Sand had felt the shift in the air; the prickling on his skin. It was hard to veil his horror at the realisation that feeling brought. Someone had just performed a summoning within the confines of Crossroad Keep itself – and not just any summoning. That prickling feeling, and the hint of brimstone on the air, told of the Lower Planes. He understood immediately; Ammon had left Isaviel with no other choice, after all. He hoped she knew what she was doing – it would be worse for her if he told Daeghun, his current guest, and thus he held his peace.
A glance towards the Elvish ranger, seated uncomfortably across the cluttered table in the wizard's sitting room sharpening his blades, showed to Sand that he had successfully kept his disquiet to himself. Instead he moved over to the newly boiled kettle and lifted it from the fire, pouring some of its herb-flavoured water into a pair of cups. The hour was late – and becoming early – but Sand had never needed much sleep. He had allowed himself a rest from his spell-studies when Daeghun had arrived a short while earlier.
"It is good that the warlock and Aldanon the Scholar have deciphered the true names of the Reavers," Daeghun offered in that disturbingly stoic way of his as he took the drink which Sand offered to him, "They will inevitably attack the Neverwinter forces again, and this time it will be possible to kill them fully rather than haphazardly sending their souls back to the Vale."
"Indeed," Sand nodded absently, turning away again, staring out of the window at the castle bailey and the snow piling up on the ground relentlessly in utter silence; he could not avoid shuddering at the persisting feeling of that malevolent presence in the keep, "Though Ammon Jerro makes me uneasy. His power has been drained substantially since his haven was destroyed but he knows too much – far more than he is telling us. He will only give us what we need to know when it best suits his own purposes, whatever they really are, and that might not be soon enough to give us the best chance to succeed. And Aldanon…gods, Aldanon is a blundering fool as much as he is a genius. His thoughts wander increasingly, and all the knowledge he has – or, more correctly had – amassed over the long years of his life are becoming lost in fog. I trust him no more than the warlock, because at the hour we need him the most he might well simply forget the most important thing we need to know."
"Yet you trust Isaviel," Daeghun pointed out flatly, "I have never found that to be a wise course of action. I see what she has done to you, old friend. She has made you care for her. You wish to help and protect her."
"She is young, and she needs help, Daeghun," Sand snapped reflexively, turning his head a little towards his friend but keeping his eyes fixed steadfastly on the falling snow, trying to ignore how much the ranger's words hurt, "Perhaps if you had been a little less jaded and a little more caring as she grew up she might not have gained such an…unpredictable…reputation."
"She has managed to become emotionally embroiled with a human ranger who has no sense or care for what is right and wrong. She does not understand the importance of her own actions, and will not take responsibility for them, Sand," Daeghun spoke with only the slightest hint of frustration in his voice, but its presence in his normally controlled demeanour was enough.
"It is not like you to attack others because of your own pain, Daeghun," Sand pointed out softly.
Finally looking around at the Elf who he had known for so many decades, the wizard saw that Daeghun's expression had not changed. He was still studiously sharpening his hunting knives at the table, the firelight from the hearth across the room playing on their metal blades and flickering in the depths of his narrowed green eyes. This was not the Daeghun who Sand had known. Where once he had been reserved, now he was cold; where once he had been honest, now he was bordering on cruel. It saddened him to see his old friend like this; surely he had always known that Shayla could never have outlived him? The lifespan of a Halfling was nowhere near as long as an Elf's, and Daeghun must have expected to live several more centuries without her even without her untimely death.
Sand had avoided him, as they all had apart from Tarmas, after the battle in West Harbour. Daeghun had never been one to show grief; only Shayla's love, or Esmerelle's engaging banter had ever drawn him from his solitary thoughts. But he had been drawn out by them…where now he was just a shell, with nothing but loss to fill his heart.
