Hi everyone,
My apologies for the delay. I've started a new project at work, and it's taken up a lot of my time and energy.
From now on, I'll be publishing on Sundays rather than Fridays, to make sure I have time to translate my chapters during the week. I'll let you know if I need more time, but I hope I'll be able to stick to it.
I did a lot of proofreading on the first twenty chapters of this fiction, to correct any mistakes or poor vocabulary choices I may have missed. I've already updated everything, so the story should be a bit cleaner. I'm sorry again for my shortcomings and blunders.
I wish you all a good reading!
That evening, the adventurers settled down on the outskirts of the Last Light Inn. The air was mild and strangely comforting compared to the darkness outside. It was a moment of calm that they wouldn't find again any time soon, once they were deep in these cursed lands.
Lae'zel and Shadowheart asked Astarion about his 'former master': who was he, and why had he marked him this way? The rogue told his story with great reluctance. He spoke in a low voice, wearing an austere expression, as if whispering Cazador's name was enough to make him appear. As soon as he was silent, his comrades stopped questioning the fight against the Orthon once and for all.
Their sympathy quickly faded, however, as the high elf took out a series of reddish vials from his bag: "I stocked up when we were with the goblins," he explained. "I'm glad I did, because it's neither in the Underdark nor in this cursed place that I could hunt properly..."
His eyes turned innocently to Nymuë: "It would have been a real shame if someone had to give up their neck on the way..."
"True," the dark elf nodded. "We would have missed you dearly."
The vampire draped himself in wounded pride, and the adventurers burst out laughing. Despite her amusement, the musician felt a wave of compassion: making so many provisions was proof of the malnutrition the rogue had suffered. It was ironic to think that he was perhaps in better health now - in the middle of this deadly region - than he had been all those years in Baldur's Gate. Gently, she approached him: "You spoke about your brothers and sisters with our comrades earlier... So there are others like you?"
Astarion laughed bitterly at the thought of his siblings. "Cazador sired seven spawns. He always insisted we were a family, even when he was carving scars into our flesh. I was one of his first. Some of the others came years later."
He remained quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the fog beyond the silver shield. "He was a monster to us all," he continued, "but did take special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest."
The young woman took his hand, which seemed to surprise him. He examined their intertwined fingers with uncertainty.
"And now that I'm gone, I... I don't know. I pity the other six."
Nymuë turned her face towards the campfire. Pity, anger and regret ran through her, like old friends from the depths of her mind.
"That makes you a better person than I am," she murmured.
She stood up, feeling Astarion's fingers linger on hers. Her thoughts were already catching up with her.
She had never tried to find out what had become of Brindille or Aktas after she had fled The Shining Star. Had Lady Seri gone bankrupt? Had she punished the kobold for letting her escape? Unlike Astarion who could sympathise with the fate of the other spawns, she had lost all interest in those who had shared her life. It was as if, after Elyon's death, her feelings had been swept away by the wind, leaving only an immense void. An emptiness that not even Revan had been able to fill, despite his kindness. She respected the rogue for remaining capable of empathy. Perhaps, deep down, she was much more of a vampire than he was.
When they sat down around the fire, Nymuë was still lost in thought. Lae'zel sharpened her sword, and Shadowheart looked at Astarion with disgust as he drank from one of his personal flasks.
"All you need now is a straw," she spat.
"If you ask me nicely, I'll give you a taste."
"You're sickening, Astarion. I don't understand what Nymuë sees in you."
"She's probably enjoying his pretty face," interjected the githyanki with a disapproving click of her tongue.
"Let's hear what the lady has to say..."
"I'll pass; I'm wondering the exact same question."
"Allow me to hazard a guess in this case," the rogue purred. "It's my legendary modesty that makes you melt. It can never be praised enough! If I were you, I'd have been captivated in the blink of an eye."
The musician rolled her eyes, letting Shadowheart speak again: "Maybe this isn't the time to discuss personal matters..."
"Vlaakith, have mercy on me," Lae'zel hissed.
"... But I was wondering if you'd be willing to tell us more about your life as a performer, Nymuë?"
The joy in the air burst like a bubble, and the smile on the dark elf's lips faded. Instinctively, she tightened her arms around her knees.
"I'm not forcing you to anything," the priestess continued. "You never did. I think I just want to know more about you, if you don't mind."
