupted the rising tension, stepping forward toward Isaviel with a painfully false smile on her bejowled face, the badge on her right shoulder showing her to be affiliated with Luskan, "I hate to interrupt, but the matter for which we are gathered is far more important than whatever these…shards…are of which you speak."
"I fear you are right," Nasher agreed, though his tone rang with loathing, "Ambassador Natale, you may proceed."
"You are Luskan," Isaviel stated icily, her hands straying naturally to her dagger hilts, "Speak quickly, lest I accidentally slit your throat."
"Now, now. Your hatred comes from a misunderstanding, young lady, one which I seek to correct," Ambassador Natale simpered, her voice entirely ill-suited for the task, "I have come to your Lord Nasher in haste to warn him of a terrible threat posed within his own lands by Black Garius, the debauched wizard of the 'Fifth Tower', a native of my city. It has so transpired that he is in possession of the Tome of Iltkazar, an item for the theft of which Ruathym recently blamed Luskan…and the two nations have gone to war over it. Though we of Luskan's government never knew of this, Garius has set us all up, to deflect his home's focus away from his own wretched schemes and underhandedly plot against all of the Sword Coast, not just this city."
"I suggest you get to your point, ambassador, my patience is already worn thin," Isaviel warned, glancing pointedly at Lord Nasher.
"Oh, I have just reached my point," Natale smirked, "For Garius has gone to Crossroad Keep, within Neverwinter's jurisdiction, to harness the remembered power of the King of Shadows, the monstrosity whom he has covertly 'worshipped' since its fall decades ago. He seeks to use this power with the Tome of Iltkazar – which contains the detail on how the King of Shadows was originally created – to make himself into a far more powerful being than his master. This cannot be allowed to happen, and that is why I have come here."
"He's Luskan," Isaviel stated, "Why don't you do something about it?"
"Because that would be breaking the treaty," Ambassador Natale pretended to look horrified.
"Sydney Natale speaks truly, squire," Nasher agreed grudgingly, "This Garius acts within Neverwinter's lands and so Neverwinter must stop him. It transpires that Aldanon has seemingly been captured by him to advise on the methods of the ritual – a ritual which also requires the power of a silver sword…or perhaps its shards. It would appear that the shards are ultimately bound up in the King of Shadows in some way. More than enough incentive to send you to Crossroad Keep for me."
"I'll go," Isaviel admitted with a sneer, "But it sounds like I'll need a lot of help."
"Oh, do not fear on that score," Nasher smirked, "I have already made arrangement to supply you with a contingent of Many-Starred Cloaks and Greycloaks, your very own to command under your new title of captain."