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The door fell close with a low, satisfying thud and trapped the sound of spirited debate on the other side. Wyll leaned against the ancient wood and let out a deep sigh, the crisp autumn air washing over him like balm.
In his time as the Blade of Frontiers, he had spent days stalking his monstrous prey, lying in wait for hours at a time without moving a muscle, but politics? Those had taught him a whole new level of patience. It had barely been four tendays since he was officially appointed as Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate, but Wyll could have sworn it was at least thrice that long.
With a groan for his aching muscles, cramped from sitting for hours in uncomfortable but impressive chairs, he looked up at the patch of hazy sky that was visible through the smoke from his fellow Baldurians’ hearthfires. It was almost impressive—he had fought and defeated a line of impressive foes, even before the Absolute crisis had thrown him into the path of some true monsters, but rarely had he seen a creature as vicious and devious as patriar Ruth Linnacker, speaker of the Parliament of Peers. Her greeting still rang in Wyll’s ears:
“Ah, young Ravengard—you will most likely not remember me, being so busy with playing hero and, haha, growing horns… but if you ever need a guiding hand, my doors will be wide open! Politics is such a complicated field, after all—and while your lack in formal training is not your fault alone, rest assured it might prove difficult for you, my poor dear boy…”
Wyll scoffed silently. Oh, he did remember her, very well in fact, standing up front and centre during the coronation of “Archduke” Enver Gortash. A man of the people, Linnacker had said, of ‘the right people.’
There was no question who those right people were, of course, and the patriar had lost no time to point that out to the council. With the same brash confidence that propelled her to talk over Wyll at every opportunity, Linnacker had immediately pointed out to the other Dukes that the Parliament of Peers had one concern and one concern only in these trying times after the crisis: the refugees. How many there were, how they were using up the city’s resources, and—above anything else—how to get rid of them, and speedily. In fact, Linnacker insisted that the presence of the refugees not only drained the city coffers, but that it was also a direct threat to “Baldurian welfare” as a whole. Her prime example was the area of the former Steelwatcher Foundry. After it had blown up, the remaining Gondians along with a larger group of refugees had taken over the area, cleaned out the debris as well as they could, buried the bodies they could find and made the place habitable again. There was no heir to the Gortash fortune and estates, so nobody came to cast them out initially. Some of them were craftspeople and they had started setting up markets and little workshops, with cheap wares that seemed welcome among the poorer citizens and refugees alike. There had been scuffles as well, with other groups trying to move in and with the remnants of the Banite cultists that were still skulking about in the tunnels under the vast facility, but the refugees seemed to persevere for the moment. The patriars were apparently rather upset about a piece of prime real estate by the waterfront being occupied by “outsiders,” and Wyll knew that the Linnacker family especially had their eye on that piece of land themselves. And while the Council of Four should always heed the advice of the Parliament of Peers, in Wyll’s opinion there was a little too much emphasis on filling the coffers of those already swimming in gold over helping those whose situation was dire.
Wyll was not naive, no matter what the patriars or even his fellow Dukes might be thinking—he was well aware that there were problems that needed solving, but casting all those people hoping for security, stability and peace in the Gate out just like that would happen only over his dead body, and he would find a way to convince the rest of the Council, come hells or high water. This would be his first big challenge as a newly elected Grand Duke, and Wyll knew that the way he would handle this problem would set the course for the rest of his tenure—and for his position among his peers.
With a final, determined nod, he was about to turn back to the door when he suddenly realised—with the clarity that only the experience of the years could grant—that he was being watched. There hadn’t been a sound, just a shift in the air, a hunch perhaps, but Wyll knew the feeling of watchful eyes burning holes into the back of his skull, so well that he trusted it blindly. He also trusted the sensation that he was in no immediate danger—he had been out here for a while; if anyone wanted to cause him harm, they would have already made the attempt. He turned around.
“You may as well come out, if you want word with me.” He said loudly and took a step forward. No immediate danger presented itself, but his hand still hovered over the hilt of his rapier. But when the silent observer finally took a hesitant step into the light that fell out of an upper floor window, Wyll frowned and relaxed.