"I don't know if there's much to tell."
"Although not very effective in battle, your music is pleasant," the warrior remarked.
The young woman searched for words. She had never spoken to anyone about her situation, and even Revan had given up questioning her. How could she explain what she had been until now? A ghost, a spectre like those hiding in these lands...
"As you know, my parents died when they reached the surface," she began. "The circus where my mother gave birth raised me... with the aim of creating an exceptional parade."
"Private concerts?" Shadowheart asked.
"No. A freak show."
A silence greeted her speech. Nymuë continued: "Other members and I were chosen according to our ability to stand out from the crowd. To be grotesque. The good people came to see us and... well... It did them good, I suppose, to take it out on us."
"Is that what you were told when you had to go on stage?"
"That's what we told ourselves, to give meaning to our humiliation. One day, there was an accident and... To put it simply, my mentor - Revan - found me in one of the caravans. He took me with him, and I started a new life. He taught me the art of haggling, and the one of survival. I decided to try my luck elsewhere... and the rest is history."
"How long?" Astarion demanded.
The dark elf stared at him: his gaze pierced her with a vigilance she knew only too well. He was finally putting into words the symmetry of their behaviour; finally hearing what her silences were screaming.
"Almost a hundred years," she answered without taking her eyes off him. "Then another fifteen at Baldur's Gate."
"I never imagined you could have been weak," the githyanki intervened.
"Lae'zel!" Shadowheart exclaimed furiously.
"Tch'k. You've got me wrong. What I mean is that Nymuë has overcome her condition. You can see it in our confrontations, or when she talks to our enemies. If she was once glass, she is now steel. A metal so sharp that I'm surprised some people have managed to break it in the past."
"Careful Lae'zel," Nymuë smiled. "You're going to make me blush."
"That wasn't the point. Accept the honours you're given, but don't tarnish them with vanity."
"You gith," the priestress sighed. "You can't express your sympathy like everyone else, can you?"
"My sympathy would do you no good," the warrior retorted. "But I can spill the blood of your foes, if you wish."
"Wonderful. Once you have rid yourself of your parasite, Nymuë, don't forget that you have now an ally ready to commit murder for you."
The dark elf watched Shadowheart and Lae'zel bicker, her heart strangely light. Her comrades had not pitied her. After exposing herself, she had expected to feel ashamed or angry, but this disparate team knew how to be delicate. Tonight, she had opened the drawer in which she had hidden. Her companions had simply looked inside, without validation or judgement. Leaving the contents untouched, they then closed its access.
She met Astarion's gaze and found him pensive: she knew that one question remained unanswered. The young woman had been careful not to mention Elyon. Perhaps, one day, she would feel able to share this pain. For now however, this drawer would remain sealed.
"My turn, I suppose," the priestess said suddenly.
"I'm getting sick of all these confessions," the rogue hissed.
"Don't expect me to take over," Lae'zel agreed.
"It won't take long, if you keep quiet! Lady Shar's presence is powerful here, and I can't help but feel... a pull. Something is calling me: I don't know if it's my goddess, or my destiny, but I'm convinced I'm in the right place. I think it's time I explained what motivates my faith."
Suddenly, Shadowheart let out a cry of pain: the wound on her hand flashed with a violet glow. The affliction ceased as suddenly as it had arrived. "Does this happen often?" Astarion asked.
"This injury... It never quite heals. It's my burden from Lady Shar. I can feel her influence, somehow."
"Why would your goddess subject you to such a thing?" the githyanki inquired, her eyebrows furrowed.
"I cannot say, not with what I can recall... But even then, it would not be for me to question her will. Pain is sacred to followers of Lady Shar... Sometimes I wonder if it's supposed to be guiding me, punishing me, testing me. Perhaps it's none of those, and completely random. Until my Mistress will reveal it to me, all I can do is endure."
The priestess fell silent, struggling to gather her thoughts. She clutched her wounded hand to her chest. "It's difficult to put into words," she sighed. "It might be easier to just show you..."
A brief shudder seized the adventurers, and their thoughts intertwined: the surrounding landscape disappeared. Instead, their eyes opened on dark woods. Neither stars nor moon lit up the sky. It was a memory, seen from their comrade's point of view. "I don't remember how it started," she murmured. "Only how it ended. I was fleeing…"
The Shadowheart in the vision was much younger than the one beside them. The hand she held to her face was small, a child's one at most. At that time, she had no injury... but her palms were covered in blood.
