In spite of the cold weather, the New Year festival was held outside, beginning at dusk – an early start, then, given that the sun sank below the horizon so quickly at that time of year. It seemed like an excuse to raise morale to Isaviel – not something she knew much about, but she understood that it was important at least. A little pavilion had been set up just outside the keep's gates, overlooking the festivities around the large fire built specially for the occasion. Here the officers dined on cheese, meat and the freshest bread they could find. Someone had managed to wangle the Mereberry pie recipe from Daeghun, or perhaps he had even made it, but such was served after the main course. Wine and ale were drunk by the barrel-full, and it made the Moon Elf think of Shandra's legendary tolerance for alcohol. She could have beaten Khelgar even with a head start.
Sir Nevalle and Kana flanked the Moon Elf, as was customary, while Sand and Grobnar sat nearby. The Gnome kept sloshing his ale dangerously close to the wizard's fine green velvet doublet, but whatever the bard was saying it appeared to have genuinely caught Sand's attention. Daeghun, dressed in his finest clothes (the only time of year he could be coaxed into them, in fact), had been given a place amongst them and had struck up a conversation with Mae'rillar. The Drow was dressed in a startlingly thin silk shirt, and just above its loose lacing glinted a necklace, showing a full moon with a long-hilted sword across its face. Whatever that meant, it had been the beginning of their interaction, and though both remained stilted and formal, it looked like they were getting along remarkably well, considering.
Neeshka looked tired and pale; the Moon Elf knew her friend's side was heavily bandaged from when she had visited the Tiefling earlier in the day. She was slumping ever more completely against Mae'rillar, and the Drow's arm had found its way around her shoulders. For once she was not drinking…and she was not talking to anyone. This reminded Isaviel a great deal of the Tiefling's response to the burning of Ember. She would never relate directly to those who died, but she felt the horror all the same. She would need time, but she would recover.
Zhjaeve sat in silence, watching all those around her, barely drinking and not eating, staring down at the revelries in the main bailey as if she was not aware of Sand and Grobnar talking increasingly heatedly of golems, or of Daeghun and Mae'rillar discussing Eilistraee. For her part, Isaviel was falling asleep between Kana and Nevalle, who were discussing how they decided to join the army. Her answer would be a quick one: 'I didn't' should suffice.
Qara's place had been with them but after the food had been given out she had moved over to the little table at which Ammon Jerro was seated with some simple fare. He did not seem overly impressed by her presence, but the longer they spoke the more he talked, and she looked as animated as Isaviel had ever seen her to be. An evil warlock and a power crazed sorcerer? Hardly a safe combination. From the looks of the on-duty guards nearby, their topics were far from tame.
Bishop had not made an appearance amongst his companions – perhaps he had known he would be expected to sit next to Qara. Or perhaps he preferred not to endure the manners of a staged meal. Isaviel could sympathise with both issues, especially when her head nodded forward in weariness and she nearly knocked her still-full wine glass from the table.
Sighing, the captain of Crossroad Keep excused herself and, wrapping herself in her cloaks, headed down the path towards the main revelries. It was loud and cheerful, the whole world seeming to smell of burning firewood and strong wine. Most men had gathered around the main fire, laughing drunkenly, but the emotions did not touch Isaviel, as much as she saw them to be all around her. Daeghun had glanced up as she left the table, and she knew he understood. During this one night of each year, in the dark moments of the start of midwinter, Isaviel honoured her mother's god, Fenmarel Mestarine.
Isaviel paused a moment or two, staring at the drunken revelries. Someone had picked up a crude lute and begun to sing almost as tunelessly as Grobnar about some old legend. Something about a man who betrayed his god for love, and was killed for trying to save that dead wife, his curse spread through his sons. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Isaviel did not stay to find out. Heading towards the section of the walls which had not yet been completed, feet pressing lightly against untouched snow, Isaviel saw Karnwyr stepping out in front of her before she heard Bishop behind her.
"What do you want?" she sighed, turning away from the gaping exit, barely six feet away, and seeing the ranger standing before her.
"I saw you go into the temple today," he growled disdainfully, stepping forward; her monochrome darkvision showed to her that he was dressed in a plain dark tunic and trousers beneath his thick fur-lined cloak and matching boots. His expression was unreadable, and she knew he could only just see her in the distant flickering of the fires.