An older woman, dwarven with dark braided hair and simple clothing, came towards him and held out her hands.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She said in a thick voice, almost as if she was close to tears.
“Don’t worry, it takes a lot more to scare me, but… do I know you?” It was a stupid question, he was aware of that the moment he said it out loud because he knew the answer, but still, something about this woman was so familiar… and she did not seem to deem the question strange, either. A somewhat wistful smile appeared on her face, showing lines in her weathered skin, but also kind eyes that shone like dark amber.
“In a way, I suppose.” She replied and stepped closer. “You see, I brought you into this world, all those years ago.”
Wyll felt his mouth fall open, but no coherent thought was able to find its way to his tongue, it seemed. The exhaustion from the long fruitless meeting made it ever so hard to think straight. The woman laughed softly and reached into her coat.
“I know, this may sound strange, but I have been trying to speak to you for a long, long time now, Your Grace. My name is Reena, and I have a message for you.”
She reached out her hand and held out a bundle of letters on yellowed parchment, bound together with a bow. The words “To my child” were written on the topmost letter, in a very fine and oddly familiar hand. As his heart suddenly started beating hard in his chest, Wyll could only gasp, but his gaze snapped back to the woman’s face as she continued:
“It’s from your mother.”
The cool air, the faint city noises and the pressing obligations that were waiting for him inside, it all came to a halt for Wyll this instant and he felt like he was looking at a religious artifact instead of a bundle of paper. He got down on one knee to be at eye level with the stranger and realised his hand was shaking slightly as he reached for the letters. But then, the sensation of parchment and ribbon on his skin made it all real with sudden, overwhelming force.
“Who are you?” He managed to say, but he dared not look up from the letters—his mother’s letters!—irrationally fearing they might just disappear.
The woman shifted uncomfortably and peered around Wyll at the door behind him.
“I don’t have much time, your father would not want me talking to you …“ she said in what was almost a whisper, and as Wyll wanted to interject, she held out her hand as if to hush him.
“I was with Francesca when you were born, Your Grace, I was her maid, and I was her friend. That day, I should have kept her home, I tried… she was so far along with you, it was a matter of days, I should have tried harder . But she was impossible to argue with, once her mind was made up. When she suddenly felt it was time and then it all went wrong, there was no healer close, so I tried my best, and it was not enough, not nearly enough…”
Her eyes were beginning to fill with tears now and Wyll knelt down, closing his free hand around hers.
“Father told me that my mother died when I was born, but he never put any blame on another person for that.” He said earnestly. “If anyone, he perhaps blamed the gods, but please don’t carry that burden with you any longer.”
Reena looked at him now, smiling through her tears.
“Thank you for that, dear boy. You are so like her, you know. Francesca wanted to write throughout your childhood, pin down every important event, and give you the whole bundle of letters the day you would come of age. She even joked that you would roll your eyes if she gave you letters instead of a horse or garments on your big day. But then, you disappeared, and I held on to what she had written, hoping I could find you again someday.”
Suddenly, with a look on her face that almost seemed mischievous, the dwarven woman leaned in and gave Wyll a quick peck on the cheek.
“And found you I have!” She declared, and he huffed out a laugh in response.
“Read the letters, if you please. There are not many, but perhaps you find some meaning in them. We shall meet again, gods willing. Farewell, dear boy.”
Reena quickly turned around, closing her cloak around her, and disappeared down the alley.
“Thank you!” Wyll called after her, and then added much softer: “They mean the world to me.”
The rest of the meeting—in fact, the whole evening—went by in a blur. Wyll did his best to participate in the debate that was still going on, but his mind was fixated on the small bundle of letters in his breast pocket. The moment he could excuse himself without appearing rude, he did just that and hurried home. He avoided his father’s gaze as Ulder greeted him from his desk in the drawing room and felt like a schoolboy smuggling a raunchy novel under his coat, but as he finally closed his room’s door behind himself and sat down on his bed, the sensation was quite different. With utmost care, he took his mother’s letters out and placed them on a pillow beside him, and then he looked at them for a long time. What if they were… disappointing? He had created an image of Francesca Ravengard in his mind, for all his life. Some pieces of the puzzle his father had contributed, but most of the blank spaces of her personality had come from Wyll’s own imagination. Would these letters fill in the remaining blanks, or shatter that image entirely?
