Points to those who can spot the Hordes of the Underdark reference - and double points to those who can spot the Baldur's Gate reference as well ^.^
Oh, and if ever you needed proof that Bishop is a bad influence on Isaviel, it's in this chapter...
Once upon a time Isaviel would have laughed at Shandra's naivety, seeing the woman's confused expression even before Sand summoned light for them, illuminating the surprisingly large stone chamber into which they had descended. The human woman had evidently not thought to listen to Aldanon's tedious explanations about how his field of protection would work; it could get them to the Mere, and it could keep them protected in the ruins because of the ritual's own magic. It could not keep them safe from all of the horrors of the Mere outside, and that was what had risen up to meet them in the small section of swamp between West Harbour and the old Illefarn site.
"Well," Shandra offered at last, staring about the half-fogged room with her shortsword still out in front of her while the others were catching their breath after their run through the marshes, "At least they can't follow us in here, right?"
"By the Lone Wolf, I hope they can't," Isaviel agreed, glancing behind the woman, up at the stairs which were slowly filling with darkness, then back around the room, "But I'm starting to think they will be able to soon." You must be strong. Because this is not over yet.
The chamber was of smooth-hewn grey granite, utterly bare and not particularly ruined. The exception to this rule was the immense doorframe ahead, made from glittering white stone graven with a pattern of intricately woven strands. The stone doors which had once blocked the way lay in four pieces just beyond it, and there was a huge slab inlaid in the floor before that, words carved into it in a script that Isaviel could not read. Both Sand and Zhjaeve joined her as she peered down at the words, and the wizard nodded to himself.
"This looks like Ancient Illefarn script," Sand began softly once had caught his breath after their run, still evidently struggling with grief for his lost friend, "I believe I can decipher a little…" he paused, frowning in concentration, but Zhjaeve interrupted, her voice solemn.
"In ancient times the Guardian was created to protect Illefarn. If the time has come to dismantle our Great Instrument, you will be an agent of its destruction," she paused, leaning closer to make out the more faded second paragraph, "A creature of magic he became, an extension of the very Weave. Our enemies, the men of Netheril, feared to face him, so they turned their eyes to weaker prey. By the Guardian's sacrifice, we were kept safe. We thought the Weave eternal, an endless font of life from which the Guardian might draw. In this, we were wrong. The Weave failed, and the Guardian faced a choice. Allow himself to die, and leave Illefarn undefended, or draw life from another source. For the sake of his people the Guardian turned to the Weave's dark twin. And thus he became a creature of Shadow. He does not know time, and he does not know right from wrong; he knows only hatred, and the need to protect Illefarn. May this allow him the rest he so deserves."
"A pity someone's beaten us to getting here," Isaviel pointed out, gesturing towards the doors, "Didn't you say those were standing…and closed, Elanee?"
"Th-they were," the druid nodded, following the Moon Elf as the latter stepped into the next room, the light following them, "It was a duty of every druid of the Circle to check on the ruins above, and these cellars, if they passed by. I often did…and I always checked."
"Oh, Gods," Sand groaned as the light showed them the broken stand beyond.
A broad, flat-bottomed bowl of stone lay smashed upon the floor and liquid still glimmered across the grey tiles on the floor. To add to that the marble pedestal upon which it had once stood had been snapped clean in half for good measure. A tall statue stood at the opposite wall, depicting a cloaked woman holding a sword, but there appeared to be no actual function for this leviathan.
"Well that makes this…a little difficult," Isaviel sighed, just as a cold laugh interrupted, and the light Sand had summoned fizzed away, plunging the room into a darkness that the Moon Elf could not see through.
"Your fear and your grief tastes sweet," a low, hoarse voice told them with cold amusement, a blue flame bursting into life, blazing through the eyes of a gruesomely burned skull, seeming to allow it to float above shadow-cloaked shoulders, "Another has carried out the ritual before you, and when he broke the pedestal, he weakened the power of this place…"
"You lie!" Zhjaeve snarled, but the creature only laughed more.
