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Because the white wines were kept submerged in a shallow, rocky alcove near Withers’s usual spot by the river, they were often overlooked. The reds were drunk at every opportunity — even by Astarion and Lae’zel, who made a ritual of complaining about their taste. If you fancied a mellow, buttery white you had to make an effort.
Wines of either color weren’t Tadeous’s first choice. When she chose to drink, which wasn’t often, she preferred a shot of Wyvern Whiskey, aged and sharp. Alas, no such prize had yet turned up amid the wreckage of derelict ruins, abandoned villages or cast-off crates. Even the Zhentarim trader they’d stumbled upon had only shrugged when she asked.
Ah well. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, she supposed.
She pulled a bottle from the water, almost dropping it as the chill bit into her fingers. Fighting the stopper, she glanced at Withers beside her — silent, patient, and as unmoving as ever.
“I’m curious, Withers,” she said, through gritted teeth, working the cork that refused to budge. “What is it you do all day while we’re out keeping goblins and ogres from taking us apart?”
Withers turned his desiccated face toward her. “I do what I must,” he said in his dusty, sepulchral voice.
“Right,” Tadeous muttered, exhaling. The cork creaked but held firm. There was no point asking more. He never gave more. Still, she wasn’t leaving until the bottle was open, and Withers remained a puzzle they all took turns trying to solve.
Just as she drew breath to ask another question, Withers spoke of his own accord. For the second time that evening, Tadeous had to steady the bottle before it slipped from her fingers.
“Dost, thou think a glass of wine will cure what ails him?” he asked, turning his hollow gaze toward the cluster of stones where Gale sat, arms looped around his knees. A gentle breeze stirred his wavy hair. The near-full moon left his face in shadow, but caught the grey threading through it, making it glint like wire.
“I doubt there’s much that can cure him — body, mind, or otherwise,” she said. “But a glass of Saerloonian Glowfire—” she paused, squinting at the label, then let out a low whistle at the year— “has been known to loosen the tongue.”
The cork gave with a soft pop, the sound small but sharp in the quiet. Gale didn’t move.
“Why the sudden interest in Gale?” she asked. Other than haunting their camp and offering to raise the dead, Withers rarely took notice of the living.
“It is not often one comes across a mortal whose wheel of fate spins in so many different directions,” he said, an unusually thoughtful note in his voice. “Or one who carries the potential within him to upend the natural order.”
“If you mean the power to blow up half a continent,” she said, “then yes, we’re agreed.”
“That is not what I meant,” Withers replied.
Tadeous waited, the silence stretching until it irritated her. “Are you going to tell me what you did mean?”
He regarded her for a long moment. “No.”
“Cryptic as ever.” She exhaled through her nose, half a sigh, half a laugh. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ve got wine to drink and a man to console,” she gave another heartfelt sigh. “Or at least talk out of wandering off to find a quiet spot to die in.”
She gripped the bottle in one hand and gathered tin mugs from the rock where she’d left them with the other. Stones shifted underfoot as she made her way toward Gale. The air smelled of wet earth and cattails. A light fog rose from the river, its tendrils creeping toward shore.
As she closed the distance her thoughts turned again to what Gale had shown her in that putrid bog— the crack of the binding as Gale opened the book, the shadowed tendrils of Weave surging out to devour him.
The pain had been overwhelming. In the memory, she could feel the Netherese magic forcing its way through Gale’s body, a pressure that stirred a similar darkness coiled inside her. She had matched him effort for effort, fighting not only to drive it back, but to keep her own memories from spilling into his waking mind.
As the magic turned on him, and he screamed for Mystra, she had wanted to scream with him. Part of her was still astonished he had survived at all. Another part understood exactly why he had.
Karlach and Wyll had taken it better than Astarion and Lae’zel. Shadowheart didn’t seem to care one way or another. Still, they had agreed that he could stay, which was what she’d wanted.
That hadn’t stopped the debate that followed at dinner. Gale had tactfully filled his plate and then drifted off toward the river while the rest of them argued about what to do if the Orb got hungry again.
Tadeous suggested keeping a box of magical trinkets on hand to give Gale when the Orb became ravenous. Astarion had called the idea idiotic, his tone suggesting “wasteful” was worse than “fatal.” That had been enough for her. She’d left her place by the campfire in search of a bottle and Gale.
Gale didn’t look up when she stopped beside him. Moonlight traced the line of his face — drawn, tired, faintly hollow.
“Drink?” she asked, holding up the bottle and mugs. “Not an Ondal white, and you’ll have to do without the crystal stemware, but it’s a decent year.”