‘Courage ,’ Wyll thought to himself—one of Balduran’s lessons his father had taught him, and not even the disturbing reveal about the Gate’s fabled founder’s true identity could diminish its value. He pulled on the bow that held the bundle together and opened the first letter, his fingers only trembling slightly. It began:
My darling child—
And Wyll was not sure if he gasped or sobbed, his throat was suddenly thick so that the noise came out strangled and foreign, but his heart was just as suddenly filled to the brim with a whirlwind of emotions. To be addressed, through time and space, like this by his mother felt to Wyll like for the first time, there was a true connection between them, not just stories or make-believe. Francesca Ravengard had been real, and she had carried him under her heart and had thought of him—her darling child—and talked to him and written to him, he suddenly had hard, physical proof of that. Proof that he had a mother once who loved him. He took a deep breath and started reading.
My darling child—
I have known of you only for a tenday now, and you changed my whole life already, at least twice over.
Never have I seen my Ulder—your father, how unreal it is to write this down!—so utterly befuddled as in the moment when I told him about you being on your way to us. There was such pride and joy on his face, I shall cherish the moment forever. I just cannot wait to meet you, to hold you in my arms for the first time. People keep telling me that the moment a mother holds her child in her arms after birth is the moment she experiences pure, true love for the first time, but I must disagree. For right now, when you are still only an idea, a promise of the person you will become, I love you completely, please know that—and so does your father!
Will you look more like him or like me? Will you be more like a handsome younger Ulder or like a clumsy younger Francesca when you grow up? Will you follow either of our footsteps, or will you carve out your own part entirely? Whichever it will be, remember this, if nothing else: you will be loved, and hopefully you will love—who and how does not matter, as long as you are happy—at least as happy as Ulder and I are right now.
Please hurry, beloved unknown, but not too much. I know you need some time to grow until you can be with us, and that is as it should be, and you should always be true to yourself. But selfishly I hope you have your father’s eyes, once you open them. He has such lovely eyes, you know.
With all my love,
your mother
Wyll only realised he was crying when the first teardrop landed on the parchment. He quickly dried it and put the letter aside, careful and reverent. It was an odd sensation, because actually reading the letter had soothed his tumultuous heart. Instead of feeling insecure or overwhelmed, he felt peace rush over him in a wave of warmth, like a part of him that had been missing forever had finally slid into place. A hint of wistfulness was there, of course, he would always regret not having his mother with him, never being able to be held by her or to dance with her or even to quarrel with her. But this beautiful gift from the past made Francesca so much more real and tangible, it was almost as if she was in the room with him right now—and Wyll felt closer to his family and to his roots than he had ever done before.
Patience, Wyll knew, was a virtue. But he did not pay virtue all that much mind tonight, because after a few moments of reflection, he lit all the lamps in his room, settled down against his pillow comfortably and read every single letter Reena had given him.
He learned that his mother loved to dance, but had a horrendous singing voice, something his father relentlessly mocked her for. He learned that Ulder had shaved his head since he was a boy, but that he took great joy in caring for his wife’s hair, and he would braid it for her for hours in front of the fireplace—first in their small Lower City rooms, and later in the ducal mansion. His name, Wyllyam, had come from a great-uncle, that much Wyll knew. But now he learned that said uncle had been an explorer, poet, rogue, drunk, and lover of renown, and that he had disappeared on an expedition to Chult long before Wyll was born. ‘Wily Wyllyam’ he had been called, and that was a legacy Wyll could follow with joy if not, perhaps, with pride. But he also learned a lot about his father from the letters, and Wyll was feeling conflicted about how to proceed with that new picture of Ulder Ravengard that had been painted by his loving wife. Wyll had the utmost respect for his father and he loved him without question. But the stories Francesca shared about a man with a charming belly-laugh, who would climb over fences to steal her fresh pears, who would stay up all night trying to compose a poem for her (only to fail hilariously), who was passionate not only about history and warfare, but about art and music, those sounded like they were describing a completely different person—and one Wyll would love to meet, in fact.
