Chapter Text
Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.
Macbeth, Act II, Scene I, 49-60.
Freedom should not have felt so paralyzing. Sarevok’s threat was ended, the world open before me — and yet I fretted away my hours as though anticipating the next strike. The problem was this: What does a hero do once she’s slain the dragon?
In my youth — a relative term for an elf — I’d read no shortage of adventure stories, and it was only now that I realized how lacking they were. Most seemed to end abruptly, the epilogue no more than a tissue of vague promises. There was a vague gesture towards something more, perhaps a ‘happily ever after’ if it was that kind of story, and then —
Silence, and the closing of a book.
It wasn’t enough. I wanted… something. What it was, I couldn’t say, or wouldn’t, for I had learned to be careful about wanting things. Dreams rarely survived contact with the waking world; the amulet I wore was proof enough. So I told myself, at any rate, for my hesitation, my passivity, seemed foolish even to me. What sort of hero was I? An actor, and a poor one. I hid myself in the Ducal Palace, away from prying eyes, and I did not think about the words which my nemesis’ erstwhile mentor had entrusted to me.
“Shadow of Murder’s murder,” Winski had said. “East of Trollclaw, east of the bridge. Ask the river.”
I had not. I had not even left Baldur’s Gate. I knew that answers lay elsewhere, but —
Ah, why defend myself? You know me well enough to divine my reason. It is because I was afraid. I was accustomed to hiding, and the prospect of seeking out my heritage filled me with a deep foreboding. For all that my ignorance had nearly killed me, I could not bring myself to gaze into the abyss.
So what I did was nothing, or near enough, and I chafed at both action and inaction, wishing someone else would tell me what I ought to do. I should have known better, really. Such wishes are too often granted.
“ ‘Kill my business partner for me.’ ‘Find my brother in Durlag’s Tower and bring him home.’ ” Imoen set down the letters. “Sheesh, doesn’t anybody normal write to you? Oh, there’s this one, ‘help find my kitty’ — oh, she says you already did that? Aw.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d met her cat. It was nearly as tall as me, and she talked about it like it was a sweet little kitten. Called it ‘Angel.’ Neither of them was exactly normal.” I thought of bright, merry Petrine and reconsidered. “You would have liked her, though.”
Imoen, still paging through letters, made a pleased noise. “We’re pretty popular. All right, maybe some of these requests are a little silly, but people like us! Good on us for saving the day, right?”
I said nothing.
“Grumpyguts.” She put down another letter. “Hey, this Mendas fellow sounds like fun. ‘Daring academics wanted to challenge orthodox Faerûnian geography, venturing where none save Balduran have gone before.’ Whatcha think?”
“I don’t know…” Rather insistently, Imoen pressed the letter into my hand. The language was peculiar, as though Common was not his native tongue, but it sounded reasonable enough. Talk of exploration made me apprehensive, but this was scholarship, not adventuring. “Khalid always said that anyone in the city who mentioned Balduran was trying to sell you something, but I suppose we could hear what he has to say,” I hedged.
I should have known better. Imoen might have learned the danger of indulging her curiosity, but she was still, well, Imoen, clever and curious to a fault. She’d always been the more adventurous. If she thought it was a good idea, I would have done better to flee.
I know now that it was only another kind of cowardice which drove me. Boareskyr — Bhaal — the prospect of staring into my soul frightened me, and I quailed. I did not know what I would find staring back, and so I chose the easier option — or meant to.
There were few of us remaining. Imoen, of course, who had threatened me if I even considered asking her to leave. Dynaheir stayed because of her fascination with Alaundo’s prophecy, and so loyal Minsc did as well. I had expected Branwen to accompany Ajantis when he departed, for they had spoken at some length; she had elected to remain, though she kept her own counsel as to why.
As for the others who had once traveled with me? Jaheira and Khalid had recently left on some voyage of their own, their promise to Gorion upheld with Sarevok’s death. A holiday, they claimed, though I had my doubts; if they spoke true, it was well-earned, but Harpers did nothing by chance. Kivan had left more than a tenday past, Faldorn earlier still, and Xan —
I realized that I had been fussing with the amulet again, and I tucked it out of sight. An unfortunate habit. I didn’t need the reminder, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. It was a perfectly functional amulet of shielding, an asset to anyone who lacked evocation magic, and it would have been more self-indulgent to discard it.