He turned from the river, a flicker of wry surrender in his eyes. “Ordinarily, I’d offer a critique of the method,” he said, taking the cup with a thin smile, “but necessity renders hypocrisy unbecoming.” Tadeous set the mugs on a flat rock and poured until his was full. He nodded, murmuring thanks.
“I take it my predicament continues to provide them with ample conversation,” he said, gazing into his glass.
“Did you expect otherwise?” she asked, settling beside him. “After all, it was quite the revelation.”
“I expected to be cast out without ceremony,” Gale said. “That you’ve all chosen instead to stand beside me—well, it’s been some time since I’ve known such forbearance. Even so, I’d prefer not to be reduced to campfire conjecture.”
“Well, you did tell them there’s a bomb in your chest,” she said. “A little gossip is mild, considering.”
Gale snorted. “A fair point.”
They drank in silence. The wine was better than she’d expected — light, dry, a trace of pear beneath the warmth —not as much fun as an Ondal but she suspected a wild magic surge would benefit neither of them at the moment.
Keeping her eyes on the dark expanse of water ahead, Tadeous finally asked the question that had driven her here.
“If you ever feel the Netherese magic overtaking you, what will you do?”
Gale winced. “It’s never pleasant, discussing one’s own demise,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “Especially one as... spectacular as mine promises to be.” He looked up at the stars, gathering his words. “If it should ever come to that, if I ever know I am no longer able to stop it, I will do anything I can to ensure no one but me pays the price for my mistakes.”
Tadeous nodded. It was what she’d expected, it was what she would do, though the steadiness of his answer unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Gale continued speaking. “I will find the remotest place on the surface of Faerûn, or perhaps far below in the depths of the Underdark. I will await that death alone.”
“Without even saying goodbye?” she asked lightly. “I thought we meant more to each other than that.”
“I doubt there will be time for farewells—long or short—if I lose control of the Orb.” His smile was faint but real, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes as he looked at her. Longing, perhaps.
“I promise, I will not betray your trust,” he said, meeting her gaze in earnest. “You kept me by your side despite the menace that I am. If worse comes to worst, I will be gone long before the curtain falls.”
Well,” she murmured, “that’s... reassuring.” The monster that lived alongside the parasite in her head laughed. It relished Gale’s pain, wanted to drink it to the dregs. Her head throbbed with the effort of holding it back.
She hummed softly under her breath, an old Calimshan tune about a slave in love with his mistress. It sounded tragic but there was, in fact, a happy ending. The ache intensified then dulled by degrees until the monster settled back into watchful silence.
Gale lifted the bottle and poured more wine. He exhaled as though releasing something heavy with the breath. “It’s oddly freeing, telling someone,” he said. “Secrets make poor company... even ones like mine.”
“Are you in constant pain?” she asked. “Is there anything I—or we—can do?”
“You have already done more than enough,” Gale replied, taking a measured sip from his mug. “The pain is a fixed point, but its sharpness varies. When it hungers, it consumes every thought. When it is fed, it settles into a persistent ache—unwelcome, but tolerable.”
Tadeous nodded. Some people carried their pain on their sleeves. Others, like Gale, hid it beneath a veneer of easy charm and practiced warmth. It was hard to say which was more dangerous; pain that spilled outward and cut those nearby, or pain buried deep enough that it only eroded the one who carried it.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
“I wanted to find a cure for the tadpoles first,” he said, swirling the wine. “Turning into a mind flayer wouldn’t exactly help stabilize the Orb. You can imagine how that might complicate things.” He tipped the bottle toward her in question.
She shook her head. One glass was enough.
He drank, then set the cup down carefully. “I was also hoping that, by the time I had no choice but to confess, you might think well enough of me to let me stay.”
"In that, you were correct," she said, raising her cup in a toast in his direction. Inside, though, her composure wavered. The thought of him leaving — of her letting him — brought the expected heaviness. It wouldn’t be long before she needed to pay her own price.
If the time came, she wondered, would she try to stop him? Or follow? Either way, it would be an ending of sorts. Perhaps even a peaceful one.
She set the cup aside and, in a bid to steady her thoughts, steered the conversation elsewhere. “In your vision,” she said, “you cried out for Mystra. Did she ever come?”
Gale pursed his lips, considering. “Not exactly. Well, not in person — but she knew. The moment I opened that book, she knew. There was no summons, no reprimand, but I could feel her fury burning through the Weave. Later, I received a visit from an old friend. Another Chosen. He was sent to make her opinion... unmistakably clear.”
“Why wouldn’t she help?” Tadeous asked. She knew the gods could be capricious, but Mystra’s indifference toward one of her own seemed almost cruel.
“Perhaps she can’t,” Gale said softly. “Or perhaps she believes I should bear the weight of my ambition. Maybe she’s angry that my reach exceeded my grasp, and the Sword Coast now trembles for it. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. I defied her. Gods rarely forgive defiance.”