There was only one letter left in the end, and it was almost dawn outside, Wyll realised. It was the last letter Francesca would have written, before his birth and her death, and he hesitated for quite some time before opening it. It would put an end to this surreal, amazing experience and he did not want it to end, he wanted to keep learning more, feeling this closeness to a mother he never knew forever. And yet, that was impossible, of course. Even worse: leaving that final letter sealed would go directly against his mothers wish, and even though Francesca would never know, Wyll Ravengard was the very essence of a good and obedient son. With a wistful grin, he broke the final seal and the salutation made him laugh out loud:
My child, oh my heavy, active, constantly kicking child—
I said before I cannot wait to meet you, but oh—do I mean it this time! You are making yourself known, my little one, and for once I am inclined to agree with your father about how your future may look: he said you will be a true hero, a fighter, a warrior. Judging by the way you keep hitting and kicking just the right spots to make your poor mother wince in pain, your aim will be impeccable and your sword arm will never miss!
It is night now and I cannot sleep, thanks to you, so you shall have to suffer as I do now—by receiving words of wisdom from your mother! And don’t you dare go rolling your eyes at me now, I will be watching as you read this!
I have been thinking about what to teach you when you grow up. I will teach you how to dance, of course, and how to braid your hair and how to climb trees and cook and make clothes if you want to. But what can I give you in terms of knowledge, which words might prepare you for the world out there?
Your father has all that planned out, of course, and the words he lives by are good and right, and so important to teach any child: Insight, Courage, Strategy, Justice, as taught by the great Balduran. And yet, there is always more to it, is there not? So I dare, just between the two of us, to offer you some additional words to consider.Where there is Courage, let there be Kindness, too. For not all people out there are able to be brave, or value bravery in others—some lives are just not made to nurture those qualities. To everyone, but especially to those that might not be worthy of it at first glance: be kind, it will be paid back or paid forward in the end.
Where Insight brings you knowledge, let there also be Wisdom, so that you know when and how to use the knowledge you have gained, and when it is wiser to keep your own counsel.
Where there is Strategy, do not forget about History, because that is what connects us all, even in case of a divide or a quarrel. Find the roots we all have in common, and maybe there is no further Strategy needed.
And finally, Justice. We can all but aspire to be just in this world, and to be judged fairly ourselves. Yet I say: often, the path to follow is Forgiveness. Sometimes, Forgiveness is the only thing that can soothe the hearts of those receiving it but especially of those giving it, while Justice can be a heavy burden to bear. With my whole heart, I believe that we should all aspire to lighten the burdens of another, whenever we are able to.
My darling child, you see what happens if you do not let your mother get a night’s rest with all your fussing? And still I cherish every kick, because I know they mean you are healthy, and strong and you are on your way. Please do not keep us waiting for much longer, we have so much to show you…
I will see you soon, my love!
Your mother
As Wyll put the final letter down, he looked at it for a long time, unable to calm the storm of emotions and ideas that was raging inside his heart and mind alike. Yes, there was the young boy inside of him, yearning for his mother’s embrace, eternally wounded by what he never got to experience. But there was also the man—the Blade, the Warlock, the Grand Duke, and so much more—and it was as if something suddenly clicked into place, a puzzle piece that Wyll had never known was even missing. He was his father's son, but his mother’s blood ran through his veins equally as red and hot, and part of her lived on in him.
Francesca’s words resonated with him so fiercely he found it hard to breathe for a moment. He stepped to the window and pushed it open, clarity filling his mind as the cool night air filled his lungs. It had always been so - him being torn between the life of a soldier and still enjoying courtly dance, or him showing no mercy to his opponents, but his heart growing soft for a wounded animal. Wyll Ravengard was the sum of all these parts, and they were what made him whole.