"The pain to which you allude is yours to bear as well," Daeghun stated coldly at last, putting down his knives and taking a sip from his drink, glancing up to meet Sand's gaze with a look as piercing as that steel which he had sharpened, "Esmerelle did not choose to endure her pregnancy and Isaviel's birth. But she could not bring herself to harm the child. You did not see her in those last years, Sand. The time we spent together, she and Shayla and I, do not doubt that it was happy in essence. We were glad to be at peace at last. But she suffered. The pain in her eyes when she watched Isaviel...she did not speak much of what haunted her, but I heard her confiding in Shayla one night. And I tell you this for your own good, for she would have wanted you to know. She said that the girl she had borne troubled her, that she felt guilty that it was not the girl's strange wings which made her grieve so, but rather her beauty and her canny trickery of her elders. Even then Isaviel was quick to learn how to manipulate others, and who could deny her when she blinked up at them with those large, golden eyes? Whoever her father was…these are his traits, and she bore the hallmarks of his nature far more clearly than she did her mother's."
"It is not just loss which we share, Daeghun," Sand disagreed rationally, careful to keep a close rein on his emotions – fits of temper never helped when dealing with this friend of his, "It is a duty to those who we lost, to help the one they fought to save. You speak of Isaviel as if she were a monster, but she grieved more openly than you have for West Harbour. And yes, she might look at you with her own angry golden eyes, rather than her mother's kind green gaze, and she might not have Esmerelle's compassion, or Esmerelle's valour. But I see our lost friend in her very clearly; they do look alike, and they share a certain strength, and fearlessness. They share humour, and revelry in laughter. I loved Esmerelle as I would an elder sister. I do not remember a time when I did not know her, or love her. I will not abandon her daughter."
He had felt his emotions rising unbidden into his voice, turning fully to face Daeghun as he began to declaim so heatedly, gripping the back of the chair upon which he had been sitting, talking across the cluttered table. And Daeghun just watched him all but blankly, as if they were discussing the architectural strongpoints of the room. He seemed about as engaged as he would have at that topic, as well.
Sand was struggling not to grit his teeth in frustration. He meant his words with everything in his heart, and it was so very exasperating to see Daeghun shirking his responsibilities, especially when that was so uncharacteristic of him. Yet there the ranger sat in Sand's small house in Crossroad Keep, sharpening knives as if it were the most important thing in the world, typically uncomfortable in the trappings of human habitation, speaking as bitterly as he ever could about the one on whom he ought to have poured his love. Instead, he had proven himself unequal to that task. Tears pricked in Sand's eyes when that made him think of Esmerelle, and how she would have at least tried to love that child in spite of whatever sadness had been haunting her when she arrived pregnant in West Harbour. Suddenly, he missed her greatly; her heartfelt laughter and bright smile, how her eyes had been full of compassion and kindness. How different might Isaviel have been, had she known her mother?
"You loved Esmerelle as a sister, as did I," Daeghun agreed with a curt nod, one eyebrow raised just a little at the sight of Sand so riled, "But do not think that I cannot see through your attempts at distraction."
The Elf's voice was hard as he spoke, gesturing at the open tomes, crumpled scrolls and many alchemical ingredients strewn over the table and gathered across shelves in the room. A few books lay open on the stairs by the wall, leading up to Sand's bedroom, while his workshop through the door across the room was full of brewing potions. Sand swallowed hard, trying to deny the words he knew were coming.
"You seek to find out more of Isaviel's heritage to help her. You see it as your duty – perhaps it is. But you fill your time with spells and potions and research as if by somehow tangling yourself ever more in study you will not notice what it is you are running from. You did love Esmerelle as a sister. But that is not how you love Isaviel, Sand."
"Sh-she needs me," the wizard's intended denial was impotent, his voice weak, his shoulders slumping as he turn to look out of the window, his fists clenched, "And your words are too certain. You speak to hide your own grief –or perhaps you seek to wallow in it. Either way, I do not recognise the friend I once knew. Have you really become so bitter, Daeghun?"
The long silence was unsettling at best, and Sand found himself staring out of the window very intently. The snow had thinned a little and he could make out men rushing to the gates – after a moment he could hear them shouting orders as well. That seemed a little odd…
"I have learned what is necessary in life, and what is not. Idle notions of useless fancy do one no good, nor do pointless shows of love or affection. I must keep the balance of nature, and defend it when it is threatened," Daeghun stood now, sheathing his knives and moving to the door, "I pass no judgement for your heart's weaknesses, old friend. I merely recommend caution against them."