“Yes, but how does opening a book count as defiance?” Tadeous pressed. “Doesn’t Mystra want wizards to seek knowledge?”
“It’s about intent,” Gale said, wincing faintly. “I wasn’t chasing forbidden lore out of morbid curiosity. I wanted to prove I could master the power she keeps locked away. To show her I was worthy of it.” He gave a small, self-mocking shrug. “My ambition was my undoing, in more ways than one.”
Tadeous considered this, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with ambition,” she said. “It’s what you’re willing to lose for it that decides the rest.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Exactly. Which brings us, I think, to the end of this mournful dissection.” He glanced at her, the edge of a smile returning. “But since we’re trading answers tonight, I admit I have a question of my own. You needn’t answer — though I confess, I’m rather curious.”
“Asking is free,” she said, an impish grin tugging at her mouth. “Answers, though — those come at a cost.”
Gale’s smile was faint but warm. “A cost I might afford someday,” he said, that flicker of longing back in his eyes. “Just not tonight.”
Tadeous studied him for a moment, trying to read the intent behind the charm. It hardly mattered. When the moment called for it, she could lie as easily as breathing. “Hmm. I might let the answers go on credit, provided payment is eventually made.”
He watched her for a heartbeat, then inclined his head, as though accepting terms to a bargain only half in jest.
“Credit, then,” he said. “Dangerous, in my experience. Debts like that have a way of coming due at inconvenient moments.”
A trace of real amusement softened his features. “Still,” he added, “I find myself tempted to take the risk. It's your accent. I can't quite place it."
"I don't have an accent. I sound as much of a Waterdhavian as you do," she exclaimed, her voice betraying her irritation. Of course he’d noticed. He had spent years training with wizards from every corner of Faerûn, chanting incantations in half a dozen tongues.
“Sound is the important part,” he said, leaning against the rock behind him. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s almost perfect. Most of Waterdeep would never hear anything amiss.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t because there’s nothing to hear.” She laughed, hoping it would drown the prickle of unease along her spine.
“Oh, it’s there,” Gale said, with the quiet satisfaction of a man certain of his conclusion. “You stretch your vowels just a touch longer than you need to, and you roll your r’s, just a little. It’s the lilt that betrays you—soft, musical. Most people would assume it’s a quirk of your musical training.”
“But you don’t.” She drew a steadying breath, forcing her lungs to behave.
“Not for a moment,” he murmured. “I just can’t quite ascertain where it’s from.”
She said nothing at first, turning the question over in her mind. Telling him might change nothing; on the other hand, he was clever enough to draw lines she had no wish to connect. Still, he had entrusted her with something monumental—forced or not.
She squared her shoulders, twisted one of her curls around her index finger. “I was raised on the Moonshaes,” she said at last. “Not that there’s any good reason to keep it quiet, but people tend to jump to conclusions when they find out.”
“You mean the Rusting?”
“Indeed.” The smile slipped from her face. “A curse that turns flesh and fur to metal, which then flakes away until there’s nothing left but dust. It’s spreading, but I’m free of it.”
“Well, I suspect we’d have noticed if you were more metal than skin,” Gale said. “When did you leave?”
“I was sixteen and full of myself,” she replied. “I wanted to be a bard. The best in all Faerûn. Hard to manage that in an isolated enclave, no matter how scenic.” She shifted restlessly on the rock. It was getting colder.
“And your parents? What did they think?”
“It was difficult.” Her voice softened. “Half-elves don’t live as long as full-blooded elves, you know. There’s a fair chance they’ll never see me again. But they understood. My father always said you can’t cage the wind.”
“Elves? Both of them?” Gale sounded genuinely surprised.
“I was adopted,” she said, the words coming out short and flat. “Long story.”
She fell silent, listening for voices from the campfire. Nothing but the river and the crackle of distant embers met her ears.
“A story for another time,” she decided. Then, with a deliberate shift in tone, “Unless you’d care to hear it in my tent?” She pitched it lightly, fully expecting the usual blush and retreat.
He did not disappoint. “Another time, perhaps. Otherwise, we might be up until dawn.” A gentle smile tugged at his mouth. “Not that I’d object. Thank you—for coming to find me, and for reminding me I’m not entirely alone. If I can ever return the favor…” He let the promise hang, then rose and gathered the half-empty bottle and the mugs.
“I’ll leave these by the cookpot and see to them in the morning,” he said.
She watched him walk along the river’s edge, pass by Withers, then turn toward the tents and vanish into the dark.
The thing in her head stirred and growled its displeasure. She was going to have to deal with that. And soon.