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Morena felt a small twinge of guilt for betraying the promise she had made to her son. Years ago he had given her the proper instructions to bypass the many complicated wards in place on his tower. She knew he’d only done so in case of the rare occasion she may need to gain entry while he was otherwise undisposed, likely on some marvelous mission for the Goddess Mystra. She hoped he had never intended its necessity on the occasion of his sudden disappearance. Nearly 2 months had passed and not a single iota of communication from her only child.
She stuffed the creased parchment instructions back into her satchel and pushed the heavy door open. It creaked on squeaky hinges dislodging a layer of dust as she peered curiously into the dark foyer. It looked as if this room hadn’t been used in ages with the amount of cobwebs and dust that covered everything. That seemed wholly unlike Gale not to keep his entryway tidy for receiving guests. He was quite the gracious host she was proud to say, something she had found imperative to instill in him growing up. Of course, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d visited or offered to invite her over. Something had been amiss for quite some time, a mother’s intuition always knows, but he was a grown man. Surely he knew he could reach out to her if something were amiss no matter the issue.
She stepped through the entryway and into the hall that led to the winding staircase that led up to the main tower. The same dark and dusty site greeted her here just as it had in the entryway. A few scattered bookshelves and a small table with a gold mirror hung above it lined the hall. Cobwebs clung to everything, even a small pile of letters looked to have been undisturbed for a good long while. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought she was entering a long deserted haunted place. That couldn’t be true. Gale had sent her many a letter, sending spells, and word on the wing from Tara that all was well. He had merely been busy with a matter of utmost importance, possibly the most important task of his lifetime. Was it so important he would completely neglect his home like this?
Catching a sight of herself, looking tired and gaunt in the gold-framed mirror. She adjusted the flyaways in her hair, thick streaks of gray extending out past her temples into the twists she had arranged her long tresses into. “You’re getting grayer by the day Morena,” she muttered to herself, “If this son of mine doesn’t communicate with his Gods blessed mother I’ll be fully gray by the time I see him again.” She raised her voice hoping it would carry above, in the case he was hiding out in one of the many rooms above her. The echo of her voice was the only sound that returned to her. ‘If I ever see him again,’ she thought somberly.
Turning she made her way to the staircase and called up. “Gale? Are you up there, darling?” She hadn’t actually expected him to be home, not after his silence all these months. But she had hoped to be greeted by the soft shushing sound of Tara gliding down the stairs looking for a nice scratch and a lively conversation. Nothing answered her in the dim light that streamed in through the windows high above her in the tower. There must be some reason why her son would up and disappear from Waterdeep without so much as a few words to assure her of his whereabouts.
—
‘Mums, I’ll be down at the shore with the Yangas twins. Promise to be home before dark. Please give Tara dinner for me. Thank you.’
Morena dropped the pan she’d been washing into the water basin splashing the whole front of her apron with water. The sound of her son's voice rang through her ears as if he was standing right in front of her. She whirled around looking for the source of his voice and finding no one.
“Gale Dekarios! By the nine hells! Is this another one of those spells? You need to warn your mother before you go casting spells on me. Nearly scared me out of my skin. Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” she shouted more as a reaction than fully expecting him to hear her, wherever he was.
There was a beat of silence as she fumed and dripped at the sink then with a popping noise she hadn’t noticed before his voice filled her head once more.
‘Sorry Mums, I didn’t catch all that. You only have twenty-five words per spell, but you can respond right back. I love you. Sorry again.’
She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and shook her head. What had she done to deserve such a precocious child? She squeezed her eyes shut and carefully thought back her response counting the words on her fingers.
‘Don’t swim out past the jetty even if Trystan Yangas goads you to. I can’t believe how powerful you’ve become. I love you so much.’ Another pop followed and the spell was complete.
