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“Explain it to me,” Jaheira snaps. “How have we spent three weeks in this great pit of shadows and have nothing to show for it but a mountain of unanswered questions taller than the one we began with?”
The cave is cold and dark, lit only by the bioluminescent glow of the enormous mushrooms and strips of lichen lining the walls. Branthos and Lassandra sit side by side on the rocky floor, their faces shrouded in shadow; they glance at each other and shift uneasily under Jaheira’s expression of disapproval. After a strained silence, Branthos opens his mouth to answer, but Jaheira waves him off before he can begin to form the words.
“No, no, never mind,” she says wearily. “I know it is not your fault. You can no more draw information from minds that have none than you can draw water from a stone. I am just… tired. And this stlarning place--”
She sits down abruptly on a wide, flat mushroom jutting out from the cavern wall and, lifting one foot, examines the underside of her boot. A pebble about the size of her thumb is lodged there, poking angrily through the leather into her heel. She sighs, twisting the boot so that the stone pops free into her palm. "Bah,” she mutters. “It is wilderness of a sort, but nevertheless I shall not be sorry to finally put the Underdark behind us."
Lassandra snorts softly. “Think that goes for all of us, ma’am,” she says wryly, shooting a glance at Branthos. He doesn’t answer, but his weary nod speaks for itself.
Jaheira is silent for a moment, squeezing the pebble tightly into her fist so that it digs into the skin of her palm. Then she straightens up abruptly, drawing a heavy breath. “Right,” she says. “Enough self-pity. Let us go over it again. Tell me everything you have gathered, from the beginning.”
“Troop movements, ma’am.” Lassandra too straightens up, suddenly all business, as Jaheira’s eyes flick towards her. “This cult is no bunch of rabble-rousers. They’re organized, and they have an army. At every settlement we’ve visited, they’ve reported visits by Absolutist units of platoon size or larger passing through within the last month. Almost all of them mentioned Moonrise Towers as their ultimate destination. The others were heading the opposite direction towards Baldur’s Gate.”
“And they’re actively growing their numbers,” Branthos puts in. “Every place they visit, people leave with them. People who were reportedly happy in their lives until the moment the cult arrived, but all leaving of their own free will with a new and ardent faith.” His forehead creases as his eyebrows knit together. “Not much commonality between those who choose to leave, either. Rich and poor, old and young, partnered or single, alone or with family… Ties of loyalty and blood don’t seem to mean much once the Absolutists get their claws in.”
“There’s no question about it, ma’am,” Lassandra says grimly. “They’re headquartered at Moonrise, and they’ve got a meeting place in the city; two of the people I talked to mentioned the exact same location, some basement in the Lower City, and one of them gave me a map. And they aren’t just going to roll over and die. They’ve got some kind of hold they can put on people, and whatever they’re planning, it’s big.”
Jaheira listens to this report in silence, turning the pebble slowly in her fingers with her eyes narrowed in thought. Damn.
“This was supposed to be a simple investigation,” she mutters. “A waste of time, even. That cesspit of a city has no shortage of foolish people congregating in large groups; why should this not be more of the same?” She can feel Branthos and Lassandra’s eyes on her, watching her attentively through the shadows. “But no. This is something different - what you are telling me, and what I have heard with my own ears. The deeper we dig, the more we find the shape of a monster beginning to open its jaws.”
She stands up abruptly, tossing the pebble to the side and listening to the echo as it rattles off the cave’s far wall. “We must find them,” she says, low and flat. “And we must put a stop to them.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Lassandra says, and Branthos nods.
Jaheira smiles ruefully, without much humor. “Well, then, I am glad we are in agreement. Gather your things; we will leave within the hour.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Both young Harpers dart to their feet at once.
It doesn’t take an hour to prepare, in the end. All three of them are traveling light, and none of them have much interest in staying in the Underdark longer than necessary.
Jaheira does slow her pace for a moment on the way out, though, running her fingers along the cavern wall until she finds a small cluster of stiff, blue-white fungi nestled within the glowing lichen. She halts then, and pulling a knife from her belt, she begins to slowly cut the mushrooms free of the rock, gentle so as not to damage them.