A wolf emerged from the undergrowth, a gigantic beast with yellow pupils focused on the little girl. The animal's body vibrated with intensity and it bared its fangs. A figure stepped in before it could attack. The child looked up at the strangest being she had ever seen.
The woman was masked, her face like that of a wax doll. Only her irises, darker than night, remained visible. She wore a magnificent dress, black and silver, which in places revealed the azure glow of her skin. A drow? When she knelt down to face the girl, she didn't seem hostile. Behind her, her comrades came out of the thicket to surround the wolf.
Shadowheart's memory faded; everything around this woman lost its substance, blurring the fight with the animal. The stranger removed her disguise. As one, the adventurers felt the priestess' excitement. Whoever this woman was, she had been a beginning, but it was not yet time to write the end. All they saw was darkness.
"She asked me my name," Shadowheart whispered. "I can't remember what I said. I can't remember anything before those woods. All I know is she saved my life, and gave me a new home... with Lady Shar."
The campfire came back into view, and their united consciousness redivided. The priestess watched them gravely: "That's all I remember," she admitted.
"No wonder you're so dedicated to Shar," Astarion said. "You feel like you owe her everything."
"Lady Shar. And yes: its thanks to her that I can be what I am today. I won't fail her."
"Thank you for sharing that with us," Nymuë murmured. "I imagine it can't have been easy."
The half elf gave her a warm smile: "Normally I'd agreed, but with you… it's getting easier by the moment."
"It's all natural," the rogue replied. "I'm the expert on lost souls."
Her companions were still protesting loudly when Nymuë went to lie down on her bunk; it was to the sound of their verbal sparring that she fell asleep.
The next morning, a Harper woke them up. The area around the tavern was silent. Dawn – if such a thing existed in this darkness - was just beginning to break.
"Jaheira is asking for you," he said soberly. "She's inside."
The adventurers sighed. Would they never get a real night's sleep, without responsibilities, dreams or imminent threats?
"We might as well go now," Nymuë grumbled. "Before she comes after us with her vines."
"What about our morning training?"
"Please, Lae'zel. Not now."
The small team headed for the Last Light Inn. The refugees had settled into the rooms available, and were being offered the precious rest their saviours had been deprived of. Jaheira stood at her desk: "There you are," she greeted them. "Sleep well ?"
An icy silence answered her. She smiled: "You probably deserved a longer halt, but alas, I couldn't wait. A convoy has been sighted not far from here. It's led by followers of the Absolute."
The news had the merit of rousing the adventurers. "My spies followed them along the main road. According to our estimates, they should pass near the inn."
"You want to ambush them," Lae'zel guessed.
"That's right. My men had to take every precaution to avoid the shadows, but they swore to me that the cultists had never been attacked, not even once. Whatever they're using to protect themselves, this convoy is carrying it with it. I'm in favour of stealing this asset."
"That's an excellent idea!" Shadowheart enthused.
"How many are there?" Nymuë asked.
"About eight people, mostly goblins. The only exception is their leader: the report mentions a drider."
A shiver ran down the dark elf's spine. During her research on Lolth, when she was hoping to learn more about her origins, this term had often come up. The image she had conjured up had given her nightmares for a week.
"Half-drows, half-spiders…" she informed her comrades. "Up to their waists, they're black elves. Below that, they have eight long legs. It's impossible to escape them, as their speed is formidable. They can also climb on any surface."
"A gift from Lolth?" Astarion scoffed.
"More like a punishment," Jaheira corrected. "The driders are dark elves who have displeased the Spider Queen. While sacrifice and murder are commonplace among the drows, she has more... imaginative methods."
"Has this drider turned away from Lolth to embrace the cult of the Absolute? This seems to be a constant. Minthara, Nere..."
"The Absolute spread from Moonrise Towers, and quickly found followers in the heart of the Underdark. By recruiting the wretched, the desperate and the dissatisfied, she was able to create a group of devotees, devoid of remorse."
"In other words, this drider would rather sacrifice himself with the artefact we seek than disappoint his new deity," Nymuë understood.
"Exactly. Here, stealth and cunning will be your best assets. My sentries are waiting for you near the bridge, outside the inn. They'll take you close to the main road. You'll have to strike decisively: don't give our enemies the chance to react."