There was never a dull moment parenting a child who could freely cast spells grown men couldn’t manage without the help of a scroll. She was constantly teetering between being terrified and astounded by what he could do these days. She’d have to ask Elminster the next time he stopped by what level of spellwork Gale was up to these days. When she looked at him he was just a child of 10, but he spoke with the vocabulary of a man and charmed the Weave like a scholar. He was her indomitable storm, constantly blowing her away. She was glad he was at least still playing like a child, instead of hiding away in his books all day.
Her annoyance started to dissipate as she pulled the dripping apron off of her chest and wrung it over the sink. If his father could see him now, he’d be so proud, just like she was. She wiped a small tear from her eye clutching her hand to her chest. There was nothing her Gale couldn’t do, she was certain of it.
—
Quickly she trotted up the stairs along the familiar path to his study. While the layers of dust were much lighter the higher she climbed they were still frighteningly undisturbed. No one had walked these stairs in quite some time. She did see the occasional paw print, meaning Tara had at least been around, but even she had not lingered here in quite some time.
There is a specific type of fear that resides in every mother, from the first moment of life waiting for a child to utter their first cry. The fear of ‘What if?’ What if they do not breathe? What if they cannot thrive? What if they are harmed? What if they are not loved? What if they are met with great obstacles? What if I haven’t done enough for them? What if I have given them all of my flaws? What if they are somewhere beyond my reach? What if they need me? What if I fail them? The swirling what-ifs threatened to cloud Morena’s mind as she pushed open the already ajar door to Gale’s study, but she did what all mothers must and pushed past her worry at the behest of alleviating that of her child’s.
If the sight of the unused and dusty entryway had been concerning the sight of his study in wild disarray nearly sent her into hysterics. Stacks of books had been knocked over, his shelves usually lined with magical artifacts and scrolls were disturbingly empty. The door that led out to his beloved balcony stood open, swaying in the gentle breeze off of the sea.
“Oh, my sweet Gale, what’s happened to you?” she asked, trying to choke back a sob.
—
“I can’t imagine you living in that big tower all by your lonesome,” Morena fretted as she helped Gale pack his remaining trunks in his dormitory at Blackstaff, “I barely tolerated you moving into these dormitories. How am I supposed to manage this?”
“The same way you manage every obstacle you’re confronted with Mother,” Gale smiled at her snapping the locks to his trunk in place with a quick spell, “With grace and a fair amount of pestering.”
“It’s not pestering when it is your mother. I gave birth to you. It is my right to concern myself with your wellbeing,” she said matter of factly.
“You understand there is nowhere else in all of Faerun that would provide me more safety or opportunity? I am Mystra’s Chosen, and under her direct tutelage now. Anyone who would mean me harm would be in for quite a fight,” he said with a charming laugh.
“I know you think yourself to be invincible, but you are still my son and it is my responsibility to worry about you,” she replied, “You know you’re going to have to learn to cook properly for yourself. Don’t go down to the pub for a meal every night. But don’t be locking yourself away either. Get out, meet people, real people. Maybe someone nice to share that big empty tower with?”
“You can’t be serious?” he laughed, crossing over to her and gesturing excitedly, “The only thing on my mind is meeting Mystra’s expectations. I have an opportunity of a lifetime! What was it you always told me growing up?”
“You were born for greatness, my son,” she said, sitting on the edge of his bed with a shake of her head, “And I truly believe that, but you still have a mother to consider. All my concerns are for your well-being, darling.”
He smiled at her, with dark eyes that creased at the corners just like his father's. She sighed, having been resigned to living alone ever since he went to Blackstaff, but this was so much more final than she expected, and he was still so young.
“You could let me teach you a few simple spells, you know,” he offered, sitting down next to her on the bed, “Something you could use to reach out anytime you feel the need to check in. So long as I’m on the material plane you could reach me.”
“Ugh, If you’re planning on extra planar travel you absolutely must alert me before you go. Besides, Weave was never something I took to. I did manage a few bardic style spells when I was young and courting your father,” she waved her hands dismissively, “but I’m far too old to be learning anything that complex.”