As Daeghun was leaving, ignored by Sand, the wizard was watching the gates being drawn hastily open, frowning in puzzlement and a little anxiety at the urgency of the guards' movements, even as he still gritted his teeth against his friend's words. When he recognised the first few riders entering the bailey, he understood, rushing out to greet them, and to hear the news. Anything to distract him from the one he could not have, and from the many friends he had lost; Shayla, Esmerelle, Tarmas…and Daeghun, as well, for the ranger was changed beyond recognition. Even as he pulled on his cloak and ran over to Khelgar, Casavir and Elanee, his heart ached. How many more friends and allies would he lose in the weeks to come?
"I can't decide which is worse," Isaviel sighed, kicking more snow from the head of the gargoyle beneath her dangling feet as she and Mae'rillar sat on the crenellations of the ramparts over her room, too shadows against the highest point of the snowy, moonlit keep.
"Between the pain of you not knowing your mother, of whom you have told me Sand and Daeghun and Duncan speak so fondly, and me knowing my insane, power hungry, devil-summoning mother? My mother, who raised an army in hopes of enslaving all of the Underdark?" her Drow companion looked towards her with a gentle, teasing smile as he continued, "Or did you miss that part of the story I told you?"
"Alright, alright. But…did you not feel anything when she died?"
"Only relief…and a little regret that it was not I who made the killing blow," Mae'rillar shrugged, but his shoulders looked tense and he turned to stare at the moon, wincing a little at the light, his fists clenching, "But then again, Valen did always have the best luck."
"Who was he? It sounds like there's a story there."
"A story for another time, perhaps," Mae'rillar agreed softly, his eyes glowing red again when they turned to watch Isaviel, searching her face, "But I digress. You asked of my father, as well."
"Did you like him better than your mother?"
"Oh," Mae'rillar gave a short, bitter laugh, "I did not. He was a cruel taskmaster as I grew, and when I became old enough to defeat him in the practice room he could not abide the threat I posed. He attempted to kill me, but I was quicker with my blades. Matron Kilath made me her weapon master for that."
Isaviel was about to ask more when she noticed a group of riders hurtling down the road towards the keep, men rushing to open the gates after some distantly shouted commands once they reached the walls. Snow fell like a mini avalanche as the gigantic doors groaned open and a trio of riders galloped into the bailey. Even from this distance she could hear a familiar deep voice shouting commands – she heard her own name called to one of the men as well. When she saw the blue gleam of the hammer strapped to his back she knew for certain that was Casavir.
"It seems your friends have brought a company back with them from Highcliff," Mae'rillar noted as they slipped back off the wall onto the roof of the keep.
His Drow sight allowed him to notice the many more riders approaching up the road far sooner than Isaviel, but then she did notice the procession; a cart or two was drawn amongst them, laden with belongings or small figures; children, the elderly. As well as this, many walking figures brought up the rear of the group, moving slowly, some visibly dragging their feet even at that distance.
"Gods," Isaviel gasped, moving quickly to the trap door leading back down into her room and pulling it open, gesturing for Mae'rillar to follow her, "It looks like they're brought the whole town back with them."
It took quite some time for the pair to reach the main bailey wherein were already swarming a large number of servants and soldiers, helping wounded men and women to the temple of Lathander, rushing to get blankets and equipment for makeshift tents. At the heart of it all was Casavir, his hammer shining brightly on his back as he sat astride his dark horse, shouting commands and recommendations to those around him. Khelgar, unused to riding, had to be helped down from his pony, which looked on the brink of collapse, while Elanee was already rushing to help the soldiers with the wounded.
The hour was certainly a strange one for arrival – especially with such a large number of people; hundreds of them from the looks of things. The keep was large, and it could hold them, but not for long, and watching the people streaming inside, seeing the others content to stop in the field outside, Isaviel knew that something serious had happened. How had Casavir, Elanee and Khelgar left with a company of twenty men and arrived with a group over ten times that number?
Isaviel and Mae'rillar had to fight their way through the large numbers of people hurrying out of the keep, though the workers were quick to move out of the way when Kana caught up with them, calling for them to make way for the knight-captain of the castle. At last they reached Casavir, now just dismounting from his horse, and he noticed Isaviel immediately, approaching her in a few long strides over the snowy ground. He was an impressive sight with armour shining in the moonlight, cloak billowing out behind him as he walked, though the earlier thick snowfall had left his hair soaking. His expression was grave as he stopped before Isaviel, Mae'rillar and Kana, looking to each in turn and speaking before they could ask what they already suspected.
