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What am I doing? Miri asked herself. Again. As usual. As always, if she was honest. She'd been saying so often that it was a miracle the words had any meaning left, like spelling the same word so many times in a row that it looked wrong even when it was right.
Void, maybe it had lost meaning, seeing as how she never tried to answer the question. Never beyond the most immediate and obvious, at least.
What am I doing? Going to a party. Obviously.
Did she want to? No.
Was it a good idea? Also no.
Did she really have a choice? Technically, yes, but again… no.
She stared up at the tower. Unlike most other traditional magisterial residences that clustered in the center of town, as close to the Archon’s palace as gravity would allow, Mavros Virgam loomed high in the northern corner of Minrathous. It was old, built in the Black Age to rival the Grand Cathedral in Orlais. Its use as a Chantry ended after less than fifty years, and it became the Archon's seat of power until the Exalted Age. After the construction of the floating palace, various magisters used it, but the stone, mined from deep underground, was marbled with just enough lyrium to make modifications impossible. One by one, they all built their own villas and mansions and towers to their own preferences, leaving responsibility for the tower to the auspices of the Publicanium.
The Publicanium, hardly more than glorified clerks even four hundred years ago, used it for storage of records and artifacts ranging from genealogy maps for all the major houses, to Hessarian’s original Blade of Mercy, to taxes and financial documents for the entire Imperial Senate, to the Litany of Adralla. And for more than an Age, the arrangement worked. The Magisterium could get to the business of running the country, while the Publicanium became the custodians of everything but actual power and influence. That is, until the Chamberlain Publicarius attempted to take over the Magisterium using several of the relics under her care.
Before her remains were even scrubbed off the steps of the Imperial Senate, the Magisterium unanimously passed a new law ordering the immediate construction of the Arcanist’s Hall and removal of every artifact from the tower. But ‘immediate’ still moved at the speed of bureaucracy, and only two thirds of the tower’s contents had been emptied before 7:48, when the doors sealed themselves shut. Golden script flowed across them, declaring that “Mavros Virgam is the property of the new Magister Arunsun." All attempts to storm it were rebuffed with extreme prejudice, and ten different heirs assumed their families' seats before Archon Nomaran ratified the appointment. Another chair was added to the Imperial Senate, and never occupied.
His absence only made his mystique grow. In two hundred years, no one met anyone even claiming to be him, only his strange emissaries. They never looked alike, and most didn't even look entirely human, but they bore the emblem of a black tower when they attended Senate meetings in his stead, standing behind his seat as if attending an invisible master.
It would have become just another quirk of Minrathous politics if not for the symposiums. Every seventeen years, on the anniversary date of Magister Arunsun's confirmation, the gates would open at sundown and close at dawn. Anyone with an invitation could enter freely. Anyone without one who tried appeared the next morning in Dumat Plaza with no memory of the last twelve hours.
How those invitations arrived was another mystery. Each one appeared on the beds of their recipients, tucked into the edges of wrapped parcels filled with ornate masks and attire. They were issued with no apparent rhyme or reason to all strata of society: magisters, clerics, merchants, templars, dwarves, elves, qunari, and, in 8:84, all slaves. In fact, the only two who were never invited, or at least never attended, were the Archon and the Imperial Divine.
Most guests returned with tales of fantastic contraptions and incredible devices, both magical and mechanical, but a few were never seen or heard from again. Rumors abounded that Magister Arunsun was evaluating and eliminating rivals, that he was collecting descendants of the ancient dreamers for a new ritual to enter the Fade, or simply that those wondrous artifacts reportedly on display could be accidentally detonated. Miri's classmates always giggled and suggested that he was collecting brides for his harem.
Whatever the real reasons for the symposiums or the disappearances, they never stopped anyone from clamoring to get in. What was a little danger to a Minrathous citizen compared against the chance to rub elbows with the elite and see forbidden marvels? In 8:50, in fact, several merchants purchased invitations from the Liberati, only to be found with the rest of the unwelcome and befuddled riffraff in Dumat Plaza the next day.