"I am glad that we meet again this way. You will not kill me again, accursed little girl – even if you do succeed in your escape here, I will be reborn in the Vale of Meredelain, stronger than before…"
"The Vale of Meredelain is a sacred place!" Elanee cried, "The Elders would never let you…"
"Oh, but they did," the monster assured her.
"Who are you?" Isaviel snarled, her eyes at last adjusting to the darkness, and she could see her shuriken embedded in the creature's shoulder, shadows leaking from the wound. So he could at least be harmed.
"I once went by the name of Black Garius, but now I am a Reaver…and I will enjoy killing you."
He seemed to be alone, and that in itself was worrying – was he that confident of his own power in this form? That question was answered when the shuriken came spinning back to Isaviel's grasp, she threw them straight back at him, but they hit a wall of summoned energy and fell to the ground with impotent little clicks. Sand's attempts to cast an equivalent protective field flickered into being in front of them, but only long enough to deflect the first stream of crackling black energy which Garius sent towards them. Cursing, the half-Elvish wizard stumbled back as his magic failed, fear coming into his eyes.
"Khelgar, Shandra, to me!" Isaviel cried when she saw Elanee cowering in a corner, whimpering, her own attempts at shapeshifting having failed utterly, "He can be harmed, even if he can't die for long."
"But what do we do after that?" Elanee was fairly wailing, "Aldanon…"
"Shut up, you stupid girl!" Sand raged when she almost gave away their secret, only for Zhjaeve to give him a hard shove when another blast of energy almost collided with him. He seemed so scared and useless without his magic. So weak. Isaviel thought of Daeghun, of Merring…and her heart ached.
Pulling herself back to her feet after another sizable dodge, Isaviel threw herself forward, her daggers in her hands. Shandra shouted in wordless agreement and ran ahead with her, somehow taking on a bruising blast of magic and only staggering briefly, just as Khelgar did. Isaviel found herself grinning at the tenacity of these friends, even if they were stuck here. Aldanon had agreed to teleport them back through a dimensional door of some kind only once he sensed the burst of magic from the Pool of Purification. There was no longer a Pool of Purification. They would have to fight their way through, and hope that Aldanon realised what was happening…or they would be stumbling through the Mere blind, at the mercy of the King of Shadows's minions, hoping they could walk their way home.
Isaviel pulled herself up short when she saw the enormous globe of magic forming in Garius's hands, sparking with purple lightning, throwing herself down to the side, concentrating hard, and feeling her body dissolve into a shade of itself. The magic still burned when it tore through her, but it did no lasting damage – no more than any bruises at least. She saw Zhjaeve seated by the pedestal, cross-legged as before, chanting quietly, blue radiance permeating from her body and appearing to render her invulnerable.
"Your feeble attempts to avoid destruction are most…entertaining. With your death we will remove all his hopes of recovering the sword…as well as your own, naturally," Garius sounded completely at ease, even as another of Isaviel's shuriken cut through his body, creating another wound to join the others, shadows pooling like blood about his impossibly tall form.
His next blast of magic came too quickly to dodge, crashing against Isaviel's chest and sending her sprawling back towards the far wall. But she threw herself back instead, flipping and rolling, landing on her feet, and stood again. Determination shone in her eyes, and she caught Khelgar's impressed grin with a hard nod of her own. They would not die here…because she had her home to avenge.
The ranger was good, but he was not as good as he wanted others to believe. He could shoot with that bow as accurately as any master archer, and with far more power, but he was ill at ease in this training area, twitchily watching all the other practising men, glancing around at every ring of steel. He had never agreed to practice in melee combat with Mae'rillar, and the Drow found that telling; Bishop would only train with someone who he thought he could win against. It was a foolish tactic, the weapon master surmised, and the behaviour of someone who was out to get only what they wanted for themself. Not only that, but Bishop evidently relied on fear to win against those who had the edge on him in skill; he had a reputation for being fierce and brutal, and the glare he could perform for anyone watching would make it seem like those tales were true. They were, to an extent, but again nothing went so deep as the ranger wanted them to think…at least not when it came to fighting.