The letter stubbornly resurfaced in my mind, refusing to be forgotten. It was like a splinter; I worried at it, digging and digging, but it slipped from my grasp. It was the mention of scholarship that had done it. Candlekeep might be forever barred — damn Sarevok and Ulraunt both — but a part of it, I would always carry with me. Wandering into the unknown was reckless, suicidal even. Exploring was another matter. Forwarding the cause of knowledge was a worthy goal, was it not? So I might claim, but I knew that my motivations were less noble than I pretended. The proper course was to chase the thread of prophecy before another of Alaundo’s score sought me out, but —
You know already how this tale ends. So it was that I agonized, Imoen and I going back and forth all that day. I maintained that she was too curious, she that I was too reticent. We were neither of us wrong, but long experience had taught that neither of us would give ground.
So I mentioned the letter over the evening meal, hoping for advice to break our stalemate.
“Camaraderie, adventure, and steel on steel,” exclaimed Minsc. “The stuff of legends. Right, Boo?” The hamster on his shoulder squeaked agreement, and Minsc pounded an emphatic fist on the table, rattling the flatware. “Ah, Boo is wise as ever. He says that if his ancestors had not been hamsters of great courage and boldness, they would not have become space hamsters. Venture forth, he says!”
“Must thou keep that rodent so close?” sighed Dynaheir. “ ‘Tis surely unclean.”
Boo squeaked again, a sharp, affronted noise, and narrowed his beady eyes.
“Then again, if ‘tis a comfort to thee, then perhaps ‘tis not all to the bad,” she said, sounding as though she were attempting to convince herself. She set down her spoon and looked at me, her calm expression betraying nothing. “I recall that thou hadst spoken of another task, one of greater import to thine heritage. Knowledge is a worthy venture, aye — yet I cannot sense the purpose in this diversion whilst thine own blood remains a cipher.” Her dark brown eyes drilled holes in me, and I knew that lying to her would be a waste of breath.
I looked away, staring down at my hands, and that was answer enough.
“ ‘Tis unwarriorlike to flee,” said Branwen sternly.
“I’ve never claimed to be a warrior.”
She chuckled. “Aye, true enough.” Mirth flickered in her eyes like summer lightning, and she frowned, serious now. “If ye would fain avoid this battle, then I’ll not counsel you on the proper choice — no good ever came of pushing a warrior to join the fight when her heart says nay. Yet think on it, before ye act. I’d not see you running this way and that like a startled rabbit, affrighted by her shadow.”
I could hear the question she wasn’t asking: haven’t you had enough of that? Yes — and no. I had hated the cold logic of survival, hated how it engulfed my every thought till I could not see a way past it. I was free. Safe, even, if a child of Bhaal could ever think herself safe. But it had been simpler. I knew that it was childish, but all I wanted was to cede command to someone else. Tell me what to do, I nearly begged.
What I said was, “We leave for Ulgoth’s Beard tomorrow.”
While the others busied themselves with practical matters — a visit to Sorcerous Sundries, some last purchases from a general store — I paid my respects to the Ducal Council. Our lodgings in the palace had been a gift, in gratitude for defeating Sarevok. More than once, I’d wondered who’d gotten the worse end of the bargain; Imoen, ever the optimist, liked to point out that we’d been rewarded with a few tendays’ worth of luxury for something we were going to do anyways. We, she said, but it had always been me that Sarevok wanted. I didn’t have the heart to argue.
The four dukes received me in a small ground-floor room. Through one half-open door, I could see that the formal audience hall was bare of carpet, its walls half-painted.
Belt and Liia were much as I remembered them, he in the heavy ceremonial armor I remembered from Sarevok’s almost-coronation, she likewise in her elaborate wizard’s robes. Eltan was much recovered, the terrible gauntness gone from his face, but a stout cane leaned against his chair. They were distantly polite, a formality somewhat undercut by the fourth Grand Duke’s eager wave.
Skie Silvershield had been her father’s only heir; when he had been assassinated, his soul unwilling to return to the Prime, she had taken his place. Properly speaking, there ought to have been a vote to confirm her; practically speaking, Sarevok’s machinations had scythed through so many of the city’s electors that there was nobody to object. She had been Commander Scar’s emergency veto, picked more for agreeableness and her command of the Silvershield fortune than her political acumen. Fortunately, she took her new role quite seriously; I suspected that Eldoth’s mysterious and worrying disappearance played a role.