Lassandra halts as well and looks at her curiously. “Souvenir, ma’am?” she asks, with the hint of a smile.
“Of a sort.” Jaheira pulls a small pouch from her pack, carefully wrapping the mushroom sample into the soft leather.
Branthos chuckles. “Druids…” he murmurs.
She shoots him a sideways look. “Druids indeed. It is, in fact, for my son,” she says, tucking the pouch back into her pack and slinging it over her shoulder. “He has developed a knack for fungi in recent months.”
Branthos’s smile fades, and he looks more serious as he falls into step with her. “Then I am sure he’ll be glad to receive it,” he says quietly. A pause. “Are your kids all right, with you having been gone this long?”
The rhythm of Jaheira’s steps falters just a moment as she stiffens. “They will be fine,” she says curtly. “I do not leave them untended. Rion is caring for them, as always.”
Branthos glances at Lassandra, then back to Jaheira. “I only mean that we thought we’d be gone a week, and now it’s been almost three--”
“Do not trouble yourself about it, Branthos,” Jaheira says, a little too sharp. “You tell me nothing that I do not already know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jaheira sighs and rubs a hand down her face. She is doing it again, taking out her worries on those who do not deserve it - but Branthos has prodded at the sore spot at the heart of her dark mood, the place within her thoughts that she has been trying to avoid looking at.
“If this cult threatens the city, it threatens my children,” she goes on in a low voice. “Better I spend these weeks in the dark so that they might be protected, than stay quietly at home and let the beast come to our door. But we have done what we came here for, so let us not waste a moment longer. I think if I do not see sunlight again soon, I might go mad.”
Jaheira's tension eases as they emerge out of the darkness. Thank the gods.
It is not really a true escape into the wilderness, only a brief respite of green forest and underbrush on the road back to Baldur's Gate. But to her it is an oasis, a breath of air between the Underdark's shadows and the city's cesspit stink. The road, sodden with recent rain, tugs at her boots as they walk, and the air is warm and sweet with the scent of pine.
"What do you think the cult wants?" Branthos asks, shattering her introspection and the comfortable silence. "They're taking people, sure, but they don't seem to be doing anything with them. They just sort of... disappear."
Jaheira shakes her head. "I do not know. And there is little point in speculation," she says reprovingly. "What we know could fill a thimble; any guesses could send us howling down the wrong track. We will operate based on facts.”
Branthos nods, chastened. "Then I think Moonrise is our best lead," he says humbly. "All the evidence points to activity there. We could lead a squad in force - at least then we’d know what’s what."
Jaheira shoots him a sharp look. "We could, yes. But I hope it will not come to that," she says curtly. “Count yourself lucky, Harper, that you have never seen what that place has become. If you had, you would not make the suggestion so lightly.”
Her tone is brisk, calm, but she shudders inwardly, the lines of her face deepening as she frowns. Deep down, she knows Branthos is probably right, and the idea fills her with dread. It has been a century since the war that put Ketheric Thorm in the ground, but it still lingers in her nightmares with the chill of death.
So many good Harpers and druids were lost in that place. So many comrades and friends. What can this cult possibly be doing that makes that broken, blighted land the place to center their operations?
"Ho, travelers!"
Jaheira blinks, breaking free of her thoughts again at the sound of a cheerful voice calling out from further down the road. A tall, lanky elf in merchant's garb is coming outward from the city, trotting astride a weary-looking palomino pony that draws a large covered wooden cart behind him. On the side of the cart is painted the single word TRINKETS in bright orange letters.
He hails the three Harpers with a jovial wave. "You, my friends, look as if you've the dust of a long road on your boots! Care to sample my wares?"
Lassandra snorts, amused, and shakes her head. “We’ve business in the city, saer, and no time to stop,” she says, waving him off.
But Jaheira pauses, studying the wagon pensively for a moment, then comes to a halt in the middle of the road. "What do you sell?" she asks.
The man brightens at once, clearly delighted to have an interested customer. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that." He swings off his horse and removes his cap with a flourish into a debonair bow. "I am Andrew Horton of Heapside, purveyor of fine goods, and I assure you I can provide whatever a beautiful lady such as yourself might d--"
"Spare me the flattery." Jaheira rolls her eyes. "Show me your goods or do not, but do not waste my time."