"And what do we do if the shadows decide to join in the fun?" Astarion demanded.
Jaheira looked up at the top floor of the building: "You see, you're not our only secret weapon. Among us is Isobel, a faithful cleric of Selûne, and a light in the darkness."
"Selûne?" Shadowheart spat.
Nymuë gave her a warning glance, and the half elf - with difficulty - concealed her disgust. The veteran ignored this interruption: "She cast the moon shield around the inn. She's the only reason we're still alive."
"That includes you too, Shadowheart," Lae'zel taunted.
The priestess pursed her lips, angry and worried at the same time. Until now, she had received the blessing of her goddess as a token of her good graces. So, fraternising with the enemy… Wouldn't that be considered blasphemy?
"Isobel is upstairs in her chambers," Jaheira added. "Tell her I sent you and she'll see you through the shadows safely."
The adventurers took their leave and headed for the second floor. At its centre was a communal area leading to the various bedrooms. A bluish glow was visible under the landing of one of them.
"I suppose this is the place," Nymuë guessed.
"Let's go," the half elf agreed. "The sooner we're done with this, the better."
The companions announced themselves, but no one came to open the door. After a few seconds' hesitation, Lae'zel dismantled it with a flick of her shoulder. The room was spacious and rather impersonal, despite some signs of habitation. A pile of books lay on a desk; in one corner, a bed was half unmade. An almost completely burnt-out candle rested on a chest, next to an embroidered handkerchief. The fabric could have been a delightful piece of sewing... if it hadn't been covered in dark stains.
"Do you think it's ink?" Astarion asked in disgust.
"What else?" Shadowheart retorted. "Unless Selûnites are rotten from the inside..."
Nymuë moved towards the balcony at the other end of the room, where the silver light was coming from. A young woman was standing before an altar. The moon, still visible at such an early hour, was reflected on the protective dome. The priestess looked quite young, no more than thirty; her eyes were as pale as Nymuë's, and her hair even whiter. Finishing her prayer, Isobel stretched out her arms: two silver rays flew in the direction of the moon shield. For a moment, the adventurers saw their frail defence strengthened in the face of the darkness.
The peace of the instant was interrupted by a violent cough. The Selûnite took out a tissue and wiped her face; it was once again stained with black traces. "I didn't realise I had an audience," she murmured, turning around.
Who - Isobel or the adventurers - looked at the other with more curiosity, no one could say. She gave them a mocking smile: "The famous True Souls who are going to save us all! I'm Isobel. Pleased to meet you."
"Words get around fast," Astarion quipped.
"Small inn. We've been waiting for people like you for some time now. Free of the Absolute's influence, yet able to walk among cultists. It's almost too good to be true... But I'd be a poor cleric indeed not to avail of a blessing when I see one. Let me guess: Jaheira's sent you to beg a protection spell off her favourite Selûnite?
"Because there are others?" Shadowheart snorted.
The two women stared at each other, as opposed in their appearance as in their faith. Isobel grinned as she observed her colleague's attire: "There used to be more of us. But as usual, Shar couldn't help coveting what she couldn't have, and look what happened. But if you're here, it's to face a greater threat than the Mother of Misguidance. Proof that she at least knows how to choose her nasty little terrier."
The half elf had the good sense to contain her anger. Putting an end to the hostilities, Isobel cast an opalescent glow over the companions. They felt a sensation of warmth pushing the shadows out of their way... out of their mind.
"Perfect," she declared. "It'll make you immune to the lesser effects of the shadow curse. But they are places it won't help, where this disaster first began. The Moon Maiden's influence stops at the town of Reithwin."
"You seem to know the region well," the dark elf remarked. "What can you tell us about General Thorm?"
The priestess's expression darkened, betraying for a second a spark of emotion. Sadness, perhaps?
"Ketheric is a terrifying man," she replied. "But you have something he doesn't: allies worth trusting. Show him no mercy, for he will show you none. End this."
Nymuë nodded, seized with apprehension. Isobel's voice had trembled at the mention of the General. Her determination was tinged with sorrow; one darker than the ink covering her handkerchiefs.
END NOTES:
We've introduced Shadowheart's past, and both Astarion and Nymuë have opened up more to their comrades... Are they ready for what comes next?
The action returns in the next chapter! Thank you for reading, and see you next Sunday.