“Mother, you’re not old in the slightest,” he insisted, sitting down on the bed next to her and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You’re still just as lively as you were when I was dragging frogs and mephits into the drawing room every other day.”
“But I’m old enough to know myself. You shan’t be teaching me any new tricks, spells, or otherwise, darling,” she slid her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’ll leave the works of wonder to you. I’m content to watch. Maybe boast to my book club about my son, Gale Dekarios, Chosen of Mystra.”
“Gale of Waterdeep, I think sounds more grand,” he corrected.
“What’s wrong with Dekarios?” she asked, sitting up indignantly, “Why even your father liked my surname so much he desired to take it when we married.”
“Didn’t Papa say it was because Grandad threatened to write you all out of his will if he didn’t take your name?” he asked with amusement.
“He came around to it eventually,” she said flippantly, “That doesn’t change the fact it’s a good strong name, a name we shared with you, that makes you one of us. It’ll break your mother’s heart if you cease to use it.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said with a sigh. She would make certain he did.
—
Morena hunched over the desk flipping through the many papers strewn about haphazardly. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for him to be somewhat disorganized, but the mess lying about gave the impression Gale had left in an awful hurry. She flipped through a book glancing over the words, her eyes scanning for anything that appeared familiar; Netheril, weave, fall, ruin, Karsus. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it and quickly closed the book and tossed it back on the desk.
She straightened up and looked towards the balcony, a bag set down by the door catching her eye. Hurrying over to it she lifted the bag and began to rifle through its contents. A few books, a change of clothing, some provisions that had long since spoiled, and a pair of letters wrapped in thick parchment envelopes and tied with strings. One was addressed to herself and another to Tara. She tried to pull at the string of her letter but each time she tried to tease the knot open it tightened itself back once more.
“Damned wards,” she muttered, tossing the letter back in the bag, “Couldn’t leave one thing untainted by magic for your poor mother?”
Everything pointed to Gale preparing for a journey of some kind, yet there were no signs he had actually left. It was as if he had been plucked from his balcony and whisked away. Knowing his relationship with the Goddess of magic, a sudden disappearance wasn’t necessarily outside of the realm of possibility but it was still unheard of for him to not at least warn her. If he were merely somewhere at the behest of Mystra it didn’t explain why he hadn’t reached out to at least tell her he would be gone for some time as he had done in the past.
Stepping out onto the balcony she looked out across the waves before her. The sun was just beginning to crest towards its final descent signaling the late afternoon. She sat down heavily on his beloved bench, a place she’d found him many times before lost reading some esoteric tome she couldn’t begin to understand. On more than one occasion she’d arrived to find him deep in sleep, head cocked unnaturally to the side, a book in his lap or on the ground. What she would give to see him seated here, lost to the world, just an absentminded wizard forgetting to talk to his mother for months. She would be furious but she could forgive him. She would give anything to be able to forgive him if it meant he was safe and sound somewhere in Faerun.
—
“Gale this is far too much,” she cried covering her face with her hands to hide the tears that threatened to spill over her face.
“Never, it’s not even a fraction enough to warrant the occasion of your birth,” he said. She could feel his hands on her shoulders and she peered through her hands at the gift he’d brought her.
There, placed on her dining room wall was a massive painting of their family; Morena, Gale, and his father. Yet as she stared closer at the details she could see the faint enchantment. A shifting gaze, the twitch of Gale’s father’s hand on her waist, the flex of a smile. It was as if he were still here with them, even though it had been so many years since he’d passed on. She reached a shaking hand out towards the textured surface of the paint resting it lightly on her husband’s cheek.
“Gods, it's like he never left,” she marveled, her eyes misting over.
“I didn’t create the artwork, but the enchantment is mine,” he said softly, “The painter came highly recommended, possibly the best in all of Faerun.”
“How did they manage to get his likeness so exact?” she asked, “You were a child when he passed. You couldn’t possibly have been able to describe him so perfectly?”