"Oh did you," she rolled her eyes, turning away again, "Everyone has been spying on me today."
He caught her shoulder and pulled her back to face him, staring down at the Moon Elf with blazing eyes, shaking her once, his grip hard. He was not dressed for travel – or battle, unusually – though he did still carry his longsword, his bow across his back.
"And why would I not when I saw you kiss him?" he snarled, his eyes flickering to her lips with a rather evident longing as she quirked an eyebrow.
"You know the devil forced it from us," the Moon Elf smiled as he leaned a little closer, running one of her gloved fingers over his chest, "And he was – and is – weak in his grief now. I had to play on something to make him believe. He is a useful fighter, but a boring man. I am not a fool, Bishop. I know he wants me, but I'll never want him."
"You kissed him with enough passion," the ranger pointed out, though there was a little doubt in his voice now, "How do I know you didn't just do that again to win him over to you?"
Seeing an emotional foothold here, at least enough of one to give her hope of dissuading the ranger's deepest suspicions, Isaviel succeeded in controlling her expression – she did not want him to see her doubt. She had already just lied through her teeth.
"He kissed me with passion," she corrected him, "And the devil told me not to stint. I wouldn't want to have to do it again," she bit at his lip when he leaned closer and he hissed at her, a slight smile appearing when she let him go, "Although," she grinned now when he pulled her to him hard, as if sensing her next teasing words, "There is something to be said for a paladin's aura…if I weren't given a proper contender for that, well, I might just get a taste for…"
He did not give her a chance to finish, snarling even as he dragged her to him, slamming her against the wall of the nearest building, kissing her with fierce passion, something which only grew as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She wondered at what she had ever seen in Casavir, forgot about him entirely, and she heard herself groan – or was it Bishop? Perhaps it was both of them. As he drew back, she noticed for a second time how his eyes showed his more elusive, vulnerable emotions in the dark. Where was that anger and that disdain? He could not see her face clearly, and pressing her against the wall, in the shadows and out of sight from any prying eyes, he did not seem able to keep up his control.
"Where are you going, oh Mighty Captain?" the ranger whispered, just about managing to keep his tone mocking, but Isaviel just smiled against his cheek , closing her eyes and wishing she could always feel as she did then with him. He did not seem to be aware of it, but he was still holding her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other slowly tracing the lines of the new scars on her neck.
"I must attend to the New Year rites of my god, oh faithless ranger," Isaviel laughed when he grunted in derision.
"What has that god ever done for you? How can you even know that he exists?"
"Come with me and you might see," Isaviel suggested softly against his ear, "Or you might not. Fenmarel Mestarine is the Lone Wolf, and he might not take kindly to me bringing a guest. Especially a human guest."
"You're going into the deep, dark, dangerous woods, and you didn't invite me?" Bishop pretended to be hurt by her words, pulling her against him again, pressing his forehead to hers, "Forget your god. That can wait. I'm not done with you yet, Isaviel."
The woods were utterly silent and terribly cold, the snow deep and untouched by the feet of any animal. Isaviel made no more sound as she made her way deep amongst those trees, breathing softly in little puffs of white air. She was far enough away by now that she could not hear the festivities at Crossroad Keep, and she had found time enough as she trod her path to calm the beating of her heart after Bishop's passionate kisses. Only once she knew that she was alone did she stop amongst the trees, in the deep winter darkness, and kneel in the snow, listening.
Silence stretched; there was not the call of an animal, nor the whisper of wind through the snowy trees. Here the shadows felt as safe as they always had before, not full of the heavy darkness permeated through the tainted lands of the King of Shadows, and the peace finally made her smile. She could forget for just a moment that she should be grieving, that she was captain of Crossroad Keep, a fort garrisoned against a threat which was ruining the Mere and its surrounding lands. The pain of her injuries, and the thoughts of the scars she had gained faded as she felt herself lighten and fade as well, becoming as substantial as the shadows in which she danced.
The words her mother had said at this time of year, every year, came back to her with ease. She had done this over thirty times in her life; these words were the only thing she remembered of her mother, and after Esmerelle died Daeghun had insisted that after the first three years she did it alone. She suspected that he might have followed her into the marshes secretly at least until she was twelve; not even Daeghun was so matter of fact as to leave a defenceless child out in the dangerous wilds.