The merchant deflates at once, glancing at Lassandra. "There’s no appreciation for a good performance, these days," he says mournfully. Moving to his cart, he opens a panel in the side, revealing an array of shelves within, remarkably orderly despite the rough state of the roads.
"I think you might not have picked the best audience," Lassandra says. She raises an eyebrow at Jaheira. "Is your pay burning a hole in your pocket, ma'am?"
“And why should it not?” Jaheira walks to the side of the cart and peers at the merchant’s goods, tossing the words distractedly over her shoulder. “If matters continue as they are, I shall have little enough time to spend it in the coming days.”
As she expected, the cart carries mostly traveling supplies - dry goods, rope, bedrolls, waterskins, lanterns and oil. A few more interesting items, however, are nestled here and there in the assortment, giving the distinct impression of a lifetime’s collection of junk being pressed into service as inventory. She is not entirely sure what she is looking for, but eventually her fingers come to rest on a glittering golden necklace nestled between a pack of jerky and an empty journal.
It is an ostentatious piece, fitting no definition of good taste that Jaheira has ever encountered. The chain is thick and solid, set with a deep, blood-red ruby at its base about the size of her palm. As she lifts it, it glitters where it catches the sun, sending a small cascade of prismatic light across the muddy road.
It is, for what she has in mind, perfect.
She gestures to the merchant with the necklace hanging around her wrist. "This will do nicely,” she says crisply. “How much?"
The merchant's eyebrows lift, and he offers her a wide, ingratiating smile. "A traveler of such exquisite beauty as yourself would do honor to such a piece by wearing--"
"The price, please," Jaheira growls.
The man sighs. "Seventy-five gold. But I'll give it to you for sixty if you'll let me finish my--"
"Seventy-five it is," Jaheira says briskly, reaching into her pack.
Branthos presses a fist to his mouth in an attempt to mask a chuckle, and Lassandra grins. "I never took you as much of one for jewelry, ma'am," she comments.
"I am not. And it is not for me." Jaheira finishes paying out the coin and tucks the necklace into her pack. "Come. I shall not delay us further, and with luck we shall still reach the city before nightfall."
The air changes as they enter the city. Almost in an instant, the welcoming cool silence of the forests vanishes, replaced by the shouting of tradesmen and shrieking of children. The soft loam of the road is replaced by hard cobblestone under their feet, and the air rasps with smoke in their lungs. Jaheira's lip curls automatically with distaste, and she mutters a bit of elven profanity under her breath.
It's a little better inside Entharl's shop; there's still not a plant to be seen (Entharl is, to put it mildly, utilitarian in his decor style), but at least it's quiet. The dwarven shopkeeper looks up and raises an eyebrow as the group enters.
"There you are," he says, jovially acerbic as always. "Expected you back two weeks ago, and here’s me keeping t’ shop empty half the day, all this while, waiting to welcome you. Another loss your lot owe me..."
"Your generosity is, as always, appreciated," Jaheira answers placidly, her lips twitching. "You shall be hailed as a hero among Harpers, and they shall need very little stone to carve your statue."
"Bahhh." Entharl rolls his eyes, unable to hide a slight smile. “Wipe your boots, then, and shut t’ door behind you." He leans his elbows on the low counter, absently spinning a coin on the wood with one finger. "Did you find what you were lookin' for?"
Branthos shakes his head, tiredly shrugging his pack off of his shoulder onto the floor.
"Just more loose ends," Lassandra says grimly. "Lots of tell of the cult, very few specifics. One possible meeting place somewhere in the Lower City.” She squints at the merchant hopefully. “Maybe you've heard any more news?"
Entharl shrugs. "Little more than you, I’d wager. There's talk of more folk goin’ missing," he says. "Half t’ folk you ask will panic, and t' other half think it's all mad rumor."
"As usual, the truth lies somewhere between,” Jaheira mutters. “At least for now. I hope." She kicks the door of the shop shut behind her with a solid thump. "Entharl, I need you to pass along a message to Nyra and Meygan. New orders."