"Greetings to you," the paladin sighed, his deep voice full of sorrow, "Word must be sent to Lord Nasher – Neverwinter must mobilise her forces as soon as possible. The enemy holds the lands just three days' ride from hence. We came as fast as we could, and brought as many with us as could escape the tide of evil pouring from the Mere. The dead, and the shadows come with the darkness and swallow the living to add to their army. We have aided many, but lost many more. My lady, Highcliff has fallen."
"…Ill omens are never good, Aldanon," Sand sighed, rubbing at his temples in tired frustration, casting a few irritated glances at the patient – or weary – silence of those others gathered around the table in the library with him and the aged scholar.
"Oh, of course they are! Especially with a little warm milk and Duskwood jam," Aldanon disagreed heartily, thankfully unaware of the gaze of Ammon Jerro blazing at the back of his head from where the warlock loomed by the bookcase behind him, "So, you see, it would seem that the life-draining effects of the King of Shadows's growing power are not stronger in the centre, presumably where his form or essence is manifest, but rather at the edges of his territory," he nodded towards Elanee, Casavir and Khelgar, all weary and weather-beaten, the Dwarf's head nodding in weariness over his warmed cider, "In such places as Highcliff, which you have very kindly helped to evacuate."
"His power reflects the nature of shadows," Zhjaeve put in from the doorway, and Isaviel craned her head around to look doubtfully over at the often-illusive Githzerai, her voice typically calm and eerily otherworldly, "As a shadow is darker closer to the focus of light, so too is the Guardian of old Illefarn's power more concentrated closer to the lands which will seek to oppose him."
"Meaningless words to obfuscate an obvious truth, Gith," Ammon sniffed, crossing his arms and glaring at Isaviel now, "Elf, you are wasting your time and resources on the refugees your companions brought back with them. It is hardly prudent to expend your own evidently wavering energies on listening to the idle prattle of an imbecile."
"I believe Master Aldanon was about to elaborate on his words," Casavir put in frostily now, his eyes glowing with disapproval towards the warlock…whose white-grey gaze met his steadily.
Sand was evidently holding back a wry smirk at the warlock's words – a sentiment which Isaviel also had a great deal of sympathy for in that moment. Why was she wasting her resources? And why was she wasting her time? But she knew sleep would not take her, and Sand had informed her of Ammon and Aldanon's breakthrough in deciphering the Reavers' true names. That, combined with the disturbing news Casavir and the others had brought her of the shadow attack on Highcliff, had led her to agree to this dawn conference in the library.
"What I meant to say was that, given the power of our enemy is weaker at the centre, it ought to be possible to 'hop' into the eye of the storm, as it were. Given the right magical procedure, it would be possible to send a group to infiltrate the heart of the King of Shadows's operations, and have a chance of ending his existence once and for all," Aldanon explained at long last.
"And how would we do that, exactly?" Isaviel asked, surreptitiously nudging Khelgar in the ribs when he let out a rather loud snore, his beard dipping into his flagon.
"It can be achieved through the information held within the Tome of Iltkazar," Ammon put in now, every word he spoke hard and clipped, "But you have surely noticed that the imbecile and I have taken quite some time in deciphering the true names of the Reavers. An entire spell procedure will take us longer, I assure you. More pressing matters should be considered, Elf."
"And what would those 'matters' be, warlock?" Isaviel shot back, glaring at him for his belligerent tone, then counting off the necessities as she mentioned them, staring down at the map laid out on the table before them as she did so, "I must gather an army; Neverwinter will help, undoubtedly…"
"Me Ironfist Clan will surely come to yer aid, if ye ask fer it, lass," Khelgar chirped up a bit now.
The Dwarf moved his flagon out of the way to indicate the appropriate spot on the Sword Mountains, but spilled some of its contents in the process. Kana fussed and dabbed at it with a cloth, but that only made the problem worse and Isaviel shooed her back to standing behind Casavir.
"As will the Circle of the Mere," Elanee added softly, "If they do still exist, as your father promised. Daeghun knows where they are now…and as much as I would prefer another's aid, Bishop has the skill to find a safe road to that place where I do not."