There were other things, more important things, that he did not want people to see, but Mae'rillar understood anyway, and the ranger knew it. That made him angry and mistrustful, and frustrated because he knew he could never win in a fair fight – or an unfair one, since the Drow had been trained in the most dangerous and subversive society of all the Realms; that of the Dark Elves.
He had happily beaten down a number of the training Greycloaks that day when he got back from his ranging, but Mae'rillar saw through that, too. The way the Drow understood it, Bishop was angry that Isaviel had gone to West Harbour, not because he had been excluded, but because he loved her – though he probably did not even know it himself, and would never admit it anyway – and he did not trust her.
They had all noticed the darkness in the borderlands on their furthest rangings, the diseased cattle, the dying wildlife. They had seen the refugees on the roads, some heading for Longsaddle or Triboar, but most to Highcliff or Neverwinter. This was not just a bad winter, this was a curse on the land. There had been reports of settlements destroyed by shadows and the undead, razed in blue fire and dark magic spells. If this was happening north of the Mere, what was it like in West Harbour, the closest town to the King of Shadows's base of power?
Isaviel and the others had been gone for several hours, and that felt worrying, Mae'rillar realised. Elanee had assured them that the Illefarn ruins were only a short distance from the town, and Zhjaeve had not expected the ritual to take long. As if reading the Drow's mind, Bishop pulled back his bow even harder than before, snarling as he let the arrow fly to land in the bull's-eye, quivering with an audible hum as he approached to retrieve his projectiles.
Mae'rillar continued to watch, wrapped in his furs, one booted foot drawn up against the rim of the barrel upon which he sat, sharpening a tiny Underdark dagger. The keep loomed up to his right, most of its scaffolding taken down, snow piled high on the head of the gargoyles by the top windows. Men were patrolling the ramparts on the walls to his left, and others stood at attention on the roof of the keep itself, cloaks flapping, bows in hand. Their helmets glinted silver in the waning light, and Mae'rillar could make them out a little better without the wretched sun hurting his sensitive Drow eyes.
Most of these Greycloaks practicing so diligently in the yard were good fighters – good by human standards at least, and that was better than he had expected. The Many-Starred Cloaks were less impressive, and that was worrying, although Valarian was an experienced wizard. He also hated Mae'rillar, and refused to speak to him at any time, moving down the benches at the sight of the Drow. That was to be expected; any surface Elf would have been brought up to fear his kind. Many had good reason to, and Valarian was no exception, evidently. Qara was impressive, however, where all the others might not have been. Her power reminded him of his mother, and that was a little worrying. He hoped she had a little more sense than Matron Kilath, but he feared she did not.
Casavir, out in the centre of the yard now, was a powerful fighter, but his heavy armour encumbered him worryingly. He was panting and sweating even in the impressive cold, though his heavy hammer never ceased to swing with force. The man he faced, a burly but youthful new Greycloak recruit, probably a farmer from nearby who knew he could get porridge here where he would have none at home, was struggling. When he caught Mae'rillar looking, his flushed cheeks grew pale and he stumbled under the paladin's next swing.
"They fight like blundering fools," Bishop grunted as he came to stand by Mae'rillar's side to check the arrows he had retrieved – that bow of his was quite uniquely powerful, and it could blunt the arrowheads with ease.
"They do," Mae'rillar admitted benignly with a small shrug, glancing at the ranger, "You yourself would benefit from experience with a stronger opponent."
"Oh really? And you think you're the one to beat me?"
"No," the Drow did not bother to hide his smile, "I know I am. While Isaviel is not here…"
"They should be back by now," the ranger interrupted the thought, as Mae'rillar had intended him to, hiding his worry behind that glare with little success, "How do we know the King of Shadows hasn't chopped them up to pieces by now? Aldanon should bring them back, no matter what ritual it is they need to do. Hardly useful if they died trying. A one chance thing as well."
"Indeed. It would be w…"
"Ah, paladin, I heard you stomping over here louder than a swamp boar," Bishop sneered as Casavir approached, the latter's face set in his trademark serious expression, "Something you need? I figure whatever it is must be serious to give you the courage to come over here when your captain in shining armour's away. Maybe it's jealousy."