"Aye." Entharl must recognize the edge in her voice, because all the levity vanishes from his face at once. He retreats behind the counter again, fetching a sheet of paper and a long, thin pen. "What is it, then?"
"Cultist activity center confirmed Moonrise Towers, three days west,” Jaheira dictates briskly. "Take a small scouting team, investigate, report back. Do not be seen. Take appropriate precautions; the curse lingers."
Entharl scribbles rapidly, encoding the message as he writes, then stabs the pen into the countertop so that it sticks in place. "I'll see they're told," he grunts. "Meygan won't be pleased, y’know. She was here this morning and all too happy to tell me her plans with that Yonas boy. One year today, she said--"
"I know." Jaheira sighs. "But there is dark business at work, Entharl. Far darker than I believed. I do not like to think what sacrifices may lie ahead - for all of us." She frowns, chewing the inside of her cheek, then shakes her head once, sharply. "See it done, saer."
"Your wish is my command," Entharl glances at the other Harpers. "Leave your weapons here overnight and I'll see all's repaired, as usual. Except that," he adds with a sudden barking laugh as Branthos begins pulling the buckler shield from his back. "How'd you manage t' run a crack clean through it, lad?"
"We had an encounter with a bulette," Branthos says, a tad sheepishly. He places the metal disc on the countertop, running his fingers over the Harper symbol in the center - and the long crack along its surface, left by the Underdark creature's tail slapping him sideways. "I hoped you might just polish it up a little--"
"Polish? Bah. Aye, I could polish it - and a pretty shield your corpse would have when it snapped in half at t’ worst moment." Entharl shakes his head. "Never mind. Take a replacement from my stores, and toss that thing for scrap."
Jaheira shakes her head. "No - wait. Give it to me," she says abruptly, holding her hand out towards Branthos.
Branthos blinks. "As you wish, ma’am,” he says, passing the broken shield over to her. “But you heard what he said. The thing’s no use now--”
"It is no use for fighting," Jaheira corrects him matter-of-factly. She hoists the shield over her shoulder, ignoring his puzzled expression, and glances at Entharl. "Send word to my house when Nyra and Meygan are on their way."
"Aye, aye, I'll get the orders t' them both. And send t' you when they're gone." Entharl gives her a dismissive wave, but his sardonic voice follows her piercingly out into the street. "And Short Father willing, perhaps I'll even sell to a proper customer!"
"Jaheira!" Minsc's booming voice echoes jovially between the market stalls of the Wide. "Boo was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way!" The rodent perched on his shoulder gives a loud squeak to punctuate the sentiment.
"Calm yourself and your hamster, ranger," Jaheira says wryly as she approaches them. "Our business in the Underdark took longer than expected - and little enough we have to show for it."
"Jaheira has not found what she sought in the shadows, then?" Minsc frowns, his high forehead creasing with concern.
"No. Not in those shadows, at least." Jaheira sighs. "This cult moves as slippery as an eel in dark water, and I do not like at all how easily it hovers beyond my grasp. But we will find them, will they or no." Her lips pull into a tight line. "Were all else equal I would say they could have this city and consume its rotten heart. But I will not allow them to threaten my children."
"Then nor shall Minsc," Minsc says stoutly, straightening up and lifting Boo on one fist. "Let these cultish types only stand before Boo's fearsome gaze and we shall fright them halfway to Rashemen! Or better yet, strike them dead in their boots."
Jaheira grunts ruefully. "You will stand with the Harpers against this silent menace, then, will you?"
Minsc looks at her steadily, the guileless sincerity of his expression matched only by its iron solidity. "Minsc stands with you, Jaheira," he says gravely.
Jaheira lifts her head, meeting his gaze, and her expression softens abruptly with weary affection. "The more fool you, I think at times," she murmurs. A pause; she rubs her finger absently against the broken shield tucked under her arm, following the crack along its surface from one rim to the other.
"Minsc... I think you ought to fear where this road leads,” she goes on, her voice low. “There is danger here that I do not understand, some beast gathering its legs beneath it to pounce."
"And Jaheira shall tame that beast,” Minsc says without hesitation, “and Minsc shall clear the path before her."