The elder dukes waited for her to regain her composure. Once she had settled down, slightly abashed, Liia broke the silence. “You sought an audience with us, Lyris. What is it that concerns you?”
Thinking of what Ajantis would have done, I bowed slightly. “Your graces. I wished to thank you for your hospitality, and to state my intent to leave the city.”
“So soon?” Belt queried. “Sarevok is not a month dead. While we rebuild, the presence of you and your band would do much for morale.”
For now. His objection was more for decorum’s sake than out of any real conviction. In seeking to prove my half-brother’s guilt, I had handed over the diary which named me as kin. My heritage was known to the council, and this peace between us was an uneasy one. They did not know what to make of me, you see. Had I been hero or Harper — had I been more openly self-serving — I would have been predictable. But in my few dealings with them, I had never hidden that I cared for little beyond my own survival, and that made me dangerously erratic.
“You know how it is,” I said glibly. “The road calls, and we must answer. Your own adventuring days are not so far behind you, are they?”
“Not so far that I do not think of taking to the road now and then,” Belt conceded.
“You would never,” said Liia, half-scolding. “You speak of it as though to remind yourself that you remain here by choice, but you remember the Life as well as I. The endless plodding marches, the trail rations — ye gods, the weather!”
“It sounds terrible,” Skie said fervently. “I don’t understand why anyone would travel somewhere they couldn’t get a bath and a hot meal.”
The other dukes laughed, not unkindly.
“The open road has its merits,” said Eltan. “All the same, I have always loved the city most when I returned to it after a long campaign.” There was a shadow to his smile, a worn and weary thing. “Travel well, then.”
The other dukes likewise gave their blessings, and I bowed again. “Thank you. It should not be a long journey, but I am eager to travel without a knife at my back. Though I fear that your generosity has spoiled me for the dubious luxuries of the road.”
My pack was heavy as I left the palace. I’d taken only the essentials; even so, its unaccustomed weight bit into my shoulders. I jostled it, shifting the straps to a more comfortable position, and I thought about what what it meant to leave. There was no frenzied flight this time, no assassin’s daggers to signal that even my once-refuge could not protect me.
There was no Gorion, either. Thinking of him grew no easier.
Instead, there was — me, for all the good that did. From the moment Candlekeep’s gates had shut behind me, I’d let others lead the way. First my father (foster father, a small voice nagged), then Ajantis, too righteous for doubt, then Khalid and Jaheira on their dual mission. I had made myself a passenger in my own tale, running and running, too frightened even to think or question, let alone to notice what had been right in front of me all along. Had I been quicker, cleverer —
I knew better than to entertain what-ifs. I clenched my hands, muscles tensing against the straps which kept my daggers bound to my forearms, and I tried not to think how long it had been since I had voluntarily gone unarmed.
I crossed the city as though the Flaming Fist were still after me. No lurking in shadow and vaulting over buildings; anything that obvious would have attracted the very attention I was hoping to avoid, so I kept my eyes on the cobbles underfoot, walking with the quick, precise arrogance of one sure of the importance of her task. I knew where I was going, for the city told me where I was, guiding more by sound than sight. Ahead, I heard the rumble of the crowd, and rising above that, hawkers shouting their wares and cartwheels reverberating on stone. I would never quite grow used to the clamor of the marketplace, but it was a familiar sound by now. From my right came the groan of creaking timbers and the sighing of wind and waves. I turned my head, and nostalgia struck me like an ogre’s greatclub. The smell of the ocean was different here — more acrid, mingled with the smells of old fish and waste and mildew — but it would always be the smell of home.
It was quieter here, the shouting of sailors but a distant memory. I ducked into an alley and shut my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cobbled wall. The day was hot already, but the stone was cool against my skin. For a moment Baldur’s Gate faded and I could nearly fancy that I was home once more. I took my journal from my pack, and my waking reverie was complete, stone walls and sea air and old parchment to draw me home to a place I would not see again.
But the salt-crusted stone was too rough, the texture of sounds too loud and dissonant for Candlekeep. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, leaving the past behind me.
I could not stop myself longing for the past, for what I could not have. As someone I once knew told me, what was the sense in hope — in wanting — if it went unfulfilled? I should have known better.
I caught up with the others just before the Wide, the great marketplace that sprawled across the city’s eastern district. Minsc bellowed a greeting, and all around him, heads turned. Baldurians were curious to a fault, and there was little they enjoyed so much as witnessing drama.