"The world is cold and cruel, and only the darkness and the ice are my constant companions," she whispered, staring around at the night-time world of winter, "Its demands are without mercy for any who wish to make their own way in life. I do not rely on others for my safety because betrayal is easier than loyalty, and I would do the same. I rely on camouflage, deceit and my own secrets, which I keep for myself and give to no one. I follow the Lone Wolf, because his way is the path of independent thought and life."
Isaviel saw the flicker of a change in the darkness before she heard it, a shape so utterly black that it was silhouetted against the shadows. The blue light around its skull blazed into being, stinging her eyes, but she avoided shielding her face lest it strike at her then. Staying utterly still, she realised that the Shadow Reaver had not seen her, a hiss coming from its skull as if it were sniffing the air. The monstrous creature of shadow, sucking in the darkness and making it even blacker, hard to see even with her darkvision, turned first one way and then the other, but still did not seem to notice the Moon Elf barely three feet behind it.
She watched in silence as magical energy began to grow in the monster's hands; it did not speak, and it was significantly smaller than Black Garius's incarnation, so she had to assume that it was a different Shadow Reaver. One thing she did know for certain was that they had played a part in the deaths of those people in West Harbour, some of whom she had cared for more than she had realised. Anger started to well inside her as the Shadow Reaver's current prey stepped into view, a silent shadow himself, stalking through the trees, eyes blazing red. The symbol of Eilistraee around his neck glinted silver as Mae'rillar pulled free his longswords in a flash of movement, bringing the blades together in front of him. They reflected the crackling roar of magic aimed his way, sending it crashing into the snow between himself and the monster.
A grating cackle did erupt from the monster then, as the darkness thinned, coalescing and rising like running ink into vague humanoid shapes, blue eyes glinting with light of their own as they drew in around the Drow. His blades sang as he spun them about himself, and the Shadow Reaver only watched now as many grasping hands surrounded Mae'rillar. Isaviel found herself staring as well, shaking with rage, but biding her time – and unable to look away from the skill that the Drow displayed. Not once did any of those summoned creatures touch him, but already he had severed several grasping fingers and darkness was pouring like blood from their wounds. When the first of the summoned shades stumbled back with a shriek , dissolving into nothing, Isaviel pounced, burying both of her daggers to the hilts through the Shadow Reaver's back and into its skull. The attack sent fiery magical energy arcing in blue streaks over her weapons, burning her hands, and when she stumbled back, snarling in pain, the monster only turned around, its blazing eyes meeting hers.
Unarmed now, she readied herself to pounce again, feeling her anger starting to take her over as it never had before. Though the magical rebound had hurt…it had only stirred her ire, until the scar over her chest was aching horribly and she could feel blood trickling over her skin from where it had torn. Somehow she found herself blaming this cackling vision of evil, and when she dived towards it she crashed through its next blast of magic, barely noticing its bruising pain and the way it continued to fizz inside her. Something in her chest, where the shard was, seemed to twist and shriek with a voice of its own, and the magic poured back out of her mouth when she yelled in agony, tearing through the Shadow Reaver, which shuddered beneath her grasp. It stumbled, claws raking at her back, and she heard a hum, and a thud. The monster took an unsteady step back, roaring, an arrow embedded in its shoulder, and the shadows troubling Mae'rillar seemed to wane a little, two dispersing entirely.
A second arrow hummed past Isaviel's ear as the Shadow Reaver twisted, strangely unable to fling her from it even as she pummelled it rather ineffectually with her fists, her inexplicable anger beyond reason.
She saw the Reaver's arm warping into the shape of a black blade, dragging the shadows forming Mae'rillar's foes back into its own body. Someone shouted her name in horror, another arrow plunged into the monster's back, hardly seeming to do a thing, and then another two at once. She started to twist away from the serrated black blade when it came for her, but the Shadow Reaver caught her now and paused a moment as the tip rested above her heart, that horrible laugh rattling in its dead, dark-shrouded form as she raised her eyes.
The blue light in its skull looked different now, brighter, filling her entire vision, and the agony twisted and tore beneath her skin again, that shriek coming with it. To her own horror, four strands of red mist reached from her scar, melting the darkness from the shuddering Shadow Reaver until she could see its rotting ribcage beneath her hands while the tendrils writhed upwards and plunging into its skull. The monster screamed in a many-voiced cry that shook the snow from the trees around them, blue light pouring out of it and plunging back down into Isaviel as the monster's quickly-dissipating body collapsed on top of her.