In spite of her preoccupation, Jaheira can’t help the slight smile that tugs subtly at the corner of her mouth. If her Rashemaar friend has ever felt fear, she is not aware of it, and now is no exception; he does not flinch, but simply folds his arms, letting Boo scurry up his shoulder to perch atop his head. And she wonders, for a moment, at the brilliant certainty that his addled mind is capable of conjuring. She herself is full of nothing but doubts, these days, but Minsc believes always in them, in her, even when he has very little cause. And sometimes he can almost make her believe it, too.
"Come, then," she says quietly. "Back to the house. Tonight, you and I-- we shall go shine some light into dark corners." She adjusts her pack on her shoulder, straightening up. “But first, I have some business to attend to. I must stop at the tailor’s, and also I must find--”
She stops suddenly, her head cocked to one side. “Wait.”
Minsc shoots her a questioning look, but she ignores him. Turning, she disappears between two nearby market stalls, following the sound of music muffled by chattering voices. It doesn't take her long to find the source: a young tiefling man with patched pants and rolled up shirtsleeves is sitting on the cobblestones in front of the grocer, plucking a tender melody on a small lyre. An upturned cap sits before him, a few coins nestled inside.
He grins, tilting his head back to look up at her. "Spare a coin, miss?" he asks her cheerfully, without halting the rhythm of the notes.
She reaches into her pocket and turns a handful of coin between her fingertips without withdrawing it. "It is beautiful music you play," she says.
"A Cormyran tune, ma'am," he answers. His fingers fly along the strings, drawing the flowing tapestry of sound into the air. "From my homeland."
Jaheira nods, listening a moment more in silence. The coins clink in her pocket as she fidgets with them pensively.
"Will you sell me the instrument?" she asks abruptly. "I will pay for its worth double."
The flow of music stops, and the young man looks up at her, startled. "I... suppose I could," he says. "For that price, I could keep myself warm through the winter, and buy another come spring.” He frowns, looking down at the lyre, running his thumb over a rough place where the polish on the wood has chipped away. “It's old, though, ma'am,” he adds doubtfully. “You could find better in any shop."
"It will serve my need," Jaheira says gravely. "And my coin goes to better use in your hands than lining some merchant's pocket."
He still looks bewildered, but grins in spite of himself at this unexpected generosity. "Fair health to you, then."
As she counts the coins into his palm, she hears a low chittering sound at her elbow. "No, Boo," Minsc says thoughtfully, coming up alongside her. "Minsc did not know either that Jaheira plays music."
"I do not," Jaheira says gruffly. She carefully accepts the lyre from the young tiefling and tucks it under her arm with the broken shield. "Come. Let us be off. I still must stop at the tailor’s before we return home."
There’s an explosion of excited shouting from within the house as Jaheira and Minsc draw near. Jaheira smiles a little to herself, automatically picking out the different young voices within the hubbub.
“They have missed you,” Minsc rumbles at her side. “Minsc has stopped in to see them every day of your absence. And each of those days they have asked when Jaheira might return.”
Jaheira frowns, staring intently at the cobblestones disappearing past her. “Well, I am here now,” is all she says, and walks up the steps to push the door open.
“Commander!” Fig comes tumbling down the stairs as they enter, her slightly-too-big boots making a symphony of thump-thump-thump noises on the wooden slats. “You’re home!” As she reaches the first floor, she turns a bright smile on Jaheira, waving the wooden sword that so rarely leaves her side. “I saw you first, from the upstairs window!”
“No, I saw you first, Jaheira!” Jhessem, clearly doing her best to look dignified while moving almost as fast, follows Fig down the stairs with an imperious glare at her little sister. Tate, clutching onto the back of Jhessem’s shirt, peeks out from behind her. He doesn’t try to say anything, but his large eyes, locked onto Jaheira, are very bright.
“Did not!” Fig howls indignantly.
“Did too!” Jhessem shoots back. “I saw her all the way down the block while you were on the floor.”
“Because you pushed me!”