Attempts to break into it any other time were rebuffed so messily that the Imperial Templars guarded it night and day, and new laws were enacted that included exorbitant fines for anyone who so much as stepped a foot past the iron gates. That, of course, had spawned more rumors. Magister Arunsun was actually the Archon, using a shadow seat to sway votes in the Magisterium. Magister Arunsun was actually the Imperial Divine, trying to do the same thing. Magister Arunsun was a pride demon. Magister Arunsun was one of the elves of old, come to exact vengeance for the theft of his people’s relics. Magister Arunsun was actually dead, and the tower was run by ancient spirits bound to it in perpetual servitude. Magister Arunsun actually never was, and it had all been a plot by the Blades of Hessarian.
The end result, of course, was no one fucked with Mavros Virgam but the very desperate and the very stupid. Miri chose not to wonder which one she was. Probably both.
She’d been desperate when she’d killed Jax, and stupid when she’d run to Yvet’s instead of straight out of the city before the alarm could be raised. And Yvet, for all their resources, couldn’t keep her hidden in the cellar forever. How or why they knew the Shadow Dragons, Miri never asked. All that had mattered was to get as far away as she could from Tevinter and magisters with grudges. As a rule, Miri didn’t look any kind of horse in the mouth, much less a gift one, so she’d just nodded and smiled her way through the introductions that would get her to Rivain.
For a price, of course. Always a price. No one, not even freedom fighters, did anything in Tevinter for free, and the price of safe passage to Seere was access to Mavros Virgam. The network of spies within the Shadow Dragons already knew House Taveric had been invited, so all she’d had to do was show up at her own doorstep and try not to get swept up in her mother’s schemes while enacting a few of her own.
Am I really doing this? It was a stupid question. Of course she was. The only way out was through. If she came back empty handed, she’d be stuck in Minrathous the rest of her life, or worse, married off to an Antivan, as her mother had threatened that very afternoon.
What she was supposed to actually do when she got there, however, was another question entirely, and not one that Tarquin had given her any sort of satisfactory answer.
So what am I looking for when I’m there? Another way in? One that doesn’t turn people inside out? A weapon? Records? she’d asked him that morning.
He’d shrugged noncommittally. Viper says there’s something there. You know the stories well as I do: hundreds of years of history and relics left behind when the doors shut. Weapons and magic as powerful as the palace, ancient formulae, all the usual drivel. Me, I’m a realist; whatever’s in there probably isn’t coming out, but just because it’s not leaving doesn’t mean it can’t be gone, right? Break it or steal it. We hear you’re good at that.
As those thoroughly useless instructions burned in her ears, Miri waited to enter one of the most secure buildings in all of Thedas. She'd ‘accidentally’ gotten separated from her mother, thank the Maker, and was surrounded by strangers in identical garb as they moved inside.
She clutched at her invitation and wondered how much of the stories of the tower were actually true. It all sounded like kaffas of the highest caliber to her: a magister no one had ever seen? A tower the entire might of the Imperial Senate hadn't been able to breach? The two most powerful men in Tevinter repeatedly snubbed? The memory loss of unwanted guests could easily be explained by blood magic, and guests vanished from Tevinter parties all the time.
And yet…
She glanced down at the engraved card again.
The favor of your presence would be welcome in Mavros Virgam Tower. Safety is not guaranteed.
It wasn't paper, but the thinnest sheet of obsidian she'd ever seen, and completely smooth save for a tiny thorn-line protrusion on the opposite side. Miri had been puzzled by that little imperfection since her mother had handed her the card three hours ago, but as she neared the doors, golden script shimmered into existence around it.
Place your mark in the square to accept.
Ah. Blood magic, of course. Was it simply to allow entry or some kind of contract? It seemed reckless to trade blood for a chance to gain entry inside one of the most enigmatic places in Minrathous, but, like everyone else around her, she followed the instructions, and pressed her thumb to the barb. It pierced her skin more neatly than any pin, and the invitation absorbed her blood as readily as paper.
Curiously, there were no guards or attendants at the doors, but the moment she crossed the threshold, she understood why. Invisible energies washed over and through her that made her knuckles itch as the invitation crumbled to sand in her fingers. So much for a memento. Or a re-entry.