The paladin's face flickered tellingly, and suddenly this childish altercation became far more interesting for Mae'rillar. He had not spent much time yet bothering to understand the interactions between Isaviel's companions, but he had already noticed the tension between Casavir and Bishop the moment he had seen them. It was made easier to observe as the paladin never so much as acknowledged the Drow, as if he was not sure which moral code to superimpose upon him. He did not know about the Thieves' Guild in absolute terms, but he clearly suspected – that was not enough, however, for he bore no ill will towards Neeshka. Something in his understanding of life meant that he could not force his expectations beyond what he had been told of the Drow in his youth; Neeshka might be half demon, but Mae'rillar was fully Drow.
"It has nothing to do with her…"
"Oh really?" Bishop's tone was painfully mocking, "That so? Guess I called it wrong then – but the thing is, when I shoot an arrow it doesn't miss. And I never said you were jealous about her – though I did mean it. You just gave me more proof, paladin. Where's your honour now? Aren't you supposed to be warming Shandra's bed for her?"
"I am watching you, Bishop," Casavir managed to choke out, though he had flushed red to his roots – and it was not even from the cold. Mae'rillar choked on a laugh, continuing his work of sharpening his various daggers, but watching, unnoticed now, "I do not trust you and neither should Isaviel."
"Sounds like good advice to me," Bishop shrugged, smirking and leaning back against the wall with a deceptively languid gesture, his hand resting tellingly on his sword hilt, "Same thing I told her about you…"
"What do you mean?" the paladin demanded, somehow managing to look even more scandalised.
"Well, you can distrust me all you want – and don't doubt that she does – but I'm still a league's throw more honest with myself than you : some paladin who can't figure out how he feels about a woman or two. It's the problem with you holy warriors – and why you're such trouble on the battlefield. All that pent-up frustration, when all you really need to admit is that you need a drink from a wench's cups just like the rest of us."
"Do not speak of her that way!" Casavir exclaimed, and Bishop laughed as honestly as Mae'rillar had ever heard him – the Drow was having a hard time keeping back his own mirth at the paladin's expression.
"Who? Shandra or Isaviel? You want them both, but you won't keep one and you'll never get the other," Bishop drawled, but his eyes were sharp as he watched the paladin's fists clench, his own hand closing around his sword hilt, "Come on, admit it. Shandra's just there to keep you distracted; Isaviel will never let you fu…"
"Bishop if you do not cease your abhorrent slander…"
"You'll do what? Hit me?" the ranger sneered, pulling his sword halfway from its sheathe in threat – though Mae'rillar knew he would not really attack unless the paladin did first, "I'd break your jaw."
"Hey!" Neeshka interrupted, hurtling around the corner, her eyes wild and excited, "Zhjaeve managed to contact Aldanon and they've got back but someone's already done the ritual and there was…some kind of shadow monster thing who attacked them and they're safe now but…"
The Tiefling's words were coming out in a never-ending stream until Bishop stepped forward and took hold of her by the arm. That did make Mae'rillar stand, his expression hard; the ranger saw and let Neeshka go with a sneer. She glared at him and put her hands on her blades in warning but he just raised his eyebrows mockingly.
"Where are they, demongirl?" he demanded as if they never had played cards so amicably at The Sunken Flagon, and she never had been his employer in Neverwinter.
"In Isaviel's quarters," Neeshka sniffed derisively, glancing over at Mae'rillar in disbelief as the ranger stalked away, "What's with him?"
The Drow just shrugged, smiling to her as he stood to pull her towards him and kiss her cheek. As he did so, he glanced towards Casavir and saw that the paladin was still standing by the barrels, shaking in embarrassment and rage.
"Know that we must find the one who carried out the ritual," Zhjaeve was saying, leaning forwards across the table, staring hard at Isaviel's back.
