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Mirtul 1470
Baldur’s Gate
“Ah, Eliwyn, there you are! Come, join us!” Lady Abelea Caldwell says as if just noticing Eliwyn for the first time.
In truth, Eliwyn has been at her elbow since her arrival. Her father was right after all it seems. Eliwyn does tend to go largely unnoticed by the patriars. Lady Caldwell holds out her hand for Eliwyn and tucks it into her arm.
Lady Caldwell leads the throng of patriars and other Baldurian elite through the outer garden and into the grand, glass building that glints before them in the sunlight. The entire building bursts with heat and sunlight and plants. So many plants! Treetops brush the ceiling, vines swoop this way and that, bright colors pop among large waxy leaves.
This botanical garden has been in the works for nearly forty years now, ever since the orchards that made the Caldwell’s their fortune fell victim to a devastating blight. Lord Wyllyck, a learned and talented alchemist, tried to find a cure, but the blight ran its course before he was successful. Luckily, the orchards recovered.
Yet in the process of his research he managed to uncover a new way of treating wood that made it far more water proof than any current methods. Lady Abelea, with her sense for business, made good use of her husband's discovery. Their wealth was rebuilt and even doubled. This garden—which Lord Wyllyck uses for his continued alchemical studies—is a testament of that good fortune.
Lord Wyllyck stands in the middle of the garden now, deep in discussion with a number of other men. Most are familiar to Eliwyn, but one stands out.
“Have you met the new Grand Marshal of the Flaming Fist, yet?” Lady Abelea murmurs into Eliwyn’s ear. When Eliwyn shakes her head Lady Caldwell says, “Oh, you simply must make his acquaintance. Lord Portyr has already decided he will be sitting on the council when it is reformed in a few months.”
Grand Marshal Abdel Adrian gives a curt bow as introductions are made. Black hair frames his unrelenting gaze which towers above Eliwyn. How fitting that the man who saved Baldur’s Gate a near century ago would be a giant of a man. Eliwyn drops into a curtsy, exchanges a few small pleasantries with the Grand Marshal, and is then pulled away by the gaggle of Lady Abelea’s friends.
A neat flagstone path winds through the circular garden. The numerous exotic plants are divided into sections based on which country or region in which they were originally cultivated. Kara-tur. Chult. Maztica. Mulholrand. Durpar. And many, many more.
Eliwyn breaks away unnoticed from the rest of the women when she spies the shoots of an allium plant. She lowers to inspect the plants further. They have amazing healing properties both in the bulb and the shoots. Perhaps Lord Caldwell might be willing to part with a couple of them. Her mother would dearly love to have such a—
The back of her neck prickles. Eliwyn turns sharply to find dark eyes staring straight at her. She stands and stiffens at the sudden presence of the Grand Marshal.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he says. His eyes soften with a small smile. “Do you have an interest in botany, Miss Torleth?”
“My mother is a midwife. My interest is more on her behalf. Though one can hardly fail to be awed by this splendor,” she says, sweeping a hand towards the burgeoning flora.
Grand Marshal Adrian offers his arm to her and the two stroll along the path. They talk a little, mostly of Eliwyn and her life and her family. The marshal appears to be the reticent sort. He answers her questions without hesitation but he offers very little extra detail. Still, his company is quite pleasant and Eliwyn finds herself quite at her leisure.
They pass beneath the canopy of various trees brought over from Chult. The path curves around the many trunks of teak and rubber and cork.
“I was very sorry when Blaze Ravengard told me of Francesca’s death. I understand you were close with her,” says Grand Marshal Adrian.
It’s been two years since that day. The darkness of it all still shrouds Eliwyn’s heart. A lump in her throat sits thick and heavy.
“It is good of you to care for the boy,” the marshal continues. “It cannot be easy. I imagine he serves as something of a reminder of her.”
Eliwyn sighs heavily, then tilts her head at him. A shadow of melancholy obscures the kindness that has so far been in his eyes. He has known loss. Much loss. More than a normal human should, perhaps.
“From death, life. That is what Lathander teaches us,” she says, a finger drifting to the pendant at her neck. The symbol of the Morninglord rests ever just above her heart.
Grand Marshal Adrian is quiet for some moments. “You are lucky to have the favor of such a good and well-respected deity.”
”I’m not sure I have the Morninglord’s particular favor, but he does lend me his peace. For that, I am eternally grateful.”
A strange look that Eliwyn cannot place crosses his visage.
“Perhaps I might come to The Rose Portal next time you are at your duties?”
“Of course,” Eliwyn says with a gentle smile. “All are welcome at the shrine.”
With that, the duke bows and disappears around the other side of the copse. Eliwyn is left to puzzle over this strange new acquaintance.
And ponder she does.
***
Eliwyn’s father wipes away the remnants of their highsun meal from his hands. As Eliwyn packs up the dishes to take back home with her, he pulls out his quill and ink and the ledger he uses just for these meetings of theirs.
It is the same every tenday and has been for the past several years. Eliwyn joins him in his office at midday, they eat and talk, and then she apprises him of all the goings on amongst the upper echelon of Baldur’s Gate. His quill stays still for most of her reporting today. There is not much of interest happening now that the city is in a state of relative peace and stability.
“I met the new grand marshal yesterday,” she says.
Her father’s attention snaps. “And? What did you think of him?”
“I like him…I think.” Eliwyn says slowly. She’s still not entirely sorted out her impression of Grand Marshal Adrian despite their meeting completely consuming her thoughts. “He seems kind and reserved. I have the suspicion he does not like to stand out, which I find strange for someone of his renown.”
“Hm,” her father murmurs. He leans towards her. “What do you know of Abdel Adrian’s past?”
Eliwyn gives a small shrug. “As much as anyone, I suppose. He grew up in Candlekeep under the care of one of the wizards there. He adventured around Faerûn. And of course, I know of how he and his companions saved this city from one of Bhaal’s Chosen. You’ve told me that story plenty of times.”
“Indeed I have. But there is something I left out, a piece of Adrian’s past that is not well known among the citizens here.” A dense silence follows his words. “It is said that Abdel Adrian is a son of the god of murder. A Bhaalspawn.”
Eliwyn’s stomach hardens. A Bhaalspawn? But it cannot possibly be. “He defeated Saravok. He thwarted Bhaal’s plan—“
“And defied his sire, yes,” her father says in a low voice with a slow nod of his head. “Tell me, Eliwyn, did you sense any darkness in him?”
The final moments of her conversation with Adrian rush back to her. “There was a moment when I saw something, just behind his eyes…”
Her father’s quill hovers over the ledger. “Do you believe he is dangerous?”
She considers the question for a long while. The entirety of her time in Adrian’s presence plays slowly in her mind. His kind smile, his reluctance to speak overly much of himself, his words of understanding. And yes, the shadow that seemed to hang over him.
Eliwyn lifts her eyes to her father. “No,” she says with resolution. “He has the look of someone who is haunted. Or hunted. Maybe both. But not dangerous. Of that I am certain.”
Her father regards her for a moment. Then, he dips his quill and scratches a few words into the ledger.
Abdel Adrian—hunted.