He knew what he had to do now, and he felt somewhat silly that he had been insecure about it even for a moment. Courage and kindness were not mutually exclusive, and forgiveness was possible even beyond justice. His duty as Grand Duke and as a Ravengard was with the people of his city, and it was up to him to speak for those that did not have voices.
Carefully, Wyll placed his mother’s letters inside a small ornate chest for safe-keeping, and then he got ready for the new day.
~
Ulder Ravengard did not believe in sleeping in, so he was already up reading the first batch of Flaming Fist reports at the kitchen table when his son joined him. He looked up and squinted at Wyll, then he leaned back in his chair.
“You’re up early. And you look like a man with a plan.” He observed casually and chuckled as Wyll smiled brightly.
“I am, but I’m also a man who knows when to keep a secret.” He leaned against a wooden pillar and stole a piece of bread from Ulder’s plate. “Let’s just say: when the Council and the Peers meet again, I will be more than well-prepared.”
Ulder hummed in approval, but could not hide the worry on his face.
“You will tell me if you need any help, right?”
But Wyll only laughed.
“Do you trust me, father?” He asked in a conversational tone, but he could not help but smile at Ulder’s immediate reply.
“Always and without question.”
“Good, then instead of your help, I ask for you to wish me luck, I shall need it.”
Snatching an apple from a bowl near the door, Wyll grinned a final time and strode out into the hall. He would be busy these next few days, but if everything worked out, Baldur’s Gate would be a better place for it.
~
The next meeting between the Council of Four and the Parliament of Peers was called barely a tenday later, and it was extraordinary in more than one way. Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard had assumed the role of the host this time, and instead of an Upper City villa, he had picked the audience hall at Wyrm’s Rock as a location, and he talked for an entire hour.
When he was done, the other Dukes and the present Peers were staring at him with open mouths, barely believing what they had just heard.
Within only days, Wyll had hammered out an agreement with the remaining Gondians, who agreed to reshape the former Steelwatcher Foundry into affordable housing for refugees and homeless Baldurians alike. He had cleared the tunnels underneath the structure of each and every remaining Banite, with the help of some of the freed vampire spawn that wanted to prove their usefulness and loyalty to the Gate. On top of that, he had brought in the Guild, who were ready to begin a tentative relationship with the city leaders—apparently, Nine-Fingers Keene had discovered patriotism somewhere south of the Absolute crisis—and they would provide security for Lower City properties during the rebuilding measures.
When Wyll finally proposed that similar measures should be looked at for other properties in the city, the dam broke and as so often, it was Lady Linnacker who spoke her mind the loudest.
“You cannot do this!” She said hotly. “This was not on the agenda! There are procedures for these things, there are rules ! Who do you think you are that you can just…!”
‘Wisdom .’ Wyll thought, as he gently took the patriar’s hand in his. ‘Kindness…’
“I, dear Lady Linnacker, am the Grand Duke of the Council. Neither am I one of your underlings, nor am I a naive boy you can bully into submission. It is well within my rights to bring to the agenda each and every proposal I see fit. You would do well to study the rules again so you can be better prepared next time—and now I suggest you take your seat with haste.” His voice never rose above a soft, conversational tone and maybe that was what made Linnacker even consider opening her mouth again, but Wyll cut her off instantly.
“Sit. Down. Now , Lady Linnacker.” He repeated, with more than a subtle edge to his voice now, and the older patriar finally complied, followed by an uneasy silence within the hall.
“I’ll say, Ravengard!” Duke Dillard Portyr’s lazy drawl echoed back from the high walls. “What makes you believe the Council will agree to all of that, willy-nilly?”
“Because…” Wyll said with a quick glance over at his father, who had joined the meeting as an observer, “it would be the just and kind thing for us to do. And are we not all capable of showing some kindness?”
The silence was so thick, Wyll could have sliced it in half with his rapier. But he was prepared for this reaction.
“In fact, esteemed lords and ladies, let me show you some kindness here and now!” He exclaimed and moved to the middle of the room with flourish, presenting a shimmering gem from his pocket.