The stone hummed under her feet as she followed the line from the entranceway to the great hall that, by modern Tevinter standards, wasn’t very great at all. Its soaring height was impressive, but a vaulted ceiling tall enough for a high dragon didn’t provide any extra floor space for the crowd. People crowded in tight uncomfortable clusters around the glass pillars that dotted the hall, each displaying something someone had decided was impressive. Miri’s shoulders and toes were already sore from trying to sneak peeks before she’d made it even a third of the way across the room, and she had to admit that whoever picked out the relics had a proper eye for the dramatic: one case held a book with two purple gemstones for eyes, and a third one filling a mouth locked in an eternal scream, and another held a collection of half-moon shaped crystals that constantly rearranged themselves in different shapes and symbols.
Other than the marvels behind warded glass, however, the symposium felt dull as dishwater. There were no performances, either of a martial or carnal nature, and, to all appearances, there was no host. Beyond the tomes and relics themselves, the only things that interested Miri were the spectral hands floated through the crowd carrying trays of drinks and finger foods. Twin staircases ran up the sides to a well-populated upper balcony, no doubt full of people who considered themselves too important to stoop to anything so banal as mingling.
Her mother would be up there, of course. Holding her own little court, and alternating between offering double-edged favors and making cordial threats. Miri hated watching it, and hated even more that she didn't quite admire it, but envied it. Magister Taveric was never anything but ruthlessly perfect, and perfectly ruthless, but Miriam Taveric was never more than passably adequate on her best days. Next to Ameera Taveric, she felt washed out, like half a person, as if some part of her was stuck or lost somewhere else. Or maybe she always felt like that, and proximity to her mother only made it more obvious.
All the more reason to get as far from her as possible, and on her own terms, not shipped off to make Crow babies. Even if she was better with magic, there was no chance of taking anything out of the great hall unseen, and there was no chance the best items were on display, only the flashiest. She pushed through the crowd, looking for an entrance to the rest of the tower and thanking the Maker that this was a masked party. No one could ever know for certain who put an elbow in some stuffy old lech’s drink, and she had all the plausible deniability in the world to fail to recognize them.
There were no doors anywhere. Not even up on the balcony, but there had to be more to the tower. Living quarters, plus storage for other artifacts and tomes that must exist. Stealing in front of witnesses was a one way trip to Dumat plaza with her wits addled if she was lucky, and a one way trip to the Maker’s side if she wasn’t. And she needed to find a way in, or at least privacy to really begin looking.
She tapped at the nearest hand as it floated past her. "Um, help?"
It stopped and turned to face her, though how she could tell it was facing her was anyone's guess.
She bobbed a tiny curtsy. "Where are the…" she trailed off in what she hoped looked like embarrassment. "I'm having some, er, lady troubles."
The tray vanished from its fingers as it lowered itself to grasp her wrist and tug gently. She followed where it led, weaving her through the guests seamlessly, until they reached a blank wall. It let go of her, then glowed gold and pressed a series of bricks too fast for her to follow. A dark purple archway shimmered into existence, then it pointed.
"Um, thank you."
It zipped off, tray rematerializing on its palm as it darted back into the crowd.
Here we go. She stepped through. A long hall was beyond it, lined with doors. She opened the first one. Each was a tiny indoor privy, with a ceramic chamberpot connected to pipes in the floor and a washbasin with a small spigot above it. More pipes jutted out from the bottom and disappeared into the wall. It had to be real plumbing, but when in all the ages had anyone been able to install it?
She went down the row, checking each one, but they were all the same, except for the one in the middle, which housed a broom, two mops, and a box full of pigeon feathers. When she reached the end of the hall, she prodded the bricks in irritation.
"Come on," she hissed. "There's got to be more to you than this."
One of them shifted. She tapped the one next to it. Nothing. Then the one below it. Also nothing. The one above it, however, wiggled slightly. Almost playfully. She tapped it again, but this time, pulled on the Fade, not to cast a spell, but to see. In her vision, the wall lit up in bright blue, marred only by pockets of black stone that formed an intersecting M and V. Mavros Virgam.
Was it really that simple? That arrogant? This fool probably has a combination lock set to ‘1, 2, 3, 4’ too.