Her vision exploded in a burst of blue and she fell with a thump into the snow, her whole body taut with agony. Two forms ran over to her, their hands like burning flames against her skin…and as the blue light drifted away, so did her pain, her eyes clearing, and she blinked up into Bishop's face as the clouds broke apart, revealing the moon and her tears. She realised he must have followed her into the woods after all – her planned solitude for the year had been broken.
"My…my scar," she gasped, pushing aside the fabric of her tunic to see…that it looked just as it always had, healed again though blood had dried on her skin from the wound.
"What in all the hells did you just do?" Bishop hissed, putting an arm around her shoulders and raising her a little, her head lolling back before she caught a glimpse of Mae'rillar standing back now, staring at her.
"You pulled his soul from him," the Drow responded where she could not, sheathing his blades, "Though how that is possible, I do not know. Beware, however; he did not die tonight. I watched his spirit flee, on a course for the Mere."
"How in the hells did she just do it?" Bishop demanded, but the Drow only shrugged.
"What were you doing out here?" Isaviel asked weakly, and Mae'rillar smiled.
"Worshipping my own god, as you did yours."
"Fat lot of good it did either of you," Bishop sneered, lifting Isaviel easily in his arms when she showed no signs of being able to stand, looking down at her with a mocking smirk, "Perhaps you should worship me. I came to your 'aid' when you called for your god, didn't I?"
"Yes, but it wasn't you who saved me," Isaviel pointed out.
The ranger's laughter was sweet to her, for she heard it so rarely.
"The captain of Crossroad Keep should not be travelling outside the castle walls alone," Kana complained once she and Isaviel's friends met the Moon Elf and Bishop in the captain's rooms of the keep. Daeghun came as well, to her annoyance, while Mae'rillar helped a pained Neeshka back to their accommodation.
"Hardly helpful words in light of what happened, Lieutenant," Isaviel disagreed, leaning back in her chair and feeling dreadfully weary , her eyes turning to Ammon Jerro, standing in stern silence by the door, "As it turned out, both Bishop and Mae'rillar were nearby, so I was not alone. But that is irrelevant now – what we need to know is how to kill those things properly. And what happened to me out there."
She ignored Sand's troubled expression, waiting for the warlock to respond instead. Though her wizard friend undoubtedly had several theories, she suspected Ammon Jerro actually had some answers. Qara was just staring at her across the table in a mixture of horrified disbelief and awe after hearing the Moon Elf's account of the battle in the woods.
"It is quite clear that you removed the Reaver's spirit from its housing," Zhjaeve explained unbidden from her place at the central table with Sand and Qara; Grobnar had been so drunk when Bishop brought Isaviel to the pavilion that they had left him to sing his songs to the guards.
"Your riddles will hardly help matters, Gith," Ammon Jerro spat derisively, folding his arms across his chest and watching Isaviel distrustfully, "Your body attempted to devour his spirit, and I imagine the shard in your chest rebuffed that attempt. Has this ever happened to you before?"
"No, never," the Moon Elf felt herself recoiling at his words, "I've felt the rage before…I've felt the urge to do what I did, but it's never actually gone that far." Her gaze turned accusingly to Daeghun then, while Ammon Jerro spoke.
"Curious. Something of that nature does not occur from taught power; it is inherited, normally the manifestation of some family curse," the warlock shrugged, "As long as this new occurrence proves useful in our war against the King of Shadows it hardly matters where it came from."
"Not until she's trying to devour all of our souls, too," Qara sniffed, glaring at Isaviel as if she expected the Moon Elf to start right then.
"I will go to Aldanon at once and begin to decipher the Reavers' true names from the Tome of Iltkazar. You may be capable of disabling them for a time, but that is the only way by which they may be killed permanently," Ammon Jerro stated dismissively, turning away and opening the door.
"Did Esmerelle tell you nothing of Isaviel's father, Daeghun?" Sand demanded with sudden frustration, turning to the Elvish ranger who stood so emotionlessly by the wall.
Ammon stilled at the door, looking around sharply with a disbelieving look which Isaviel did not fail to notice.
"Esmerelle?" the warlock hissed, and all eyes turned to him as Daeghun responded to Sand acidly.
"She never offered the information to me, Sand, and I never asked. There was sadness in her eyes when she returned pregnant, and I never pried. It is not the Elvish way, as you should know well."