“This here has been sent to me by my good friend Gale Dekarios, you may have heard of him. And when I place it here and whisper the right phrase, it will take us back a little while, to remind us how far we have come…”
The light in the audience hall suddenly dimmed and the gem began to produce an eerie, blue light that painted the room all the way to the ceiling. Clearly, the Weave was at work here. Figures began to appear, one after the other, and within mere moments, the first Council members gasped out loud as understanding hit them. They were looking at a ghostly image of the night of Gortash’s coronation, and all of those now serving as Dukes or Peers found their own past figure in the crowd. Wyll whispered another incantation and sound filled the room, chatter and the clinking of goblets were audible, but slightly distorted.
“What glory, our city. And what glory, its future!” The past image of Duke Portyr toasted happily, raising his goblet to the tyrant Enver Gortash, while his present-time counterpart turned a deep shade of pink and looked at the floor.
“Archduke Gortash, man of the people. The right people!” Said the image of Lady Linnacker, loud and clear and with a distinctively happy tone in her voice. The real Lady Linnacker was uncharacteristically silent.
More and more of the present patriars found themselves confronted with the past words they so dearly hoped history had forgotten, until Wyll commanded the gem into silence again and spoke up.
“None of you, not a single one defied Gortash back on that fateful day.” He said in a clear, stern voice. “And I do not even blame you for that. What I do blame you for, though, is how enthusiastically you followed his every honeyed word, how you cheered for him, how you disregarded the people’s needs, once more only having your very own interests in mind.”
He walked around the table once again, only this time, none of the seasoned politicians seemed able to meet his eye.
“But I promised you kindness, and kindness is what you will get, because I am offering you a choice today.” Wyll pointed at a small table, just in the corner by a window, where a man was sitting. “This dwarven gentleman over there is Malek Stone, the newest editor-in-chief of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette.”
Several heads whipped around at that point. For all their aloofness, each and every noble at the Gate had an invested interest in not getting on the most popular broadsheet’s bad side.
“As of now, he has to choose between two headlines for tomorrow’s issue, and he would like your opinion on which one he should pick.” Wyll continued, and had to suppress a smile as he saw awareness of what was happening here dawn on some faces. “Would you please tell the esteemed lords and ladies of the heavy choice you have to make, Mister Stone, after witnessing today’s events in this hall?”
The dwarf gave a low chuckle and glanced over his notes.
“Well, Your Grace, we have ‘Council of Four Agrees To Support Housing Plan’ on the one hand, and ‘Which Patriar Families Groveled Before Gortash - An Eye Witness Report’ on the other. I admit, the latter one will sell more copies, but I would rather print the first one!”
Wyll turned around to face the Council and Parliament members and put out his arms wide, an honest smile on his face.
“Wouldn’t you agree that kindness is a virtue we should all strive to find in ourselves?”
~
Wyll was having breakfast the morning after the meeting when his father barged into the kitchen and slammed a brand new issue of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette onto the table. He was smiling wider than Wyll had seen him smile in years.
“I never doubted your place on the Council before, son, but this was a masterpiece!” Ulder beamed and slapped his son’s back. “Pride of the Gate indeed! This city is in good hands with you, truly.”
With a grin, Wyll shrugged and shoved a grape into his mouth.
“I guess ‘killing them with kindness’ is more than just a proverb.” He said and picked up the broadsheet. It had been smooth sailing for the rest of the meeting after he had put the choice on the proverbial table, but seeing the headline printed now actually did fill Wyll with pride. They had managed to do a good thing for this city and its people, that was as good a reward as anything.
As he looked up, he realised that his father was watching him with a thoughtful frown.
“Don’t get me wrong, Wyll, but you seem different, in a good way. Like you found your footing.” Ulder snatched a handful of grapes himself and leaned back in his chair. “How so?”
And when his father, as relaxed as Wyll had ever seen him, threw a grape into the air and caught it with his mouth, he saw for the first time the young man that his mother’s letters described so lovingly, the bad poet who would happily steal fruit for his beloved.
“Ah, there is a story, father… If you are in the mood for one, put the kettle on and I shall be back presently. There is something I need to fetch from my chambers - something I would very much like you to read…”