Chapter 7 - Company
To My Dear Distinguished Colleagues:
We need no longer call “the dead one” by such as an anticipatory gesture, for he is now truly dead.
My suspicions began when I overheard Veil repeating Alaundo’s prophecy over and over in a corner of the southern libraries. Yes, that prophecy. I am nearly certain she has never read it before, even more certain she has not memorized it, and what’s more she was reciting it backwards. She then collapsed and did not awake for another hour, retaining no memory of the episode.
As I said, this had my suspicions peaked, and I sought an audience with Lord Oghma for verification. I had the honor of witnessing him cast the divination, and he confirmed my beliefs. The dead one is indeed dead.
This does not seem to have had any lasting effect on Veil. She seemed a bit perturbed by her spontaneous lapse of consciousness, but is otherwise right as rain. I am inclined to be optimistic, and think that the passing of the dead one can only be good news for Veil. She has shown no sign of feeling his influence, but I can now be certain she never will.
Sincerely,
Gorion
--
He wore the biggest hat Mijandra had ever seen. Very big and very red. Briefly Mijandra wondered if her visions had moved away from the morbid and were now throwing clowns at her.
He was rather different from most clowns she’d seen, though. No make-up, and a respectable beard covering much of a wise old face. Still, there was something about him – besides his big hat and vibrant red robes – that made him seem bright and comical and so utterly harmless, and Mijandra almost found herself wanting to smile. She had always liked clowns.
It soon became certain that he was not a vision, at least, when Imoen returned his greeting. “Heya, mister.”
“Hello,” Mijandra followed.
The man smiled. “Would ye stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man? It’s been nigh unto a tenday since I’ve seen a soul walking this road, and I’ve been without decent conversation since.”
“Okay,” Mijandra answered, turning in time to see Imoen’s look of surprise. The faintest of amused smiles touched Mijandra’s lips, and Imoen was shortly sticking her tongue out in response.
The man’s smile widened at their antics, confusing as they no doubt were, before sitting against a nearby boulder with a groaning sigh. Shaking his head he fixed the two girls before him with a curious stare. “Traveling nowadays appears to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. If ye would pardon my intrusion, might I inquire which pertains to thee?”
Mijandra was silent a moment, then shook her head slightly. “I don’t like either.”
The man smiled wryly. “I would imagine not, but one need not always like an answer for it to be correct.”
Imoen groaned. “Oh, gods, that’s cheesy. Do you old people go through special training to learn to spew stuff like that, or does it just come naturally with age?”
The man’s eyebrows rose, and then he broke into a chuckle. Once again Mijandra was impressed. Imoen always seemed to know who could appreciate a good ribbing and who couldn’t. “It takes training of a sort, spirited one,” the old man answered warmly.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Imoen said, making an exaggerated show of wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. “And say, why are you dressed like Elminster?”
Elminster? ‘Oh, right, the great sage of Shadowdale.’ Mijandra wondered how Imoen would know how Elminster dresses, but then if you’re one of the most powerful mages in the realms information about you probably gets around. And Imoen tended to read everything she could about magic, determined to learn wizardry despite abandoning her formal magic lessons. Mijandra had sat in on a lesson once, and was convinced they’d given Imoen the dullest, driest, and most tangent-prone magic teacher in all of Candlekeep to deliberately dissuade her from ever learning it, most likely thinking she got into enough mischief already without magic at her disposal.
Presently the man sitting against a boulder raised an eyebrow. “And what makes ye assume I am not he?” he answered Imoen.
“Oh, come on. Elminster wouldn’t be walking on some road; he can teleport. And if for some reason he couldn’t, he could surely afford a horse.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure Elminster would walk on occasion,” the old man responded. “He needs to keep a stout pair of legs under him as much as the next person. He can’t always have horses and teleport spells at the ready when trouble arises.”
“Yeah, well, you still haven’t answered my question. Why ya dressed like him?” Imoen continued without even waiting for an answer. “And what was with that goofy question, anyway? I think I know what your answer would be. Pestering strangers about their mental state doesn’t seem too well-adjusted to me.”
The old man chuckled again. “Point well taken, and ye have answered my query most adequately. I shall think of the two of thee as determined. Does that satisfy thee?” the old man asked Mijandra, who eventually nodded. He lifted a hand to dip his hat at them. “Then I shall trouble thee no more, as ye are more than capable of the task at hand. North is the Friendly Arm Inn, where I am certain ye shall find trustworthy friends awaiting. It was a privilege speaking with both of thee.” He smiled with the slight emphasis on ‘both’. “Fare thee well.” Then with admirable speed for an old man he was off.