"You speak of Esmerelle of Evereska," Ammon stated flatly now, looking right at Isaviel with new understanding, "I see her in you very clearly, Elf."
"You knew her?" Isaviel exclaimed, feeling cold dread seeping through her body, her eyes narrowing, "How did you know her?"
"She aided me in recovering the Sword of Gith a little less than four years before the Battle in West Harbour, over the years of 1341 and 1342 of Dale Reckoning," the warlock explained, his tone even bitterer than it had been before, "She was the most skilled fighter I ever met…and I repaid her poorly for it."
"Then you knew her in the time when I must have been conceived! You must know who my father was," Isaviel told him heatedly, leaning forward in her chair, imploring, but his expression only darkened and he turned away sharply, moving towards the door again just as Sir Nevalle stepped through without knocking, the knight's expression grave.
"I will not speak of those times," the warlock said angrily, "Least of all to you. Once you learn the truth of your mother, you will regret it, I guarantee that. Suffice to say that it is not to me who you should look for your ancestry. You shared no blood with Shandra."
Isaviel was about to call after him as he left swiftly, but Sir Nevalle stepped into her vision, coughing once politely before interrupting.
"Captain, there are more pressing matters of duty at hand," the knight told her firmly, his expression not wavering when she glared in his direction, "Fort Locke has fallen, and Lord Nasher demands that you return to Neverwinter with me in the morning – just you, not your friends."
"Oh," Isaviel sneered, dragging herself up to stand by Bishop's side, though her tired body rebelled, "Is it time for him to leash his rabid dog?"
…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…
Qaggoth-Yeg's words came back to Isaviel that night, the memory of the monster's deep, rumbling voice waking her with a start from foggy dreams of an abandoned West Harbour, humid and bright in its famously hot summer. She could not get to sleep after that, not properly, no matter how hard she tried, throwing back the fur covers of her bed, drenched in sweat though the fire had died and she could see veins of frost splayed across the window over her head, glinting in the moonlight.
…your mother…from Evereska. Esmerelle, the one whose screams still echo… Hezebel had said those words, gloatingly – just adding to the torment that those demons and devils in Ammon's haven had known something of her family that she did not.
…she was the most skilled fighter I ever met…and I repaid her poorly for it…once you learn the truth of your mother, you will regret it, I guarantee that…
The more Isaviel thought of those hints about her mother, how Ammon Jerro himself had known her, fought with her…and apparently done her a great wrong of some kind, the angrier and more frustrated she became. Surely he owed her an explanation? Surely he knew that she would find out somehow? Perhaps that was exactly why he had passed over the duty of telling her. Perhaps he knew that she had one other method – one that was troublingly more appealing than dealing with a gruff warlock who had killed her friend?
…your blood is more like mine than your pet wizard's, Beautiful One. I met your father once…many millennia ago. He smelled of death, and he broke his vows… The book does not lie. I see him in you, and his curse. Should we ever meet after this day, I will tell you more, and the book will be yours… Seek me out. We have much to talk of, and I have a few things of yours... I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One…
Mephasm's words drifted through her half-waking mind, remembered in his whispered, seductive tone, knowing that she would want to know whatever it was he was offering to her. She did, and she tossed and turned in her bed until the distant sounds of revelry died away and she knew that the middle of the night had long passed, the silence heralding in a new year.
…I did not love her, though I persuaded myself that I could. And I cannot love Elanee, though she has told me that is how she feels for me.
Casavir had spoken those words so sadly, yet with such certainty. It seemed so out of character for him to knowingly deceive another, especially someone as good and kind as Shandra. He had certainly been greatly fond of her – the look in his eyes was always tender when he had turned to see her. That was not duty, but it was also not love, Isaviel could agree with that. Love was not always a gentle thing, and she was unhappily aware of that increasingly regarding herself.
…you do not know what it is you will suffer. Betrayal, pain, death, loss…The Lamentations of the Dead…he does not love her, though you might think he does. Both your hearts will break soon enough I think…
Hezebel had known somehow that Casavir had not loved Shandra, that was clear now, just as she had seen through Elanee's misery. But she had listed off events; 'betrayal, pain, death, loss' as if she was somehow prophesying the future of Isaviel's life. What could she have meant by 'the lamentations of the dead'? Qaggoth-Yeg had mentioned 'millions of screaming souls', and that sounded connected. Regardless, the Moon Elf hoped to all the gods that the Erinyes was lying, for that future did not sound like one to which she could look forward.