“All ready?” I asked, ignoring our onlookers.
Branwen nodded. “This one” — she jerked a thumb at Imoen — “these fools would have let her have near anything for the asking. I’ve scarce seen such cutthroat haggling in my life. Whether I should be afeared or proud, I cannot say.”
“Not like there was much to buy, seeing as it’s only a day to Ulgoth’s Beard.” Imoen shrugged. “I was looking forward to a good argument, but I name a price and they just agree to it. Hey, you think that —”
“Whatever thou dost intend, Imoen, I must advise against it,” Dynaheir cautioned. “I recognize the look in thine eye.”
“Hey, you don’t know what I was planning. Might’ve been perfectly innocent.” Half to herself, Imoen muttered, “Yer all buffle-headed,” but her slight smirk said that her heart wasn’t in it.
“Imoen,” I said, “she’s met you. Of course you’re up to something. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
The almost-squabbling was comfortably familiar, an echo from a past I had thought long-buried. It was nearly enough for me to disregard the inquisitive bystanders, the poorly-hidden muttering and pointing from any who recognized us.
I rarely walked openly in the city. Concealment had been a habit, born of my association with the thieves’ guild and of the sizable bounty on my head; now that I was nominally safe, I flinched at every glance and whisper. Nothing good had ever come of being recognized.
“Aren’t they the ones who killed Sarevok?”
“No, there were more of them.”
“You sure? They don’t look like much, and that Sarevok, he was eight feet tall or I’m a gnoll.”
“Maybe that big one there, him with the tattoo —”
“I’ll show them ‘don’t look like much,’” Branwen grumbled. “Tempus spare me from the blathering of idiots.”
“True warriors come in all sizes,” said Minsc cheerfully. “Take little Boo — he is small and cute, but he is fierce when angered!”
Imoen glanced at Boo, then at Branwen. “Well, your hair’s the same color, and — I’ll just stop talking.”
The Flaming Fist had relaxed the guard on Wyrm’s Crossing, so we left the city more or less unnoticed. Traveling with Minsc made it impossible to go truly unseen, but he tended to draw attention to himself, leaving the rest of us free to hide in his outsized shadow.
It was a beautiful day, the rich gold Eleasis sun almost syrupy where it shone through the trees. Green grass underfoot, the sky impossibly blue overhead, and the murmuring of the Chionthar as it ran westwards to the sea. I’d been too long in the city, and the irregular soft earth of the countryside felt subtly wrong beneath my boots. It took me longer than I would have liked to find my footing again, each tree root or loose stone plotting against me. In truth, my clumsiness bothered me less than Imoen’s sniggering.
Even so, the hours passed quickly, spent in idle chatter or in companionable silence. Now and then Imoen read aloud from her much-abused copy of Volo’s Guide to the Sword Coast.
“ ‘Tis well enough to learn, but we may as easily press on and learn for ourselves,” said Dynaheir dubiously.
“Oh, hang on, says here — ‘no tavern in the Beard, residents brew their own ale, no inn.’” Imoen pulled a face. “Rather know now than later.”
“I’ll wager I’ve drunk worse,” said Branwen.
Judging by my map, the Beard wasn’t far; we could have pressed on, but given that we’d be sleeping on the ground either way, I cautiously said that we should stop for the night.
I expected — what, I wasn’t sure. Disagreement. Challenges, perhaps. Instead, Minsc strode ahead to scout for a likely campsite, and Imoen drew her bow in the hope of shooting something for the pot.
Dynaheir was looking at me again, her eyes seeing too much. It was difficult not to feel that I was being judged and found wanting. She and Minsc had traveled all the way from Rashemen in search of Alaundo’s prophesied Score. Instead — almost by accident — she’d found me. I wondered what she thought, but I feared to ask. I wasn’t certain she’d heard of diplomacy.
I thought about it, later. Imoen had bagged a large rabbit, and between that and our newly-replenished stores, dinner was surprisingly good. It was different without Jaheira or Faldorn’s expertise; to a druid who knew the region, the grassy plains and sparse forest were as well-stocked as any general store. Dynaheir had studied herb-lore, but as she admitted, she was yet a stranger to the West, and its plants were foreign to her.