Several moments passed in silence before Imoen’s mouth finally fell open to utter, “Huh?” Mijandra agreed with the sentiment completely. Task at hand? And how could he know about Jaheira and Khalid?
It soon became certain to Mijandra that the man in the big red hat had not been a clown, either. Yet despite it all he still seemed harmless, and Imoen and Mijandra were quickly on their way.
It had been a good morning. No visions, no path. Not like last night. But Mijandra could feel, in the strange pressure in her mind, in her bones, that it was only a matter of time. Reverie had strengthened her, as it always had against one strife or another, but this was different from anything before. The path would find her again.
When the time came and it finally did some time in the afternoon, her reaction was much more to her liking than those of the previous day. She got angry. Not that she liked anger – it was dangerous, it made her stupid – but it was still better than fear, better than weakness, and far more familiar. She knew how to handle anger. She’d been doing it for a long time.
She could handle it so well Imoen didn’t suspect anything was wrong until Mijandra clipped a tree with her shoulder. It helped that the visions weren’t as crippling as before. She saw the black forest, saw black, white, and red, but at the same time she could also see normally. It was all mixed together in a confusing mess that was difficult, but not impossible to make sense of. And she could still hear.
But hearing was also a mess, for there was one thing that was worse than the day before. Much worse. She now knew some of what awaited her at the end of the path. Ice. Red ice. Death. It sang to her from the path. It sang to her from within her veins. It flowed there, vibrating with perverse excitement, ready to rise to the surface, ready to kill at her command, ready to subvert her to its will. She ignored it as she did the path, but as with the path that did not make it go away.
The sun was setting when they finally reached the gates of the Friendly Arm Inn. Imoen held Mijandra’s arm as they approached the guards. Mijandra suffered no physical weakness this time, but Imoen insisted on guiding her after seeing her nearly trip on a pebble. It only made Mijandra angrier, furious even. Not that she minded depending on Imoen; that was an every day – every second – occurrence. Depending on Imoen for this, though, for just walking straight, was new. But the real irritation, and worry, was that she couldn’t protect Imoen in this state.
Not that Imoen saw any of her anger. Mijandra never allowed that.
“Welcome to the Friendly Arm,” the guard on the left said uneasily. “May I trust the blood on your armor was acquired honestly?” Imoen began to squirm slightly, and Mijandra predicted their next conversation would start with ‘I told you it wasn’t clean enough.’
“W-what do you mean honestly, mister?” Imoen asked.
The guard frowned. “Self-defense,” he answered, as if it should be obvious to any decent person.
“Oh, oh! Yeah, yeah. There were bandits, and…,” Imoen took a breath before continuing, only to be interrupted.
“You two fended off bandits all by yourselves?” asked the guard on the right. Before Imoen could answer he turned to the other guard, “That armor she’s wearing looks a bit beyond their means, eh sir?”
Mijandra had to fight not to respond to that, as it would have been a very angry response. Fortunately, the guard on the left brought an end to any further accusations.
“Nah, they don’t look the bandit sort. I ain’t never seen an elven bandit around here, and this one is little more than a child.” His mouth twitched as Imoen’s nervous look turned into a scowl. “Jumpy little thing, too. Wouldn’t make much of a bandit.”
“But sir…,” the guard on the right started after Mijandra squeezed Imoen’s hand to stop her from proclaiming that she’d make a great bandit.
The guard on the left shook his head and leveled a stern look at his comrade. “We ain’t Flaming Fist, Harold. We don’t get no medals for catching bandits. We just keep the Friendly Arm safe. Even bandits know not to cause trouble here, and if these two are bandits I’ll eat my helmet.”
“I’d like to see that,” Imoen grumbled.
The guard turned back to them. “You two look like you’ve had an especially rough time out there. Especially you,” the guard said looking at Mijandra. “You look like you could use some attention from our priestess.” Even on good days Mijandra spared little concern for her appearance, so she managed not to take offense at being told she looked bad enough to need divine assistance.
“Maybe that’s not a bad idea, Mijandra,” Imoen said.
Mijandra shook her head and said simply, “Need money.”
“Aye,” the guard on the right nodded, filled with confidence by his superior’s proffered helmet-eating and now completely free of suspicion. “Unless you two are the tallest gnomes I’ve ever seen you’ll likely need a few coin.” He paused to wait for confusion to cross their – or at least Imoen’s – faces before continuing, “She’s a cleric of Garl Glittergold.”