The study door slams open and Rion emerges, with Jord following behind her. “Gods above, what’s all this racket?” she says, her voice cutting through the tumult. “Do I need to--”
Then she falls silent, her eyes widening a little at the sight of Jaheira standing in the entryway, with Minsc hulking silently behind her shoulder. “Oh,” she says slowly, her tone and expression suddenly impossible to read. “Well, hello there, Mother.”
“Hello, Rion,” Jaheira says softly. “It is good to be home.”
“Two weeks behind your time.” Rion’s eyes spark with contained fire. Jaheira knows that look very well; Rion looks very like her father when she is keeping deliberate control of her anger - and her worry. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Jaheira hesitates. Yes, perhaps, at least in part. But not here. Not in front of the young ones. “We took the scenic route, I am afraid,” she says, tone deliberately mild.
And she can see the realization flicker through Rion’s expression, the recognition that there is something serious under those words. The anger eases, just a little, the worry rushing in to take its place. “I see.”
“And for a good cause, too,” Jaheira goes on before Rion can ask any further questions. She looks around at all of them, then crouches down so that she is at eye height with the younger children. “For I have brought gifts for you all.”
“Presents!” Fig crows delightedly, and Jhessem giggles. Tate, still peering out from behind Jhessem’s skirt, gives a little smile, still watching Jaheira’s face attentively.
“Yes, indeed.” Jaheira pulls her pack from her back and sets it on the floor next to her. “Jhessem, come here.”
Jhessem trots forward a few steps, and her mouth falls open as Jaheira withdraws the gaudy, glittering necklace from its pocket in the pack. “Oh, wow.”
“Fit for a queen, I think, yes?” Jaheira says with a slight smile, draping it around her neck.
“Yeah!” Jhessem straightens up and puts on her most regal expression, and Jaheira chuckles.
“You will wear it with pride, I know,” she says quietly, pressing a hand over the jewel at Jhessem's chest. “And remember all that I have told you a queen must be.”
“Kind and fair and just,” Jhessem recites, and she grins widely when Jaheira nods approval.
“What about mine?” Fig bounces up and down eagerly on her toes, leaning forward past Jhessem.
“Well, now.” Jaheira squints at her pensively. “If I saw you being patient, perhaps--”
“I'm being patient! I can be SO patient!” Fig says at once, snapping to an attention stance and practically vibrating with the effort to stand still.
Jaheira looks her over, mock-appraising, and then nods. “Good. Then with pride I will present you this.” She pulls the cracked shield from under her arm and watches Fig's eyes go large as saucers. “A shield to go with your sword, scratched and scuffed in true Harper combat. Will you carry it with honor?”
Fig goes almost completely rigid with dutiful energy and gives Jaheira her best salute. “Yes, Commander!” she says excitedly. “It was really in a battle?”
“That it was. And Fig…” Jaheira waits gravely until Fig meets her eyes. “I count on you, you know. To be strong for your siblings. To make them feel safe because you are there. That is what a Harper does.”
Something in her expression must give Fig pause, because the little girl falls uncharacteristically silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, earnest and serious. “Yes, Commander,” she says, gripping the shield straps tightly with both hands.
“That's my girl,” Jaheira murmurs.” And for you, Tate-- I see you hiding, little cub. Do you know what I have for you?” She watches as he edges out from behind Jhessem at the sound of his name.
His eyes have never left Jaheira's face; it is not her that he is scared of, but the world, and with good reason. Jaheira is all too familiar with the sort of terrible loss the poor boy has experienced, and so she gives him the gentle smile she reserves for him alone, encouraging him into the open. He shifts nervously at the question, then shakes his head. “N-no,” he says cautiously.
“Well,” she says soberly. “I considered a number of things. But I remembered that you and I talked before I left, did we not? And you were a bit down, little cub, because you said you did not think you could be brave like a Harper. But you see…”
She pulls the small lyre from behind her back, running her fingers over it quickly to produce a brisk and slightly dissonant run of notes. “You shall be a Harper yet, for here is a harp.” She narrows her eyes at him, inviting him to share the joke, and is rewarded by a sudden bright smile like the sun breaking through clouds as he carefully takes the instrument from her.
“It's f-for me?” he asks.
“All for you. You need not even share it with your sisters.” Jaheira ruffles his hair gently. “There are many ways to be a good man, cub. You will find yours.”