Miri swiped her hand across each real brick in the illusion. They wiggled and danced under her touch, but the wall stayed firm. Alright, not that simple.
She chewed at her lip, worrying at a bit of dried skin with her teeth until it peeled so far that she could taste blood. As she wiped it off, a terrible idea came to her. Well, not so terrible. Everyone on Tevinter knew not to leave their blood just laying around, but Magister Arunsun already had at least a drop of it through the invitation. What harm would a little more do?
She tried the pattern again, but this time with the blood from her split lip smeared on her fingers. A faint sigh that sounded like relief echoed around her, then the wall vanished, revealing a wooden staircase barely wider than a man. Miri glanced over her shoulder one final time, then crept inside. Her choices were up or down, and both seemed equally likely locations for a treasure trove of forbidden weapons and knowledge, though for different reasons. That said, it was much faster to run down a flight of stairs than up, and if she tripped an alarm, she'd need all the advantage she could get.
Venhedis, what am I doing? Trying to burglarize one of the strangest buildings in Minrathous. The brightness of the enchantments at her back made it impossible to see anything else in the dim light of the stairs, so she let go of the Fade and started climbing.
And climbing.
And climbing.
Stupid mages and their stupid prick-waving. That was at the heart of it, wasn't it? All phallic symbols and smug looks. My tower's bigger than yours. Mine shoots fire. Really? Have you consulted with a healer about that?
It was a surprise when she reached the top. In one moment, she was raising one foot after the other, hanging on to the railing for dear life as her calves burned, and then the next moment, she was stepping clumsily onto an unadorned landing with only a single flickering bulb that hardly illuminated a closed door.
Miri tried the handle. It turned. She let go immediately, expecting a spell or a trap to go off. Nothing happened. Was it really just a door?
Only one way to find out. She turned the handle again, straining to listen for a click or a clack, or to feel any kind of magic building up, ready to throw herself toward the stairs at the slightest change in pressure or noise. The tension had her guts in knots, and she had to stifle a giggle at the thought that she should've used the privies downstairs before breaking and entering.
The door swung open and she jumped back, waiting. Nothing happened. There was no explosion or hiss of poisoned gas. No clatter of guards racing up the stairs to catch her in the act. What the fuck kind of magister lives here? Their house in Vyrantium was rigged with so many wards and glyphs that even a midnight snack had nearly become a life or death ordeal for her more than once.
She flattened herself against the wall, then risked a quick peak. At first glance, the room was anticlimactically ordinary. In fact, it looked like her father's study, if her father's study was large enough to hold the four-poster bed in one corner. On the opposite wall, an overstuffed armchair with claw marks sat near a hefty-looking and elaborately carved wooden desk.
The more she looked, however, the less normal the room became. The only apparent source of light was a glass sphere on top of the desk, but the air itself shimmered and glowed. The bookshelves that lined one wall weren't just mismatched, but crooked, with some shelves at impossible angles, though the books sat on them as straight as ever. An enormous throw rug covered the floor, but the fibers looked nearly as tall as her hand and waved like grass in a breeze.
"You're letting a draft in, young lady."
Miri spun around, looking for the speaker. It was a woman's voice, with a crisp no-nonsense tone that reminded her uncomfortably of her Nonna.
"Oh ye gods and little fishes, if you must gawk, come inside and close the door!" the voice demanded impatiently. "Would you make some tea? Mine's gone cold."
There is a certain kind of order that's impossible to disobey. The kind of order that masquerades as a polite request, or simple expectation. This was one of those. Two of them, really.
"Sorry." Miri was halfway across the room and looking for the kettle before she realized she'd even walked in. The door clicked shut behind her, much louder than when she'd opened it. Her pulse roared in her ears as she froze. Kaffas. Was this the trap then? Was this where all those guests disappeared to? Tricked by the ghosts of grandmothers past? Miri summoned lightning to her fingers as she darted to the wall and fell into a defensive crouch, ready to at least go down swinging. She might be about to die, but she wouldn't make it easy.
"Hurry up, girl. In the tin by the bed."
