Author's Note:

This is the continuation of 'The Woman of Letters', which will take Elene's story through Baldur's Gate II: Shadows of Amn. The plan currently is to post a new chapter on a fortnightly schedule, will see how that works out. :)

Chapter 1

Prologue

.

The smell of roast meat hit like a hot blast from a furnace as the tavern door creaked open. Raucous laughter burst out from a table closest to the door, a group of red-faced dwarves lifting their tankards to toast one another in good cheer. The patrons nearby were decidedly less cheerful, hooded men and women throwing flinty looks at the group and due to his proximity, at the tall newcomer who had just joined them in the bustling common room.

Kivan surveyed his surroundings and suddenly felt like a fish out of water. He'd never seen so many halflings in one room before.

Initially, he'd had no plans to stop over in a town or city, aiming instead for a less-travelled path cutting straight east to Irieabor. The cold snap that reared its ugly head last night disagreed. He'd woken up stiff and sore in the morning and was left empty-handed in his attempts to hunt for game. It didn't take much after that to nudge him towards the steel-wrought gates of Berdusk. A renowned city in its own right, though less than half the size of Baldur's Gate, Berdusk was sometimes called the Jewel of the Vale, as it straddled both the Uldoon Trail and the River Chiontar within Sunset Vale. This was the second time he'd passed through, though the last time he was here, he had not come alone.

Based on its façade, Hullybuck's Gamble didn't look much like an inn. From how the city guard described it, the place used to function as a set of interconnecting warehouses until one day, the deed for the buildings ended up in the hands of a cunning halfling presumably named Hullybuck. He'd then converted one section of the buildings into a large, high-ceilinged tavern, another section into serviceable inn rooms while leaving the storage portions intact. With its ample hidden space and proximity to the waterways, it came as no surprise that the inn became exceedingly popular among merchants and smugglers alike.

"We don't keep a lot of rooms for tall folk." The innkeeper paused, craning his neck to squint up at him as he approached the bar. "And yer an especially tall folk."

A few of the patrons glared at Kivan over their tankards, more than a few of them armed with swords and maces. Not the friendliest place, but one of the cheapest inns in town. And more importantly, one of the most discreet.

"I'll take whatever you have," Kivan replied.

The pouch in his hand clinked as he slid it across the counter. Nodding, the innkeeper took it without further comment, along with his order for food. Berdusk was a city like any other – coin would do most of the talking. Yet another reason why he tended to avoid cities like the plague. Ignoring the wary looks from other patrons, he retired to one of the corner tables, sitting with his back to the wall. Best way to get a clear view of the room. One could never be too careful.

More than a month had passed since his departure from Baldur's Gate. So far, his path had taken him to the Friendly Arm Inn, then the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and finally headed south to the Greenfields. The year he'd spent away from the region hadn't dulled his edge. It took mere days to find a raised mound in the leafy forests south of Scornubel, now covered in wildflowers. For almost a day, he'd sat by the mound in silence, recalling the memory of golden tresses, laughing blue eyes, the gentle hands of a healer. Deheriana. He wondered where her spirit was, if she'd found her way to Arvandor like his brothers and parents. There were moments when he felt glad that at least, she was beyond the reach of suffering. Deheriana deserved better.

He wished he had given her better. In the end he only had her murderer's scalp to offer to her grave.

A part of him wondered what he'd hoped to achieve by returning to the site of his failure. Closure, to some extent. He'd achieved what he sought out to do. Tazok would never harm another innocent again. By extension, he'd also played a key role in putting down the bandit scourge and resolving the iron crisis in the Sword Coast. Far grander things than anything he initially had in mind. Though there were nights when he would dream of blood on cold stone, and echoes of death throes from a burning camp. And he would wake up counting the true cost of his deeds.

He stirred from his dark thoughts as a plate of roasted meat and vegetables was unceremoniously plonked in front of him. The diminutive bar wench didn't even spare him a glance as he nodded his thanks. As he sliced the meat, he noted the redness of flesh. Guess this place liked to serve on the rarer side.

His eyes occasionally flickered about his surroundings as he ate. A lull had settled on the room as patrons tucked into their meals and carried on their conversations in more subdued tones. The temporary quiet gave him space to mull over his next course of action as well. His feet have been carrying him instinctively back to the familiar route to Shilmista. Although he wondered if he would like to take a chance on venturing further south, to see the Wealdath that Jaheira often spoke of with such awe and fondness. The truth of the matter was, there was no real reason to go back to Shilmista other than the fact he once called the place home. Maybe it was time to consider making a new home for himself.