Ideas of the future made her think of Bishop, or rather it made her realise how little she had allowed herself to think of him. It had always been her way in easier times, cavorting through the Neverwinter Docks with Neeshka, stealing, running, fighting, killing when she needed, laughing when she wanted to, kissing who she wanted to, sleeping with whom she chose. Bishop was an anomaly, because they had slept together often for nearly four months straight; she, at least, had been monogamous over that time. She had tried her best not to think too deeply about it; he was fair to look upon, as she had noticed those many tendays past, and increasingly his passion with her outdid his aggression with others. She had found herself watching him when she should have been listening to Kana, or someone with an equal sense of mind-dulling duty. Guiltily, she realised that she found it far harder to sleep when he was not there with her – but this night she was glad for his absence. There was something she had to do, once the keep was asleep.
…tell your…'lovely' friend what it means for you to defend her, to journey with her, and what it really meant when this… "Duncan" saved you…I have planted a seed that will grow in time…
That was why she could not trust him with this – though she might have feelings for him that she dared not give names to, Isaviel was under no illusions. There were those among her friends who she could trust; Sand most of all, but Khelgar as well, and there were those with whom she had an unspoken agreement. She and Neeshka did not trust each other, she and Bishop did not trust each other. No one trusted Qara. The Moon Elf's trust only went so far, anyway – the words of her god were strong in her mind that night, after all.
Though whatever she had done to the Shadow Reaver had made Isaviel weary beyond anything she had ever felt, that did not seem to equate to allowing her sleep. She had to know more about her heritage, because an event like that meant that it was far more real in her life, probably more dangerous, than a few cryptic hints from devils and demons. But it was those devils and demons who gave her hope that she could find out more…before she forced the truth from Ammon Jerro.
That night, Isaviel finally made use of one of the dresses Kana had left for her in her room; it was simple, unhelpfully long and of lilac-dyed wool – not at all like something she would normally wear. In the darkness, her dark blue hair, falling past her waist now that it was uncharacteristically unbound, would appear black to feeble human eyes. It was an easy disguise, only aided by the strange grey that her eyes became in the lack of light.
Ammon had brought several items with him, salvaged speedily from his laboratory before the building had presumably collapsed. Amongst those possessions were several books of spells or arcane information – they were kept in a locked safe in the library to which his new room was adjoined, just beyond the bed in which Aldanon slept. That meant there would be several guards to get past, and Isaviel wished she could simply use her power over the keep to command the guards aside, but she knew that Sir Nevalle was the one who had stationed them by the library. This was not just to make a statement to Ammon Jerro about his captivity, but more importantly to guard his books from anyone who might want to read them.
Isaviel took the simplest route from her room to the library, traversing the long winding corridors of the keep on silent bare feet. Most of the cold stone passages ahead of her rooms were empty; she had waited until the change of the guard outside her door and chosen the servants' passage until she was beyond their sight. There the floorboards threatened to creak and the air was musty; there were more torches burning in sconces here as well and even now she could hear the distant tread of feet, for the servants would be busy through the night as well as the day. For this reason she was quick to step back into the dark, draughty main corridor which ran down the centre of the second floor of the keep, once she had passed the danger of coming upon her own guards.
Isaviel did not take the official soldiers' route to the right, down the main stairs, where four guards stood on duty and two bright torches gleamed on each wall. Instead she unlocked the door to the balcony, knowing it creaked less than the servants' entrance on the floor below. She stepped through the smallest gap she could, shrouded in darkness high up above the main hall.
Surveying the scene ahead as she closed the door quietly enough behind herself, Isaviel saw that there were two guards at attention by the main gates, several servants sweeping the floor in the relatively bright torchlight. Everyone looked tired and bored; one of the guards had started calling bawdy comments over to a harassed cleaning girl, who was trying her best to ignore him. It was into the long shadows cast by the torches that Isaviel slipped, an all but invisible figure flitting through the darkness.
The door to the corridor along which the library awaited her was a little ajar, and in her translucent state she slipped through easily. Next, she could see the guard standing at the library door, which was closed and probably locked as well. Down the curve of this cold, echoing corridor she could make out the guarded entrance of Ammon Jerro's room as well. The door there was closed, the guards at attention; that was good. The warlock must have retired for the night (or, at least, in time for the dawn).