I was distracted again, my thoughts wandering from their course. I had given an order — a suggestion, really, but it had been obeyed as though it were an order. I thought of those around me as my friends. Did I want authority? The question sat leaden in my stomach, roiling uncomfortably. No, I was no Sarevok; I wanted peace, not power.
Imoen elbowed me, and I started. She wasn’t strong enough for it to hurt, but I’d been too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice her approaching.
“Woolgathering again,” she said sternly. “What are you overthinking this time?”
“I wasn’t — all right, I suppose I was.” I hugged my knees against my chest, staring at the fire. “I let myself be dragged along. It was my life at stake, but I acted like someone else was in charge from the moment that — from the moment I met Ajantis.”
Imoen cocked her head, which made her look like a large, inquisitive bird. “So, are you gettin’ the urge to laugh manically?”
“No.”
“Hire assassins?”
“No.”
“Monologue about your evil plans?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” She grinned. “Besides, I’ll keep an eye on you. Start puttin’ spikes on your armor or stroking your beard and I’ll take steps, all right?”
“All right.”
“There ya go, then. Next time just talk to me instead of moping.”
As questionable as her methods were, it did help, a little. I thought of Sarevok, his allies dwindling one by one — Tazok and Angelo, slain by his enemies; Cynthandria, cursed into helplessness which nothing short of a miracle could cure; and Winski, nearly slain by his own protégé, instead executed by the city he had undermined.
And Tamoko, cast out by the man she loved, who had bade her die at my hand. That I had convinced her otherwise, I counted among my few triumphs. I wondered if she lived.
The next day dawned in blood.
“Red sky at morn,” said Branwen. “There’ll be rain this day.”
A child of the seafaring Norheim folk, she knew how to read the sky, and sure enough, she was right. It was just past midmorning when the dark sky opened, spilling forth Talos’ wrath. The comfortable pace of the first day was nowhere to be seen; though the rain was warm, we were soon soaked, the wind conspiring to blow the heavy raindrops past what shelter Dynaheir could conjure.
At least my boots were dry. I could stand the rain, so long as I did not have to endure wet socks in the offing. So we trudged miserably through the foul weather, churning up mud as we walked and hoping that whatever Ulgoth’s Beard would be worth the trip.
Rain. Rain and wind, unceasing, unforgiving. Not even summer’s warmth could blunt the weather’s bite, and by the time we glimpsed the first houses over the next rise, Imoen’s cheer was more than a little forced — to say nothing of the rest of us. Only Boo was unscathed, Minsc having long since tucked him inside his pack.
Imoen stared at the grim sky, angling her hood to keep the rain from her face. “Think it’ll stop anytime soon?”
“These summer storms are fickle as a god’s favor,” said Branwen. “I’ve not the weather-lore to know.”
Faldorn would have. She’d known the Sword Coast and its forests better than any — but she had departed for the Cloakwood, meaning to reclaim her place among the Shadow Druids with blood and fury. Sullen and violent though she was, I missed her.
It was difficult to judge time’s passage; without the sun to reckon by, there was only the next step, and the next. Lightning flashed, illuminating the hamlet just ahead. I caught the outline of several small buildings, hunkering down beneath the storm.
“That sound,” said Dynaheir wonderingly. “Like the bheur hags singing blizzards down — dost thou hear it? Nay, not the thunder — the voice.”
She was right. A great rolling baritone sang out into the storm. Lightning flashed again, and I saw it.
“Is that a skyship?” In my brief time with the guild, I’d heard some talk of Halruuan device-magic, the fabulous spells which wrought marvels not seen since Netheril. To find such magery in such a humble place was improbable in the extreme — and yet, there it floated, a vast structure which strained against its moorings, festooned with lightning rods and runes and all manner of strange devices. I could just discern a small figure standing atop one balcony.
“Such squandering of the Hidden One’s Art — why, ‘tis near Thayvian in its profligacy.” But Dynaheir could not keep the awe from her voice, and I saw her craning her neck to stare at it as we passed.
Following Imoen’s guidebook, we sought out the ruined keep just north of the Beard. If, as Volo alleged, it had once belonged to a pirate lord, those glory days were long past; now it was naught save crumbling stone, a bare roof above our heads. But they were stout enough to keep the storm at bay, and we were glad of it.
Tomorrow, we would seek out this Mendas. It would be a pleasure to speak with a proper scholar — to turn my skills towards something more than murder.
For now, I was merely grateful to be dry.