"That is true enough," Aldanon agreed, nodding genially, "But we need to uncover a way of killing these Shadow Reavers – in my experience, no one is invincible. Not unless you're Tethtoril in Candlekeep, and I would argue he's a special example because…"
Isaviel was hardly listening, watching the flames dancing in the hearth, one hand pressed to the mantelpiece in her sitting room. The others had gathered around the table, but only the Githzerai and Aldanon were talking. The rest of them were finding it hard to focus beyond what they had seen. Out there in the Mere survival had been the ultimate concern; now they were back in comfortable, warm, wintery Crossroad Keep, everything seemed too real. The Moon Elf found herself turning Merring's shuriken over and over in her free hand, not daring to look at it. Her face ached from the effort of not crying, and there were bruises all over her body.
Aldanon had pulled them back almost as soon as Zhjaeve had managed to make contact with him, and it could not have been timelier. The Moon Elf could still feel the cold grasp of the Shadow Reaver, Black Garius, as his icily burning fingers pressed into the skin of her throat. When the magic had pulled them all free, each carrying an apparently mundane token to link them to the spell – hers had been a knight-shaped playing piece – she had been freed from that compromising situation. But Garius's magically tenacious fingers had pulled some of her skin away too and she was left with four angry red finger marks on her neck, and a pathetically bleeding cut where his thumb had been. The area around it had appeared to be a little blackened – like it had charred….or like frostbite. Zhjaeve had been quick to apply a cooling salve which took away most of the pain, as soon as they had arrived from Sand's house at Isaviel's rooms. It had numbed the pain a little, but only on the outside. Her heart ached, and her stomach would not stop roiling. Merring, Tarmas…
A hard knock on the door jolted Isaviel out of her reverie and she glanced over her shoulder, briefly seeing Sand, Shandra and Khelgar slumped around the circular table watching Zhjaeve and Aldanon with sullen passivity. They barely seemed to have responded to the knock, and momentarily she thought she had imagined it, until it came again and she heard Neeshka's manic talking. The Tiefling had not heard about the true state of West Harbour yet and she was still relieved to see them back safe. It would appear that all those companions she had left behind had started to find the delay a little unsettling.
"Come in," Isaviel called weakly, looking away again. At least these flames in the hearth were red and not blue or green.
She heard the scraping of a chair, and hurried footsteps, as well as the tell-tale collision of two bodies hugging – Casavir and Shandra, from the clank of plate mail. Their following murmuring attested to that. Neeshka was talking quickly, but not so quickly as before – the silence was as telling as Casavir's clanking; Mae'rillar had come with the Tiefling, a calming influence on her. The scrape of another chair and Elanee's soft weeping, following by her hurried escaping footsteps denoted her leave-taking.
"I'm surprised to see you all so full of laughter," Bishop noted sarcastically, and the words grated enough with Isaviel that her hand clenched automatically, closing around the shuriken in her hand and drawing blood, "My, my, Captain, you've gone and got yourself a few more scars."
She ignored those words, though unseen her hand closed more tightly around the shuriken.
"Enough, Bishop," Shandra told him coldly, "She's suffered enough today without having to deal with you, too."
Isaviel could imagine how Neeshka had paused, probably patting the woman on the back, but not sure whether or not to approach the Moon Elf as well. She was glad that the Tiefling refrained. A quick glance showed that Bishop was still standing in the doorway, glowering at Shandra now.
"And who are you to c…"
"Bishop!" Casavir exclaimed rather suddenly – almost as if he was afraid the ranger might give something away.
"I'm glad you're all ok," Neeshka tried to sound cheerful, beginning to catch on to the serious air in the room, but that just made Isaviel grit her teeth.
"We may have lost much this day," Zhjaeve told her softly, "But we have learned a little more, and it may yet bring us closer to defeating the King of Shadows. I believe the Reaver was attempting to kill Isaviel to remove the threat the shards pose to its master, but thanks to Aldanon it failed. And we now know that someone else is hunting him, for Garius mentioned that not only had someone performed the ritual before us, but someone else is also seeking the shards. This is good news, and it gives us further leverage, just as Isaviel's safety has perpetuated our hope…"
"Well, I for one think we should leave the lass be awhile," Khelgar noted pointedly at last, and his kindness brought a sad smile to Isaviel's lips as she heard him standing, "Out – all o' ye, out."