Isaviel took great pleasure in realising that she could wait in the shadows opposite, watching the guard shifting on the door, and when he moved at the call of his companion for the change of soldiers on duty, the Moon Elf took her chance. She had never been as good at thieving as she was at fighting or sneaking, but now she moved on necessity, and plucked the key from its chain on his belt as smoothly as she had ever taken anything. He did not notice, to her great relief, and it was when he turned to salute the man outside Ammon's room, in standard courtesy traditional to the keep, that Isaviel used the barrier of his form to swiftly unlock the door, replace the key, and slide inside. Once beyond, in the deep, musty darkness of the library with the door clicking shut softly behind her, the sound lost in the thump of the guard's boots outside, Isaviel waited silently for a few brief seconds. She heard the other guard arrive, a brief exchange of words, and then all was still again. It would seem that she had aroused no suspicion.
In the two-tiered library the only sound was the gentle whistle of Aldanon's snores from his place in the far right corner, a book open on his chest, an inkwell newly knocked over, and a candle just guttering out. The shelves were full of ancient books, many probably all but illegible now after long disuse and abandonment, but some were more recent, and she recognised Aldanon's writing on a few notes pinned to some of the shelves.
There were no windows in here, and no fire for the sake of safety, so it was pitch black and cold, although the rest of the keep's well-stocked fires probably helped to stop the place freezing. The floor was softly carpeted beneath her feet, which had grown almost numb from the cold on the quick run there. It had already occurred to her that the way back would be more difficult; she would need to wait for the full change of guards at dawn to escape the library, and dare to use the servants' door on the ground floor, passing through the maids' chambers to go up the stairs. From there it would be easy; she would go via the corridor in which Bishop's room stood, and the guards on the door back to the central keep and her own quarters would not think her journey suspicious. If all went well, she would be back to her chambers in time for her hot breakfast, to pack and then meet Sir Nevalle at the gates.
For the time being however, Isaviel crossed the library floor swiftly, unseen and unheard, smiling to herself as Aldanon muttered about some less than common alchemical ingredients in his sleep. The door to the vault stood hidden behind a bookcase, just under the stairs leading up to the second tier of the library. The tricky part would be dismantling this enough to gain access to the vault – all without waking Aldanon. She suspected he would offer to help, but she needed to do this alone; the old scholar would be as likely to give her secrets away as he would to aid her beforehand. This was something she could not risk, as it might take time for her to acquire everything she needed, assuming that the information was available here at all.
With the utmost care she removed the books from the two necessary shelves – it was for this knowledge that she had been careful to ensure she was present at the time of Ammon's possessions' instatement into the vault. Each book was thick with dust, and she was mindful to make sure none of this lingered on her hands or stuck to her dress. Either way, the inevitable fingerprints would be noticeable enough for anyone looking through the library, but the dust was too thick for this to be avoided; she could only hope such a realisation took the time she needed. Next, she had to pull the shelves from their brackets, wincing to herself when one screeched against the bookcase frame. Aldanon's snores stopped, but soon started up again.
Finally, the little vault door itself stood before her; her own room key was one of only two which could open the lock and disarm the wards around the frame, glinting grey and purple in her darkvision, markings invisible to human eyes without light. The key turned smoothly in the lock with hardly a sound, and the wards flared once, allowing the door to swing open against her palm. There, before her lay a pile of three thick, dog-eared journals.
Isaviel saw almost immediately that the first book was useless to her. It appeared to be some kind of spellbook, full of runic symbols and basic diagrams of wards, along with enchantment recipes. She discarded this quickly, and the next book fell open in her hands when she picked it up. Three of its central leaves were loose and a smile grew on Isaviel's face as she read the words on the second, free for her to take and leave the rest intact. The ingredients were simple enough to acquire, and the instructions were quite detailed. She had overheard more of Ammon and Qara's discussion earlier and had learned that the circle Black Garius had created possessed the appropriate properties to allow one to call a creature to the place, and keep it in the appropriate area of power. All it would take was an offering of the correct materials and the knowledge of the creature's name.
Smiling even more as she read on, Isaviel reread the last few words in the instructions again before moving to hide the evidence of her presence: 'This is the Golden Filigree Charm necessary to summon the fallen Deva who answers to the name of Mephasm.'