"But I must also discover how to reforge the Sword of Gith – and then it must be remade," Isaviel continued, "And before that, there is one more piece to be found, if what Zhjaeve tells me is true."
"Surprisingly, it is," Ammon nodded, glancing pointedly towards Aldanon, the scholar only just focusing his eyes again on the Moon Elf.
"Ah, yes – we have advanced our understanding on that score as well," Aldanon explained brightly – Isaviel could not comprehend how he kept such a cheerful demeanour with the warlock deriding him at every turn, "Given our greater familiarity with the magical signature given off by your shards, I have been able to dabble with a little scrying magic and it would appear that the shard you need lies forgotten on a road south-west of here. A happy circumstance, really, if it weren't possible for the King of Shadows to locate it as well. In all likelihood, he will have had a head-start in this discovery, as well."
"Therefore, it would be prudent to acquire this item now before the enemy reaches it. Do not forget that he is millennia old and far more aware of his weaknesses than we are," Ammon pointed out; Sand nodded agreement, but when the latter glanced at Isaviel it was with an oddly detached expression.
"Alright," Isaviel sighed, standing quickly and gesturing for Kana to come closer again, "Then we'll need to split up to get this done more efficiently," she looked as sternly as she could between the warlock and the Githzerai before continuing, "Ammon, I need you and Zhjaeve to work together on this. Since I carry so many shards with me, and dare not leave them behind, you must find this final piece for me. I cannot risk our enemy seizing his chance to kill me and thus ensure his immortality."
"Wise," Zhjaeve agreed softly.
"And who else must I endure on this journey? I expect the King of Shadows will also be hunting for this shard and we will come up against opposition," Ammon Jerro gritted out.
"I will join you," Casavir stated coolly, and the warlock's glower deepened, "To see that this is done honourably."
"Take Neeshka…and Qara as well," Isaviel told him, "Her considerable power will aid you undoubtedly if your search does come to battle."
"Very well," the warlock nodded curtly, "We will leave after your evening meal."
He did not linger after that and nor did Zhjaeve or the weary Casavir, whose gaze had become so hollow. Aldanon had meandered back to his desk in the corner of the ironically dimly lit library, and now Isaviel looked to Kana before gesturing at the cloth map before her.
"Send messengers to Longsaddle, Triboar, Yartar…to Mirabar and Waterdeep as well if it is possibly. Ask them for aid – make it known that if we fail, and Neverwinter falls, then they will be next."
"At once," her lieutenant looked both taken aback and pleased, saluting sharply before leaving.
"Elanee…we will go to your Circle first, and then, Khelgar, we will seek the aid of your clan – I will let Bishop know shortly, and those of us who are willing will head out at first light tomorrow," she was relieved to see her friends' glad looks as she gave them those uncharacteristically commanding recommendations, and the Dwarf patted her shoulder on his way out after the druid.
"And where does that leave me?" Sand asked pointedly, standing as the others left and approaching around the table, evident disappointment in his expression.
"You're the only one that I trust, Sand," Isaviel sighed, wringing her hands and looking up at him, surprised to see his expression so hostile, "I need you to stay here and run the keep while I'm away. I need Elanee for the Circle to listen to me – and Bishop understands the land between here and the marshes better than anyone. I need Khelgar for the Dwarves, and the others going to find the shard will probably need all the fire power they can find, as well as Casavir's nerve."
Sand watched her as she ran her hands through her hair, and as she re-knotted it behind her head. The snowflakes there had melted, still trickling cold water down her neck, making her shiver, and he watched that too. At last she saw it in his eyes, an unfamiliar hardness. He was angry…or was he afraid? Even as a wry smile spread across his face, those eyes stared at her, meeting her gaze without faltering.
"Or am I so old that you would leave me behind?" Sand suggested softly, then leaned in and caught her arm, pulling her towards him sharply, whispering his words, "Or perhaps you think I am so old that I will not notice when you summon a monster from the Hells into our supposedly secure fortress. Only Ammon and I have the knowledge to recognise that the circle Garius left could hold a monster such as that – how did you manage it?"
"I overheard Ammon Jerro talking to Qara about it," Isaviel shrugged out of his grip, glancing nervously around the room – Aldanon was a short way away, his back to them as he pored over a battered old tome, so she kept her voice as quiet as Sand had his, "And he left me no choice. He refused to tell me of my father, or my mother, and he knew that I had to know."