No attack came. She straightened up and took a few deep breaths to slow her heart. It probably was still a trap, just not an obvious one. Better keep playing along. The faint buzzing in her hands faded away as she let go of the magic and headed toward the little table. Just as the voice said there would be, she found a small box stuffed with an earthy-smelling tea. A simple kettle sat next to it, covered in the usual warming runes and already filled with water. They were the staples of any household in Minrathous, and it took only a few taps to activate.
"Excellent. The teapot is in the cabinet, and some cookies, I believe. Help yourself," the voice continued.
Miri opened the glass-fronted cabinet above the table and pulled out a teapot painted with constellations she didn't recognize. A quick squint down the spout showed it had a mesh strainer built-in, so, with a prayer to the Maker, she dumped in what looked like the right amount of tea, closed the lid, and looked around again.
No monsters lurked in the corners and no cackling men appeared with knives or staves. From this new angle, however, she could see she wasn't alone. A large tabby cat sat in the armchair, its eyes glinting in the strange light. It yawned, then jumped down and sauntered across the room.
She ignored it and turned back to the kettle.
"Let's have a look at you, hm?"
She glanced over her shoulder again. The cat was in the bed now. Staring at her. It was a strange-looking creature, with a lumpy and misshapen back and sides and far too many whiskers. Some sort of hybridization experiment gone wrong, she assumed.
"Where are your manners, child? I asked you a question,” it complained.
She blinked, not quite surprised so much as surprised she hadn’t expected it. It had to be a demon. No wonder it didn't look like a regular cat. That said, it wasn't attacking her. Was it bound here? Would freeing it earn her some kind of reward? Perhaps something the Shadow Dragons could use? Was it the weapon they needed? Better to make nice for now than show her hand. Make nice and play dumb. "I'm sorry, are you a talking cat?"
The demon rolled its eyes at her question and patted the blanket. "Come here, girl; I don't have all evening. Alliances are forming and breaking every minute, and the vote on dracolisk breeding regulations is tomorrow, but heavens forbid that put a damper on high society. 'It's every seventeen years,' he complained. 'We can't put it off.' Bah, dracolisks have been overbred and inbred for four hundred years." It - she? - huffed as sigh and flopped down, ears flat. "I made it work, of course, but now he's sending his selections up early? Unconscionable gall."
"Sorry," she said again, then, because she'd been on the wrong end of so many tongue-lashings from so many disappointed teachers and relatives, she added, "I must've misunderstood." Whoever this he was, he didn't deserve any more grief than her theft would already create.
"Unlikely," the demon scoffed. "He's very precise, especially in his mistakes. The question now, of course, is how much of a mistake are you?" Her eyes roved over Miri speculatively. "You're strong, I'll give you that. And not sobbing in terror. We don't need more milksops." She reared up and batted the mask off her face. "Oh, good."
Miri was flying far too blind for the multi-dimensional chess game this conversation was turning into. "What's good?"
Her muzzle wrinkled with amusement as she squinted one eye in an approximation of a wink. "If you must know, I was beginning to worry he’d forgotten why we came."
The kettle chimed like a little songbird, and Miri picked it up to fill the teapost. Then the rest of the demon's words caught up in her mind. Vote?
Was this some sort of possession gone horribly wrong or horribly right? There were stories of mages who extended their life span well beyond mortal time frames. The Witch of the Wilds and her theft of her daughters' bodies was the most famous example, of course, but everyone in northern Thedas knew someone whose cousin's great aunt swore they'd met one of the liches of the Mourn Watch, or seen a Warden who was more ghoul than man. "Magister Arunsun?" she asked tentatively.
The demon tittered in disbelief. "Me? Shades and shards, no. I simply manage him. This one, at least. They've all been hopeless. Heads in the clouds or in their studies. Idealists." Her tail swished back and forth in irritation. "Terrible at politics. I take my tea with cream."
"I don't see -"
"Gracious, the ice box is right there!" The demon flared out a wing and pointed at the drawer at the bottom of the table. "By Myst - the Maker, what are they teaching you in these Thedosian schools?"
A wing. A wing.
She wasn't an abomination. She was a cat with wings. And she knew the magister. Didn't much like him either. I can make this work. Miri fished out a small bottle of cream. "Mostly how to spell 'sigil' correctly."
