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Jaheira laid her black formal clothes out on top of the cedar trunk and waived the cleaning stone over them. The magic removed dirt and even wrinkles, but it left an unnatural vapor on the air, not so much a scent as a cold feeling in her head, behind the nose. She held her breath and winced through it, because she needed her formalwear again today, for the second time in as many moons.
Her hip was aching. Sitting on the bed, she pulled on the trousers, then the blouse and the jacket. The outfit was smooth to the touch and fine, black silk embroidered with a subtle pink and cream floral pattern. She liked the look of it, but frowned in the mirror as she stretched her arms. The jacket restricted her movement too much. There wouldn’t be any fighting today, but she didn’t like to feel contained. This was just the instinct of a veteran combatant.
She ran a comb through her thin silver and blonde hair, and she touched a bit of powder to her face. The wrinkles and spots would blend away easily enough, but no magic could remove the weariness in her eyes. I feel tired, old friend.
Jaheira left the shared lodging without telling anyone she would be going to the House of Grief. The door was open when she arrived. There were signs of yesterday’s battle everywhere.
She stepped over a couple of bodies in the parlor, and followed the trail of blood and destruction down the stairs to the chapel at the center of the Sharran temple below. The fighting in this room had been vicious. Jaheira looked from corpse to corpse, a dozen dead Sharrans, until her eyes fell on the body of a drow woman in the robes of a high priestess.
Jaheira’s bones creaked as she kneeled on the stone next to the body and took the priestess’ hand in hers. The blood, still wet on the floor, dampened her silk trousers. Tears wet her eyes. “Viconia—”
Their last meeting was at the Pleasure House, where they could find a private table and not risk the suspicions that might naturally arise from the monthly meeting between the esteemed High Harper and the Mother Superior of Shar, or for that matter between high half-elf and drow.
Jaheira and Viconia had been through the shit together during the Bhaalspawn crisis, and they had a few times shared a bed. Their differences ran deep—long ago they learned there were some things they just shouldn’t talk about, and there were things a Harper just didn’t want to know—but Jaheira and Viconia were friends.
“It’s floral, not too sweet, with a hint of woody flavor,” Jaheira said as she pinched a fingerful of leaves from a pouch, to drop them in Viconia’s cup and then again into her own. Viconia poured hot water into their cups, Jaheira’s first, and then for herself.
The two women waited for the tea to steep.
Jaheira tasted a small piece of chocolate.
Viconia waved her hand over her cup to waft the scent to her nose. “It smells lovely,” she said. “You always know the best leaves.”
“And you have a soft spot for the rustic flavors,” said Jaheira.
“Maybe just for you.”
The two women smiled, then sipped their tea.
“Minsc passed away,” Jaheira said, resting her cup on its saucer.
“How did it happen?”
“Heart attack. Apparently, he was trading at the grain market and just fell over right there,” Jaheira said, looking down at the golden brown liquid in her cup. “All the times he rushed headlong at whatever crazy monster... all the reckless, stupid things we did. And this is how fate decided to take him.”
“It comes for all of us,” said Viconia, “and rarely in the ways we would expect, or wish for.”
“The funeral is in two days. Will you come?”
“I’ll send flowers,” said Viconia. “You know what would happen if I—”
“Nobody would do anything,” said Jaheira, “or they would have to answer to me.”
“Jaheira, you always take on too many burdens for others.”
“For my friends.”
“When will you come visit me at the House of Grief?”
Jaheira laughed. “Vivi... You still won’t give up on that, trying to ‘unburden’ me—”
“We’re old, Jaheira. We’ve seen too much. It’s okay to want to let go.”
“Forgetting is not the same as letting go,” said Jaheira. “I choose to remember my friends when they are gone. I would never accept forgetting the good times, just to be free of the grief.”
“Will you remember our good times?”
Jaheira squeezed Viconia’s hand. “Always.”
The Harper’s tears fell on the Sharran’s hand, now cold in her own. “You finally got me to visit your House of Grief,” she said, “but I’m not here to forget. I’ll never forget you, Vivi.”
Jaheira cast a spell of preservation on her friend’s body and another spell to clean away the blood. She carefully wrapped a black silk shroud around Viconia, then stood, slowly, on her aching knees. The body collectors would be here soon. Jaheira would make sure her friend was laid to rest with dignity. And she would remember.