Two more chairs scraped, and seven pairs of feet stomped off. The silent eighth left, too.
"The ranger wanted to speak to you alone," Sand's voice noted softly from where he still sat at the table.
"I don't doubt it," Isaviel shrugged, still not turning, her voice wobbling just that little bit more, "He only wants one thing, and it's not to comfort me."
"Do you really think that is all he wants?" Sand sighed, standing now and reaching her side, prying her hand from around the shuriken and hissing when he saw the damage to her palm, pulling the weapon from her grasp.
"No," her voice was so small when she said the words, watching him place the shuriken gently on the rim of the mantelpiece, feeling his hand resting lightly against her back, turning a little to look into his grey eyes.
"Do you wish it to be all he wants? Is it all you want?" there it was, that disappointed tone.
"No," she admitted, just as weakly, and he smiled kindly, though his eyes remained sad.
"Do you want to talk?" About West Harbour.
"No," she denied, shifting a little to lean her head against his shoulder as his arm wound around her waist, "Do you?"
"No," Sand agreed softly, "But I think we have to. This is not the time to hold in what grieves you, lest it come to strike at you when you need your composure the most."
"Alright. But I don't want to talk about death."
"It sounds to me as though you had just as much fun tormenting the people of West Harbour as you did working for Moire in Neverwinter," Sand had noted, leaning his elbows against the lower part of the crenellations when they stopped the their walk along the battlements around the bailey.
There were quite a few guards on duty at this time, carrying torches against the early darkness of winter, heavily armoured and covered in furs and long cloaks against the cold. At least no snow had fallen this day, and it was just the icy wind they had to contend with. Out here the world was so still, but for the sounds of the castle itself, that Isaviel could have found it very easy to tell herself what had happened to West Harbour was just a bad dream. But Sand had been very adamantly against this, and they had taken a long walk around the castle and its grounds, eventually coming to these battlements in the shadow of the gatehouse, to talk of her old home and her life there. It turned out the only time he had been to the place was during the Battle of West Harbour, and he had never met Merring, but Tarmas had been as a brother to him. Contrary to his own advice he did not talk much of his old friend, but Isaviel realised he was not the one here with a problem showing their grief.
At last she had cried a little, and they had stood there while she wept silently, arms wrapped around each other, staring out at the tents and the trees, and the many stars. Soon it would be new year, and Kana had advised that the keep hold the expected festival; Elanee and Shandra both worshipped Chauntea, goddess of the earth, so that should please them. For herself, the Moon Elf would probably sneak away from the revelries to hunt out in the wilderness alone: her own prayer for vengeance to her mother's god, Fenmarel Mestarine, the Lone Wolf.
Kana's loud voice in the distance and the groan of the portcullis being drawn up in the gatehouse beside them startled Isaviel and Sand into movement; they pulled apart quickly, both feeling suddenly embarrassed for their closeness. The wizard reached the other side of the walkway first, peering down over the wall, and when the Moon Elf joined him she saw that his eyes had gone wide, his mouth hanging open just a little – but he did not look angry or shocked… he looked happy. When she followed his gaze, her own feelings were a little more mixed, guiltily wiping the tears from her cheeks, shivering against the renewed pain across her throat.
"And who are you to demand an audience with our captain?" Kana was asking abrasively, standing directly in front of the gatehouse so that Isaviel had to lean at an uncomfortable angle to see to whom she was speaking.
"I am her…foster-father, and I come in aid of her cause. And your own, I think," Daeghun's voice answered coolly.
The slight form of her foster-father stepped more clearly into view, but Kana only watched him doubtfully, her arms crossed in front her, a frown lining her forehead. Daeghun's expression was not visible, and it would have been unreadable anyway, Isaviel knew. His cloak and boots were mud stained, and she recognised the rudimentary patches he had made on them during his travels, intended to last him until such time as he could make some new ones for himself. His bow, a familiar weapon of dark Duskwood, was slung across his back and he had two full quivers of arrows over his shoulders as well. Other than that he travelled without a pack of food or a change of clothes. All he had with him were his bow and arrows, a longsword and a pair of skinning knives, along with a few pouches on his belt probably containing a good strike a-light and medicinal herbs. Perhaps some Mereberries.