The demon rolled her eyes. "Buffoonery. Men play-acting at expertise simply because they read it in a book."
Miri peaked into the teapot. It looked steeped enough, so she poured some into a teacup she'd pulled out of the cabinet, then added some cream and held it out to the demon. "Is this enough?"
She sniffed at it delicately, then nodded. "Perfect. Be a dear and take it to the desk?" Without waiting for an answer, she jumped into the air and glided over to perch next to the glowing sphere. "Now, let's people watch and you tell me why you think you're here."
"Tara, someone broke in!!" a man shouted from somewhere on the stairs. The sound was too distorted, and his yell was too panicked for her to tell much about his voice, but the accent was odd, like he'd learned Trade from a book. "We have to check the vault!"
Kaffas. That was definitely her cue to leave, but there was no graceful exit, no excuse that didn’t make her look as guilty as she was. She started to get up anyway, and stammered out, “I think I–”
“Obidai nabora cesma(1),” Tara interrupted.
Before she could bolt, before she could charge a spell, before she could even take a breath, thick black vines shot out of that grassy carpet and wrapped around her wrists and ankles, tugging her to the ground. More vines coiled around her throat and chest, trapping her in place, and a final one snaked up into her hair then covered her mouth. Miri considered trying to bite it, but then what? The smell of them was already foul, a cloying sweet bitterness like overly sugared wine that had gone bad, and she didn’t relish how much worse it would taste.
"Evard(2) did amazing work," Tara announced, as if she was addressing a lecture hall. "Possibly too focused on a single theme, but we all have our hobbies.” The demon wiped her nose with a paw daintily. "This is what I mean, girl. No head for politics or subterfuge. He'd be lost without me." She turned to face the door and raised her voice. “Your little sneakthief has been keeping me company!"
She heard the patter of frantic footsteps up the stairs, then a man stopped at the doorway, clad in the same fine garb as all the other party goers. He blinked rapidly beneath it, then tore it off to wipe at his eyes before saying something in a language she didn't recognize. A wave of magic like nothing she'd ever felt surged through the room, plunging it into darkness for a moment, and she felt the grass beneath her shrivel to nothing as the tentacles puffed into ash.
When light returned, he was crouched next to her, offering a trembling hand. His chestnut hair was streaked with grey, and loose strands framed a tired face. Warm brown eyes a few shades darker than his beard searched hers as he whispered, “Miri? Miriam Adelaida Taveric?"
No one had ever said her name reverently before. Her name on his lips called to something deep inside her, something that tightened her throat and tickled her chest. She shook her head to try to clear the strange elation sizzling in her bones. It’s a trick. But to what end? She was already here, wasn’t she? Walked in willingly, no less.
He frowned. “You’re not? But I –”
"How the fuck do you know my name?" Miri demanded. She started to push herself up, but the remnants of the tentacles were somehow greasy and sandy all at once, and she nearly slipped before grabbing his hand in hasty desperation to avoid touching it further.
He pulled her close as she regained her balance, and, just like when he’d said her name, something about it felt right, like the first sip of a favorite tea. Was it blood magic? No, I wouldn’t question it if it was. But what else could it be? She let his arm circle her waist, and told herself it was just because she fought better up close. Not because he was warm and smelled like lavender.
"It's you, it's really you." He didn't seem to hear her question. His eyes were bright with tears, as if this was the most important moment of his life. "We did it, we finally did it."
Tara sat back to scratch at her ear. "It’s a good thing Vajra's fond of you. Mordenkainen's Disjunction? Just to check for illusions? Really? Only a dozen of Evardian carpets were ever made, and you just destroyed one."
"We'll make her something better," he said absently as he tugged Miri’s fingers to his lips. "There's nothing we can't do together."
That was too much, a shade too close to wholesome to ever be for her: Miri the mess, Miri the misfit, Miri the malcontent. She reeled back like she’d been slapped, then raised her hands to resummon magic to her knuckles. "Wait a – just a fucking minute!" she snarled. "Why are you – who the void are you?"