He looks down at the lyre, then cautiously plucks a few unsteady notes. Again he smiles - a little tremulously, but sincerely, and hugs the instrument to his chest. “Th-thank you, Jaheira,” he mumbles shyly.
She rests a hand on his shoulder a moment, then stands up. “Now for you, Jord,” she says, eyeing the half-orc boy - now a young man, and gods, how did he grow up so fast? - who has retreated to the corner to quietly prune some of the living room plants. As he looks at her with calm curiosity, she reaches into her pack, unwrapping the stiff fungal stalks from the leather pouch.
“Apprentice druid you may be,” she tells him gravely, “but you are my better when it comes to mushrooms. A new sample for you to cultivate, if you believe you are up to the task.”
He gives her a slow, pleased smile, and steps forward to take the fungus from her, his large hands as always surprisingly delicate in their handling of living, growing things. “You knew I’ve been in search of a new challenge,” he says.
“I had heard you speak of it.” Jaheira smiles crookedly. “You know these, I think, to judge by your expression.”
“Yes. I have seen them in one of the books you bought me last year,” he says pensively, and turns the stalks carefully over to examine the underside. “Bluecaps,” he pronounces - then pauses and lifts his eyes to hers with a sudden frown. “You were in the Underdark.”
Rion’s head shoots up, her eyes narrowing and mouth drawing into a tight line. Jord shoots her an alarmed look, and then carefully sets his gift down on the shelf next to the plant he was tending. He gives Fig a gentle nudge with one finger. “Come on,” he says, deliberately light. “Let’s run along and play upstairs. You’ve all got some new toys now.”
The brief, strained moment of interplay has thankfully been lost on the younger children; Fig bounces up on the balls of her feet immediately, dragging the heavy shield behind her. “Race you upstairs!” she cries at Jhessem, and the two of them scamper up towards the bedroom. Tate, still hugging his lyre with one arm, looks at Jaheira for a long moment with his large, wary eyes, then turns and follows them up with a quick, scurrying motion like a mouse returning to its hole.
Silence falls over the living room. Jord looks between Rion’s suddenly smoldering expression and Jaheira’s placid one, and then shifts awkwardly. “Minsc,” he says, with a painfully transparent attempt at casual cheer. “Let’s go outside. I’ve some new carrots growing, and I bet you Boo would like a bite.”
Whether Minsc has picked up on the moment’s tension is a little harder to gauge, but he retreats out the door agreeably enough. The door shuts heavily behind the two broad-shouldered men, leaving Jaheira and her daughter alone, staring at each other.
Rion hisses out a long breath between her teeth, her eyes flashing. “The Underdark, Mother?” she says tightly.
Jaheira looks at her steadily for a moment, then turns away. Reaching into her pack, she pulls out another parcel, this one wrapped in stiff brown paper. “I have something for you as well, of course, Rion.”
“I don’t need anything, Mother,” Rion says stiffly. “That’s not--”
“All the same, I have. Will you take it?” Jaheira sets the parcel on the dining table.
She can see Rion’s frustration warring with her curiosity - and the curiosity wins out. She takes a step closer to the table, then stops. “What is it?”
Jaheira looks at her sideways. “Something I should have given you long ago,” she says quietly, then draws back the paper. Rion takes another slow step forward, rests her fingertips on the neatly folded bundle of leather and cloth within; her eyes lift to Jaheira with a mute question.
“This cloak,” Jaheira says, “was your father’s. I made it for him, many years ago, long before you were born.” She can see the words strike home and a muscle jump in Rion’s throat. “I have had the tailor alter it to your measurements; you are his height, or near enough, but not nearly so broad.”
Rion’s hand slowly fists into the cloak, pulling it away from the table so that its hem falls in a gentle cascade towards the floor. For a moment she seems to be struggling to speak. “This… was Papa’s?” she asks in a low voice.
Jaheira nods. “And now it is yours. As it should have been, long since. I could never… find the right time - but the fault was mine in this. He wanted you to have it.”
Rion turns the cloak in her hand, letting the shine of the leather catch the lamp’s flickering light. Her expression is unreadable, even to her mother’s practiced eye. And her voice, when she speaks again, is deliberately even. “Mother… what is going on?”