"I cannot disagree," Sand sighed, but his stance remained tense, "You should have consulted one of us first…there may have been another way."
There was a sadness lingering in his expression as he fidgeted with the sleeves of his deep green jacket. That was the same one he had worn at her trial, Isaviel noted, only now it was untidily laced, showing the white shirt beneath, and the boots he wore were splattered with mud. It occurred to her that she had been the one to drag him so low, where he had seemed so confident and content before. Now, as he spoke again, he struggled to meet her eyes.
"Though I am afraid I can guess at the truth you have been told. It is as I suggested to you those weeks ago, is it not? The legend we both refused to believe?"
"I am the granddaughter of Akachi the Betrayer," Isaviel nodded softly, "The daughter of the seneschal of a god of death. And my father raped my mother, so she killed him for it. And I have inherited his curse. It is the reason I am alive, and the reason my mother is dead."
The words tasted bitter on her tongue as she spoke them, staring down at her feet, fighting against the sting of tears in her eyes and the tightness in her throat. Somehow Mae'rillar's company had averted such a response in her; now, with Sand – who was, as she had told him, truly the only person on all of Faerûn who she trusted in that moment – she could not be so controlled.
"You speak as if you blame yourself," Sand noted, his voice still hushed and far kinder in tone now, approaching her slowly before gently pressing a crooked finger under her chin until she was looking at him again, brushing a tear that she did not even know she had shed from her cheek with his thumb .
"I don't," she denied firmly, and that drew a smile from him, though that expression flickered in a way that made her a little uncomfortable, even as she put a hand on his arm, holding on to help bolster the smile she tried to give him, "It just feels…wrong. And disappointing. I'd hoped for something..."
"That involved love?" Sand offered softly, and she nodded, though that word sent a jolt through her heart and she hid her face against his shoulder, hardly noticing the time it took before his arms moved to hold her.
"I wish it for my mother…but I don't want it for myself," she admitted against him, half-hoping he would not hear, but she knew he had when she felt his sigh.
"I know, my dear," he told her calmly, "But these are worries for more trivial times," Sand took her by the shoulders and pushed her back a little, his eyes still sad, his smile still wry, "But there are alliances to be gained, and a war to win. Then let's think about the ranger, and why it is you've been pulling free Shadow Reavers' souls, hmm?"
"I heard of your intention to travel out tomorrow from Zhjaeve," Mae'rillar's voice sounded from the door as he stepped into view, his eyes flickering a little too perceptively between Sand and Isaviel, but other than that his expression and tone of voice remaining carefully fixed, "I would like to join you. The lands on the way to the druid Circle will be treacherous…I admit I have little knowledge or understanding of the surface world, but I can be of some use in battle, and travel or not you must practice with that new sword of yours."
Isaviel blinked at him in surprise, stepping away from Sand and forcing a smile onto her tired face. As much as she would welcome the Drow's support in battle, she knew that his heritage would be a problem with the Ironfists, and probably the Circle of the Mere too. So as much as she wished she need not, she shook her head firmly.
"I need you both to stay at the keep," she told him, gesturing back at Sand as well, "You're a weapon master, after all, and the Greycloaks here still have a lot to learn."
"Very well," Mae'rillar smiled in return, folding his arms slowly, "But if that is your decision then there is business I must attend to in Neverwinter when the others return and are once more available to help your men. There are certain anomalies in our Guild funds which I must…rectify."
It looked for a moment like something akin to anger, or offence, flashed through his eyes, even behind that broad smile of his. Isaviel had to wonder if it was her rejection of him which had caused that subtle change in his demeanour, but she certainly hoped not. That brief moment of danger in his eyes had reminded her in no uncertain terms that she would not like to cross blades with him.
He held that look for a moment as he turned, nodding to Isaviel, his eyes, shifting to a glowing crimson as he stepped into the shadowy corridor, lingering on the Moon Elf just a few moments longer than they might have. It was as if he saw through her façade, before he melded utterly into that darkness and took his leave as silently as he had arrived.
"Well then," Sand put in as they moved to leave the library at last in the Drow's wake, "Almost everyone really is going to be away from the keep. I might not mind being left behind after all…a little piece and quiet will do me some good, I think."