The man grimaced. "I'm getting ahead of myself again. Terrible habit. Plan for the day you expect, not the day you want, and never, under any circumstances, try to perform ocular self-surgery, particularly with a knitting needle." He took a regretful step back and offered her an awkward bow. “Gale. I'm Gale Dekarios. I'm Gale, and you're Miriam, and you’re - you’re really you. All of you, down to the pattern of the freckles on your cheeks.”
Maker, she hated those freckles, hated how they’d always marked her as not really Tevene or Rivaini, the same way her hair marked her as not really Antivan. She’d never belonged anywhere. On reflex, she covered her nose, then yelped as the energy still sparking in her hand touched her skin. Gale started toward her, but when she shot him a furious glare, he froze and held out his hands placatingly when she shot him a furious glare.
“How the fuck do you know my name?” she asked again.
"I've been searching for you,” he said. “I obtained a Wish, Miri – a real one. After Hadar – you –" He reached for her again, then let his hand drop as he glanced away. "You were unmade," he said quietly. "Hadar consumed every last drop of your essence except my memories. Everyone forgot you, even your parents. I went to them after, to try to find a lock of hair or something, anything, to anchor your soul to, but they said they'd only ever had one daughter. So I went for the Crown – you remember the Crown, right?” He shook his head. “No, of course you don't - blast, this is more difficult than I…” he trailed off and wiped at his eyes again. “Forgive me, I’m – you're really here. All the signs and portents told me you would be and I had so much prepared, lists and lists of things to tell you, but I – standing in front of you again has rendered me quite speechless.”
This is speechless? She paused. A crown? Maybe that was what she needed. She took another deep breath. “And you've been looking for me to give to me this crown?” she asked slowly, knowing it was impossible she’d ever be that lucky, but still had to hope it might be that easy.
"Not a crown, the crown. The Crown of Karsus. We used it to – nevermind. I reforged it, better and stronger than Karsus himself, if I do say so myself, and gave it to Mystra for a Wish. And that Wish was you. Hale and whole and alive again." Gale rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "There's always a catch, of course, but I was – Miri, you died for me. I was – I am – ready to do anything to bring you back home. To Baldur's Gate or Waterdeep or anywhere else. I had everything planned, every detail of phrasing mapped out, but apparently there are more ways to displace a beast and – you're not the beast in that analogy, or any other! Tara dislikes that 'ways to skin a cat' phrase so much and I've been trying to come up with something a little less gruesome and –"
Miri covered his mouth. It was a bizarrely familiar gesture. "What was the catch?"
He kissed her fingers as she pulled them away, then sighed. "Infinite planes of existence. You were alive, but someone else. Somewhere else. Not in Faerun, I knew for certain." Gale turned to head for one of the diagonal bookshelves. It swung away from the wall, revealing an enormous mirror tucked into an alcove. No, not a mirror. The reflection didn't show the same room. It didn't show a room at all, but a lush riverbank. Sunlight danced on the water, and plants moved in an unseen breeze. “What do you know of the Crossroads?”
Memories of dusty dry lectures from years past flared to life in her mind. “That's an Eluvian,” Miri breathed, and a thrill tingled up her spine when he smiled, like seeing him happy mattered more than all the gold in the Chantry.
“Exactly! It can take us anywhere, Miri.”
Us. So much of what he'd babbled sounded like utter nonsense, but that ‘us’ had a feeling of belonging to it that she couldn't fathom. And not understanding what was going on had never stopped her before. Getting away was the dream, the goal she'd been pursuing ever since Jax had died at her feet. This was simply… a much further away than she’d thought possible.
When she didn’t answer, he added, “I've been looking for you for… a long time." He touched the surface of the Eluvian. Pale blue energy spread out from his hand, and when it reached the frame, the image inside it rippled like a pond. His arm sank through it as Tara trotted past his feet to climb on a rock on the other side. They both turned expectant eyes her way as Gale held out his other palm. "Let's go home."
Wherever this portal led, it wouldn't be home. But, as she looked into those earnest brown eyes, she wondered why that would matter. Maybe, just maybe, if she started searching all those infinite realms he spoke of, she might find one.
What was the harm in trying?
She touched her fingers to his, and took the first step into a new world.
What am I doing? Whatever I want.