"Daeghun!" Sand called, and it was Kana who looked up first in surprise and confusion, while Isaviel headed for the nearby steps.
"You know this man?"
"He is no liar, and yes – we are old friends, Lieutenant."
"Sand," Daeghun responded, his green eyes narrowing in what might have been a small smile as he looked up at the wizard, now following Isaviel's path down the steps, "It is good to see you old friend. The years have been kind to you."
"And you," the wizard responded with a guiltlessly tearful smile, breaching the distance between them and pulling the Elf into a tight hug which he had evidently been braced for, patting his friend on the back uncomfortably, "It is most definitely good to see you safe. We have just witnessed West Harbour's horrors for ourselves…"
"Foster-daughter," Daeghun acknowledged, prising himself from Sand's grasp and looking towards Isaviel, who hung back, watching the pair warily, "The roads are full of talk of you. It is hardly a low profile which you have maintained."
"Turns out I had no choice. It's disappointing to see you too, father," she responded icily – of all the things he could have said to her, he chose to berate her instead, "Merring is dead…"
"And so is everyone else. I warned them, and they did not listen. It has been over five tendays since they fell, but the shadow-magic keeps their corpses lying out there to see. They are apparitions, nothing more. What you doubtlessly saw is but a shade of the truth."
"Daeghun…" Sand started to object, but the Elf ignored him, stepping past the wizard and towards Isaviel.
"I see the moon has been at your back," Daeghun did not sound contrite, but it was as close as he would get, "But you do not look well, Isaviel…"
"All the more for you to celebrate then," the Moon Elf suggested, and saw Sand shaking his head in disbelief, shooing Kana away as he headed back towards his house, "Where have you been?"
"The Mere has grown dark and many villages needed help in leaving before it was too late. And I have sought the scent on the breeze, to learn of the dark hunter – the King of Shadows," Daeghun responded calmly, as if she never had aimed to rile him, "More can still be learned in the Mere, but I have discovered something and had to tell you at once."
"And what is that?"
"The druids of the Mere still live. I had thought them lost, but…"
"Am I supposed to care?" Isaviel sneered, "Was it them or was it you who sent Elanee to babysit me?"
"Both, as it turns out," the Elf shrugged, "Does she still travel with you? She will want to hear this, even if you do not."
"Then she shall," Isaviel sighed, waving over one of the guards, "Take my…father…to the hall. See that he sits with Elanee. They must have words."
Isaviel was not surprised to see Bishop standing by the fire in her bedroom when she returned to her chambers, at last thinking about changing out of her Mere-stained tunic. The ranger was rather pointedly looking through her journal, the one she kept to keep track of the castle's affairs, and he gave a slight grunt when she closed the door after herself.
"Hardly worth the paper and ink, if you ask me," Bishop informed, dropping the book onto the floor beside him as he turned to watch her crossing the room, barely acknowledging him.
The mirror showed her new injuries to her; Zhjaeve had left her some of the salve on the table by the mirror stand, and she began to add some more to her neck, hissing when she touched her damaged skin. It looked bad, though not quite so bad as it had before…
"Isaviel," the ranger growled, one hand sliding around her waist and coming to rest at her hip, pulling her back against him, taking the bottle of salve from her and putting it back on the table, "You hated that village. Don't let them persuade you into their weak sentimentality."
"What would you know about 'that village' or 'sentimentality'?" Isaviel demanded, watching him in the mirror as he pushed aside the neck of her tunic, bending to kiss her shoulder. A moment later his eyes met hers in the reflection.
"More than you might think, obviously," he told her, kissing her neck softly now – and although she hissed initially, she did not move away.
"Tell me," she murmured as he moved to her other side to press his lips to the other marks on her neck.
"My home village, Redfallow's Watch, was destroyed – burned to the ground, and everyone died," he whispered it into her ear, his breath tickling her skin, and there was a hint of menace in his words.
"By whom?" though somehow she already knew the answer.