A pause, slightly too long. “What do you mean?” Jaheira asks. “This is only--”
“You know bloody well what I mean,” Rion snaps. Her hand, still gripping the cloak, falls to her side in a tight fist. “Three weeks gone, when you were meant to be gone no more than one, and you’ve been trawling around in the fucking Underdark, and now you show up with an armful of gifts--”
“It is not the first time I have brought home gifts, Rion,” Jaheira says. She keeps her voice steady with an effort of will.
“Maybe not, but it’s the first time you’ve acted like you were reading your own last rites while you handed them out!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Answer the question, Mother! What is going on?”
Jaheira picks up the brown paper wrapping, crumpling it into a tight ball between her hands. “I don’t know, Rion--”
“Don’t lie to me, damn it!” Rion barks. Her free hand slams down on the table with a crash, making the candle there jump.
“I am not lying!” Jaheira snaps back just as fiercely - and something darker and more frightened must cross her face, because Rion flinches, retreating a step. Jaheira scowls, looking away, a muscle working rhythmically in her jaw.
“I am not lying, Rion,” she repeats in a lower voice. “I do not know - yet. Dark forces are at work in this city, but for now they are only shadows without form. Gods willing, if I move swift enough, they shall remain so.”
Rion looks down, fidgeting with the cloak in her hands. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken fears.
“If I knew more, I would tell you,” Jaheira goes on after a little while. “And if I have gone into the shadows, it is only to keep them from touching you. I promise you this.”
Rion doesn’t move for a long time, but finally she nods. “Well,” she says hollowly. “Far be it from me to keep you from hurling yourself into some monster’s teeth. So what happens now?”
That flat tone from her daughter aches in Jaheira’s chest far more than the anger did. She wishes that the words came easily to her - it will be all right; I will be safe; I will not let the shadows catch you. I love you so much that I cannot do anything else but this. When Rion was still young, she might have accepted these comforting words - but she is grown now, with her own battles lacing her memory, and as stubborn and wary as both her parents combined. There is no use in softness and platitudes, so Jaheira does not try.
“I will need you to watch them again tonight,” she says instead. Her attempt at a businesslike tone falls utterly flat - there’s a tight, ragged catch in her voice. “Minsc and I must follow up on a lead in Heapside Narrows.”
Rion nods again. She doesn’t quite meet Jaheira’s eyes, but stares past her shoulder at the wall behind. “And when can we expect you home?” she asks, a touch sardonically.
“This is a matter of reconnaissance,” Jaheira says firmly. “A quiet investigation. We will be back by morning.”
“Fine.” Rion lets out a heavy breath. “Be careful,” she adds sharply, her eyes finding Jaheira’s again and holding her gaze with sudden ferocity.
And Jaheira looks back at her steadily, and nods - and thinks, or at least desperately hopes, that some of those things she can no longer say are spoken by her eyes instead. “I will,” she murmurs.
Her eyes flick down to the fabric still hanging from Rion’s hand. “It is a good cloak,” she adds abruptly. “Wool and deer hide, well-tanned - with a hood. Your father shared your aversion to wearing a stlarning hat in bad weather.” Her lips twitch in a slight, sad smile. “It will serve you well, I believe. Only do not fold it away wet, or it will start to stink.”
“I know how to take care of leather, Mother,” Rion says automatically. She lifts the cloak, drapes it around her shoulders, testing the weight of it, the movement as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “Feels good,” she grunts with a slight nod. “Thank you.”
Jaheira relaxes just slightly, her shoulders slumping a little as if some small weight has been lifted from them. “Good,” she murmurs.
Rion meets her eyes again for a moment, then looks away. She rests a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs and grips it tightly enough that her knuckles go white. “You’d better go see about that reconnaissance,” she says quietly. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Jaheira looks at her silently for a long moment, then nods and turns away. Pulling the door open, she strides out onto the porch and lets it fall heavily shut behind her.
“Minsc!” she calls, and is relieved to hear that her voice is steady again, and gives no sign of the tight feeling in her throat and behind her eyes. “Come, my friend! We have work to do!”