“A memory-sharing spell,” he explained, “I didn’t know how else to accurately describe Papa. In my mind he still looks tall as a mountain, sometimes he’s a little blurry around the edges, but it seems they managed to make the perspective more realistic.”
“Seeing you side by side like this I can see just how much you favor him,” she remarked tilting her head slightly, “Especially now that you’re grown.”
“I’m not much younger than he was when he passed,” he said solemnly clearing his throat, “Hard to believe how much we’ve accomplished since he’s been gone.”
“We? You mean you?” she asked, with a little laugh, “I’ve done nothing but watch you become one of the greatest living wizards in all the world. And it’s been a joy to do so.” She looked over her shoulder at her son. He stood taller than her now, the lines of life etched on his face, not nearly as deep as her own, but present still. She had blinked and he had gone from a babe at her breast to a man. How had the time moved so fast without her realizing it?
“Mother, I would never have been able to achieve anything if it weren’t for your unwavering support,” he exclaimed, “You had to take on the role of both father and mother in my life and I will admit wholeheartedly I was not an easy child. I’m sure it would have been much less harrowing if I hadn’t been quite so curious about every new school of magic I learned.”
She patted his cheek lovingly. “Darling, I wouldn’t trade your rambunctious curious self for anything. But I would have preferred you to summon things less capable of setting our home on fire.”
He laughed and she pulled him into a tight embrace. “I am so proud of you,” she said, feeling the emotion well inside of her again, “Papa would be too.”
“I truly hope so,” he replied, and she swore she felt a small tremor in his body as he squeezed her tighter.
—
She wiped hot tears off of her cheeks and took a steadying breath. That was enough of that. It would do Gale no good for her to sit here sobbing feeling sorry for herself. Her son was a smart enough man to prepare for nearly any worst-case scenario. That letter, she had a suspicion, would only open for her if his spirit were no longer living. She could take some solace in that, but the Gods only knew what kind of mess he was in to be prepared in such a way.
Where was Mystra? If he were in some sort of trouble why hadn’t the Goddess of magic come to his aid? He was her Chosen wasn’t he? Call it a mother’s intuition, but she’d always had an uncomfortable feeling about the Lady of Mysteries, despite the opportunity she offered her son. Morena may not have been skilled with the Weave but she knew her history. Mystra had once been mortal herself, a woman called Midnight. The Gods were not infallible, the Time of Troubles had made that abundantly clear. If only she had instilled that knowledge in her son. Still, Gale had always been gushing with happiness when he spoke of the Goddess. He was infatuated, and while as a youth it had been charming, cute even, the older he became the more it worried her. Friend’s and neighbor’s children married and had their own children carrying on the natural order of things, and Gale remained fully entangled with a Goddess.
“What have you done, Gale?” she muttered to the cloudless sky before her, “How can I help you?”
A light in her mind clicked on at that moment and she hurried back inside. Returning to the desk she shuffled through the pile of scrolls and unrolled one. A sending spell. Littered around the desk were scorched scrolls with similar writing on them, used spells it seemed. She wanted to ponder why he would have needed so many scrolls when he’d known this spell since he was a child, but she couldn’t bother with that now. Sitting down at the desk she flipped over one of the used scrolls and grabbed a quill. She dabbed the point on her tongue trying to wet the dried ink.
How many words was it again? Twenty? Thirty? No twenty-five. She scribbled down a few sentences and quickly counted through the words.
‘Gale, where are you? It’s your mother. I have not heard from you in months. I am worried. Tell me you are safe and I can rest easy, but you are not home and I cannot rest until I am assured you are safe.’
She stopped and counted. Too long. She scratched it out and tried again.
‘Where are you? It’s been months. Worried. Tell me you are safe. Your tower is empty. Come home if you can. I do not care what has happened.’
So close. She scratched out a few words and then the whole passage opting to start over again.