In the lull, he could also better listen in to topics of discussion close by.

"Aye, that's what I heard. With less talk of war, the Fists are scaling back on their patrols. Though with bandit activity dipping since the Chill and the Talons were gutted a few months back. Should be safe enough to ply the route west."

"I heard the dukes were offering good price for steel. They didn't really recover after what the Iron Throne tried to pull."

"T'wasn't the Throne, it was an upstart thug, is what I heard. Had crazy ideas, tried to start a war."

"Wouldn't have minded a war. Fastest way to make money, selling things to desperate people."

Kivan tried not to frown into his food as the group of men to his right guffawed at the last statement. Vile men seeking to profit from others' misfortune. The Realms were teeming with them, and it seemed that where one fell, two more would take their place.

Talk around the room drifted from one topic from another. A lot of chat about the unanticipated cold weather threatening crops from the north. More talk about the types of mercenary work being bandied about by local guilds or authorities. Some rumours about a group of adventurers chancing a local ruin, and a pot started up with people taking bets on whether that group would make it back alive or otherwise. All in all, a typical night in a city inn. He didn't linger long after he was done with his ale.

His room, if you could call it that, was a tiny rectangular space with a single bed lengthwise against the wall, a dresser and chair in the corner. Running a hand through his dark hair, he scanned the bed dubiously for a moment before accepting his lot. Well, he didn't come to Berdusk to bask in luxury. It would do for a night's stay. He set his weapons and pack near the chair and began stripping off his traveling gear. For a time, he sat by the window watching the streets below, observing the comings and goings of people in the night. Less foot traffic, more travellers than citizens – Berdusk reminded him more of the Friendly Arm Inn than Baldur's Gate.

Eventually, the people in the streets began to trickle away, and he settled into the bed at last to reverie. As he pulled the threadbare blanket up to his chest, his mind drifted to companions he'd left behind. He turned to glance at his traveling pack. A pink ribbon had been woven into one of the shoulder straps, and the sight of it triggered a strong sense of nostalgia. He wondered how Imoen was, whether she was getting into trouble wherever she was, and if Elene was bailing her out of it. His thoughts lingered on the two young women from Candlekeep as he lay in the small bed, allowing himself to drift off into reverie to relive fonder memories.

Kivan paused. He tilted his head, filtering out the chirp of birds and the faint rustling of leaves swaying in the breeze. After a while, he shook his head.

"You're breathing too loud."

"Aww codswallop!"

Imoen materialised from the shadows of a nearby tree, looking quite put out at being discovered so quickly. For someone who favoured bright magenta clothing, she was surprisingly decent at stealth – she was all but invisible once she'd pulled the shadows to conceal herself.

"You're cheating with those elf ears of yours, aren't ya?" she pouted at him.

"I'd never do anything of the sort," he answered, but his almost-smile contradicted his statement. "Now let's find your friend."

Imoen grinned as she clapped her hands together. "This'll be fun."

A hand raised, he gestured for silence, then nodded for her to take the lead. Imoen tiptoed forward with practiced grace, the girl surprisingly fleet-footed for a human. He wondered if she would be able to detect Elene without his help. The other girl was stronger at stealth, with her light elven steps and instinctive grasp of how to use lighting to her advantage. She'd picked up his pointers as naturally as though she'd been doing it all her life.

He remembered this scene like it was yesterday and not six months ago, the start of his journey with Elene, Imoen, Khalid and Jaheira as they headed to Nashkel. Imoen eventually found Elene hidden near an outcropping of rocks, and they laughed about it together over dinner after. That was how this memory was supposed to conclude. Instead, an uncomfortable, buzzing sensation began to prickle in his chest, causing the hair at the back of his neck to stand on end.

Imoen's back retreated further away from him in the hazy dreamscape, until she faded from sight. Then the tree, the sky and even the ground before him began to vibrate, as if he was being bodily shaken. Yet he was standing perfectly still.

"Kivan."

He stiffened as a voice whispered at him from behind. A familiar voice. Slowly, he turned.