"By me."
A chill ran up her spine even as she turned around in his arms, standing on her tiptoes so that when she spoke her lips almost brushed against his. She felt foolish for it, but she found there was a power to be experienced in knowing he only wanted to kiss her, when he could be so cruel.
"Why would you do that?"
"I hated that village," he snarled, looking away, his grip on her tightening, "When the Luskans asked me to destroy one of the little border settlements, I chose that one. I'd always hated it, so I took my chance to be rid of it…but they weren't supposed to die. When I started the fire I tried to warn them, but no one would listen – it wasn't like they'd missed me," he paused a moment when Isaviel kissed him for that, a long, slow kiss that he followed through, leaning down to keep the contact as she dropped back to her normal height, pulling her closer.
He followed her when she took his hand, allowing her to pull him with her when she sat on the rug in front of the fire. She started to unlace the tattered velvet over-tunic she wore, but winced as she peeled it from her shoulders. The white shirt beneath it was stained with dried blood. When had she been wounded there? She wondered, until she saw that it had come from the old scar over her heart. Amidst all the pains and suffering of the day, she had barely noticed that newest – and oldest – wound. She shoved Bishop onto his back playfully when he moved to help mockingly, but he pulled her on top of him even before her hands had moved from his chest. He got his wish and removed the over-tunic for her, while she pinned him there with a knee at each side of his waist.
"How did it go wrong?" she asked, wincing again as the last part of the lacing came free and the ranger pulled the fabric from both her shoulders.
"Well, instead of clearing the town when I burned it, and killing my Luskan 'masters'…they all died. A few of the Luskans got some lucky shots at me, and I was lying there, burned and bleeding to death, the whole village burning, everyone dead – all my family, everyone they knew, and all the Luskan bastards as well, when Duncan found me. The fool must have seen the smoke and come to take a look. He would not let me escape this world at last, and made a point of healing me…"
"That's what these scars are," Isaviel understood at last.
Running a hand over the burns along his neck and shoulder, she leaned down to kiss them, feeling him sigh beneath her and smiling against him for that. She staying close, her head resting over his heart, listening to it beating, as steady and slow as any heart…there was no way to know it was so cold.
"Yes," his voice was gruff and just as hard as ever, but one arm was heavy across her lower back, and his free hand tugged absently as her long plait of hair, "And then when I was healed, your uncle told me that I owed him. Said that he knew what I'd done, that I was indebted to him. Made a new prison out of words to keep me chained to this life, and I didn't want to let him get the satisfaction of winning that bluff, so I always had that debt hanging over my head."
"My foster-father, Daeghun, always made me feel like that. Like I owed him for being alive. Of all the people who died at West Harbour, I wish he had most of all, instead of Merring and Tarmas."
Bishop watched her with blazing eyes for a long moment when she raised her head to look at him, then rolled over so that they switched places, kissing her hard until she sighed and put her arms around his neck.
Isaviel was awoken early the next morning by someone hammering on the door of her bedroom, and while she was still trying to orientate herself Bishop groaned in annoyance, pressing a foot against her lower back and pushing her over the side of the bed that way. Swearing loudly at him and whoever was knocking on the door, she scrambled to her feet, scrabbling about in one of the chests, eventually finding a grey tunic – another velvet one, cursed be Kana. Pulling it on, it took a little longer to find some leggings, and she had just hopped into them, her tunic only half-buttoned, when she opened the door to Kana.
"Captain," the lieutenant began immediately, only to pause and blush just a little when Bishop appeared behind Isaviel, dressed only in his trousers, "Aldanon has been asking for you since before dawn. He claims to have found the location of some haven or other. Should I send a scouting party out to acquire what you need…"
"No, Kana," Isaviel snapped, "Gather my friends – and you know the company I mean. We will meet in the library. I need all of them with me, because when I leave, I need to know I can win if we have to fight."
"As you will, Captain," Kana sighed, already turning away.
"And do not fear, Lieutenant, I will leave you with some objectives to reach before I am back. We wouldn't want you needing to run the place with your own ideas and opinions now, would we?"