‘Where are you? Found Sending Scroll. Worried for you. Tower empty. Tara gone. I love you no matter what. Please be safe. Please come home.’
That would be the best she could do, she thought and unrolled the scroll. But therein lay the difficult part. She’d never cast a spell, even from a scroll before. There were words and gestures upon it that may have made sense to a studied weaver of magic, but a doddering old widow like herself could hardly make sense of it. Surely it was just a matter of following the steps and then thinking of the phrase she wished to send him? She hoped that was all there was to it.
Her hands formed the gestures awkwardly and she stuttered through the incantation. There was a flash of light and the smell of rosewater, something Gale had told her long ago was a sign of the Weave. Quickly she thought through the words she had scribbled down trying her best to steady the voice in her mind and not sound as hysterical as she felt. As soon as she reached the final word there was a popping sound and the smell of Weave was gone.
It was done. The spell was out of her control now. She looked down and noticed that her hands were shaking, ink had smudged all over her fingers and palms in her haste to write out the correct number of words. Looking around she realized how empty the room felt without the light of her son's presence, without his things, his essence. If she closed her eyes she could see him, a small child clinging to her skirts, tears staining his cheeks as he choked out sobs. Then suddenly he was older, nuzzling a winged cat that hadn’t been there when she and his father went to bed the night before. And in another moment he was a stubborn young man, chin covered in sparse hairs trying desperately to fill the role of a man that he was not quite ready for. Then finally he was a man, powerful, confident, gregarious, everything she had hoped for, but he was alone and that fact had broken her heart.
—
“Another letter?” Morena said with a sigh as Tara landed on her kitchen windowsill while the early morning light streamed in.
“You know Gale,” Tara replied, dropping the letter from her teeth on the counter and sitting back on her haunches, “It’s hard to pull him away from a task when he’s fully invested. But he sends his regards nonetheless.”
“Will you at least stay for a cuppa? I just picked up some salted fish from the market if you’re so inclined?” she offered.
“I would love to Morena,” Tara replied graciously, settling down and tucking her feet under her body in the patch of sunshine.
Morena puttered about setting the kettle on, unwrapping the small fish from their paper packaging, and placing it on a dish for her friend. They shared the latest local gossip, chatted about the lovely spring weather, and eventually settled on the comfortable silence of longtime friends. She finally settled herself on the end of the counter with her mug of hot tea and a plate of biscuits while Tara delicately nibbled into the filets.
“Tara, dear, you would tell me if something were wrong with Gale, right?” she asked cautiously, “I know you both share a bond I could never come between, nor would I want to. But I trust that you wouldn’t keep me in the dark, yes?”
Tara hesitated looking up at Morena through her whiskers. She sat up and flexed her wings in a somewhat anxious movement, enough to make Morena certain there was more to Gale’s absence in her life than just the busy life of a Goddess’ Chosen.
“Gale is well, Morena,” she assured her, “There are complications with some research your son has been absorbed in as of late.”
“He’s never been this absorbed, Tara,” she implored, “I can’t help but worry when I haven’t been able to lay eyes on him in over a year! If he’s been somehow changed or maimed by that Goddess I will take myself all the way up to Elysium myself-”
“While I know nothing is more terrifying than a Mother’s wrath you needn’t worry yourself about Mystra. She’s…” Tara seemed to catch herself and shook her head continuing on, “maybe that is something better left said by Gale himself. But the Goddess should be no concern of yours any longer.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” she muttered, stuffing another biscuit in her mouth and staring out into the sunlit garden.
“He doesn’t wish to worry you,” the Tressym said, placing a paw on her friend’s arm, “He knows you have so much pride in the things he has accomplished. It is difficult for him to admit any kind of hardship, you’re aware of that. He feels a responsibility to care for you after all these years just the two of you.”
“Then it’s my fault for making him feel like I would be disappointed more than I would be concerned for his well-being,” she sighed, “Could you implore him when you see him? Speak my case for me?”