Gone were the trees, the grass, the blue sky. Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of dank, grey room with stone walls. Were it not for his Darkvision, he would struggle to make out his surroundings, the large space lit with only a few torches. Cages of different sizes and builds lined the room, some built into the walls, others hanging from the ceiling by thick chains. Water dripped in the distance, the drip-drip sound echoing like a mindless metronome in the oppressive silence. Within seconds, he was overtaken by a powerful feeling of suffering and death emanating from the very stones of the place.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted a figure in one of the larger cages. A woman sat propped against the wall with her head bowed low, a curtain of tawny hair concealing her face. She was only upright by virtue of the manacles on her wrists, which shackled her to the wall. Her dark vest was torn in places, her feet bare and filthy, and her exposed forearms streaked with angry red lines…as though her flesh been cut open and healed in haste. Repeatedly.

Seconds passed as he stared in disbelief. Then he approached the cage.

"Elene?"

The woman stirred at his voice. For a few long breaths, she didn't respond. Then with painstaking slowness, she raised her head. He recoiled at the sight of his friend's miserable, tear-streaked face. She looked gaunt, with bloodshot eyes and a split lip. The skin on her face, neck and arms were a patchwork of colours, as though one set of burns or bruising hadn't fully healed before more abuse was visited upon her. He was sure that the damage stretched beyond her exposed flesh. Yet despite her ruined state, recognition flickered in her shrewd green eyes as she met his gaze.

Instantly, an odd burning sensation flared up in his chest, a memento of an old wound. He grunted at a phantom pain that felt as raw as the day it was inflicted.

"Are you really here?" she croaked; her voice naught but a broken whisper in the silence.

Just as suddenly, the pain in his chest receded. He kneeled before her cage, fingers curling around the metal bars. They felt cool to the touch. As though they were real.

"What is this? What's happening?"

"I…" She swallowed, grimacing in pain before trying again. "Help us."

In that moment, she reminded him of a few prisoners he'd seen tortured by Tazok: starved, beaten souls whose hopes and dreams slowly died in their cages with every cruel lick of their tormentor's scourge. The look of despair etched on the younger woman's face all but reinforced the image in his mind. He stretched his hand into the cage to reach for her, fingers grasping, but she was too far away from the bars.

"Is this real? What happened?" he demanded.

"They…took us."

"Who's they?" He shook the bars in agitation. "Where are the others?"

"Imoen…"

A loud creak resounded in the distance, that of a heavy door pushed open. Elene's head whipped up at the sound, her eyes going wide with fear. A raw, almost animalistic fear Kivan recognised from his own past. He glanced over his shoulder and focused on the tell-tale sound of measured footsteps. Someone was coming. Rattling chains drew his attention back to her, though. Her breathing became quick, shallow. She was shaking.

"Not again," she whimpered, an anguished, beaten sound. "Please…it's too soon."

"You have to tell me what's going on!" he growled.

She snapped to attention, stilling for a moment. Her gaze zeroed in on him as if seeing him for the first time, a feral edge creeping into her countenance. "You…you can't be here. He will find you."

"Where is 'here'?" He reached for her again, the desperation ringing loudly in his own voice.

"You need to go."

"Elene!"

"I won't let him take you, too."

She gave him one last, sad look. Then, although she didn't move, he felt himself being pushed back. Back into the dreamscape he'd come from, though the forest scenery around him warped and collapsed the moment he returned to it. He resurfaced from his reverie was if breaking through the surface after being underwater, sitting up sharply in bed. On instinct, his hand reaching out to grasp at…nothing. Minutes passed with nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, as he tried to make sense of what he'd just seen. The ominous sensation from the vision lingered and curled in his gut, like a horrid, tangible thing.

Eventually, he clambered out of bed, absently rubbing at his chest. The phantom pain there had faded into a dull ache. Never had he experienced a reverie turning into…whatever that was. It felt so real, though. If he closed his eyes, he could see the afterimage of Elene's brutalised form as though she was right in front of him. He would not be getting the image out of his mind anytime soon.

Gazing out the window, he frowned. He reached out with all his senses, centring himself and his thoughts. When he'd calmed down, a deep-seated certainty settled within him, that what he'd seen was a vision, a portent, not merely a senseless nightmare.

And with that certainty came a crystal-clear intuition that he needed to head south.

.