“I’ve been doing so for a while now, he’s as stubborn as he is brilliant,” she replied.
“I am well aware,” she chuckled sadly looking back at Tara and giving her a reassuring smile, “I’m afraid he received that trait from me. His father would bend like a reed in a storm.”
“I think his father merely bent so often because he cared so much for you both,” Tara said with a soft tilt of her head, “He would have placed this home on his back and walked to the far side of Cormyr if you had asked it.”
Morena scratched Tara’s chin softly as the Tressym closed her eyes and purred. “He was a good man,” she said sadly, “And Gale’s so much like him. Sometimes so much that it worries me.”
“He has the best parts of each of you,” Tara assured her, “I’ll do my best to implore him to be more forthcoming Morena but I must get back. He’s always so concerned with how you’re doing, I’d hate to keep him waiting much longer.”
“Thank you dear,” she said watching as Tara crossed to the sill and flapped her wings in preparation to take off, “Be sure you tell him I love him so.”
“Of course, ma’am,” she answered and took flight soaring into the sky and over the sea ward leaving Morena alone with another letter to add to her collection.
—
She opened her eyes and wiped the tears that spilled over her cheeks once more. This was her fault. She’d long suspected his devotion to Mystra was much more than that of a Chosen and his Goddess. He had his father's heart, that much was clear, and when a man of their ilk gave their heart over to someone it was given over entirely. Had his devotion led him somewhere dangerous? Had Mystra taken advantage of his willingness to sacrifice all for her? She had been so content with the memory of love that she never had shown him its practice. If he could have only seen a good loving marriage longer than the few short years they’d had with his father. Then he could have understood the importance of companionship, mortal companionship.
The longer her sending spell went unanswered the more she convinced herself she had done something wrong, squandered it in some way. Rising to her feet she took one last look around the room. It was time to leave, time to take her heavy heart full of worries home. She could continue to blame herself in the comfort of her own study with a hot cup of tea, maybe with a heavy pour of whisky to top it off. There were still a few hours of daylight left where she could reread the well-worn letters she had left from him and feel the comfort of his memories. This cold empty place held nothing more for her.
Suddenly, there was that familiar popping noise. Her heart raced as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on the words that entered her mind.
‘Good to hear your voice, Mums. I’m safe. Be in Baldur’s Gate soon. Will write then. Not alone anymore. Found friends. I love you too.’
A great choking sob escaped her mouth and she fell to the floor clutching her chest. He was alive. Her greatest fear and worry, that her boy was dead or completely beyond her reach, had been assuaged. The wave of emotions that rolled over her nearly made her swoon. She wished then and there that she’d had any ability with the Weave and that she could cast the spell over and over again just to hear his voice in her mind, to find comfort in his tones. And Gods, did he sound content, or happy, even?
Of all the horrible places for him to travel to, Baldur’s Gate seemed less frightening than she had expected. Now she would just have to wait anxiously for him to write to her. She wasn’t sure which was more awful, not knowing he was well or not knowing when she would receive his letter. But at least she knew something. Knowing was a powerful magic and that would be enough to bring her through whatever came next. She could trust that whatever mess her son had gotten involved in, if he had made it this far and with companions as well, then she could rest easier now in the waiting.
However, she could stop by the market on her way home and procure a few more sending scrolls. A mother needed to be prepared, and if Gale needed a gentle reminder or two it wouldn’t hurt to have them on hand. She bustled down the stairs towards the door stopping once more by the mirror in the hall catching a glance at herself. There was a flush in her cheeks where they had once been sallow and tired. Hope was a powerful thing. But she would be sure her son knew the toll the worry he had put her through took on his poor mother. He knew she wasn’t getting any younger, her poor heart couldn’t take much more of this. Maybe that could wait until she saw his face again, by then she may forget all about the fear and the worry. Instead, she would only feel the relief of being able to hold her boy tight and keep him safe once more. That was all a mother wanted after all.