Imoen nodded in understanding, though Mijandra was still left in the dark. “Patron god of gnomes,” Imoen explained to her.
The left guard clapped his hands together. “Well, I’m sure you could use some safety, at least, and we’ve some well-priced beds for travelers a bit down on their luck. You can come on in, though I must ask if you know the rules.”
“Rules?” Imoen asked.
“That would be a no, then? ‘Rules’ is perhaps a touch too formal, nothing written down exactly. And let me start with a bit of general advice: guards don’t like seeing folks covered in bloodstains. I’d suggest you get some new armor, miss.” Mijandra said nothing. “Right. Now.” The guard cleared his throat, and all tone of casual banter left his voice. “It is accepted, that while herein you will act with the utmost of civility to all other guests. This is neutral ground, and all grievances are left at the gates. If the grievances come in, then you will go out. Any fighting or stealing within sight of these walls will be met with the fullest of frontier justice.”
“If you catch the thief,” Imoen added with a wink, and despite her mood Mijandra almost smiled.
The guard frowned again. “Another bit of advice, miss. Guards don’t like being winked at.”
“Yes, sir,” Imoen responded with a salute, and the guard’s mouth twitched again.
“Enjoy your stay,” he said, waving them in.
“You know, we have money, Mijandra. We could go see the priestess,” Imoen said once they were away from the guards.
Mijandra took a deep breath. “This is a lot more than a common blessing can fix, Im. If the priestess can do anything, it’s sure to cost a lot more than we have.”
“Well, we could check at least, couldn’t we?”
Mijandra shook her head. “It’s not a good idea to let people know I have power over death. There’s enough people after me already, eh?” Mijandra said with an ironic smile that Imoen could rarely resist.
This time was no different, and Imoen was soon giggling and biting her lip. “Yeah, good point.” Then she leaned in for a kiss, which Mijandra was only too glad to accept as a remedy for her current mood.
Unfortunately the kiss was interrupted, which was very bad for her mood. A man-shape in robes, difficult to discern with the sun directly behind him and the chaos in Mijandra’s vision, approached them. In an unfamiliar voice and a tone that immediately set Mijandra on edge he began, “Hi friend. I’ve not seen you here before today. What bri-”
He finished prematurely when Mijandra planted her fist in his face. “I am not your friend. You do not know me.” Using the word ‘friend’ casually had always bothered her, and his timing was terrible. Her intuition told her his motives were far from benign, and her temper had finally broken free of her control.
“How rude,” the man said, gently feeling his jaw as he got up. “No really, that is utterly rude of you. I’d teach you a lesson about manners, but that implies that you are going to live.” Mijandra saw it now. Flecks of red danced around him with affection. Death was this man’s friend. His business. An assassin. “If I weren’t going to anyway, I’d kill you just for being so uppity.” Then, either not noticing or ignoring the guards that were approaching after seeing Mijandra’s attack, he began the motions and incantations of spellcasting.
Mijandra lunged at him, but she was not at her best and he was expecting her now, and easily dodged away without breaking his spell. Mijandra turned with blades drawn as his spell finished, only to see that there were now five of him; four after an arrow shot through one, causing it to fade away.
“Mirror images!” Imoen shouted. “Only one of them is real!” As she spoke he began casting another spell, and Mijandra struggled to clear her head.
She hadn’t exerted herself today until now, and all the chaos in her senses left her dizzy. She soon saw she’d be getting no help from the guards, either, as the assassin finished his spell and sent them all running away in terror as Xzar had the bandits the day before.
Mijandra gritted her teeth. This did not look good.
--
“He is late.”
“Y-yes, he is dear. B-but only one d-day, no c-cause for worry I’m s-sure.”
“Any delay is cause for worry, Khalid. How much worry depends on how long the delay.”
Khalid sighed and bowed his head. “I-I wonder if you only ch-chafe at being idle f-for s-so long, dear. Is it s-so bad, to have some t-time to ourselves to r-relax?”
Jaheira smiled softly at her husband. “I cannot deny there is some truth to your words – at least, not and have you believe it.” She stopped to rest her hand over his on the table. “But the company does make the waiting much more bearable,” she said, squeezing his hand and broadening her smile ever so slightly. Khalid returned the smile, and Jaheira relished in one of the few moments of open affection that she allowed herself.
Short as that moment would have been, it still managed to be interrupted, by a scream from outside as it turned out. A scream of a name. The name of one of those they were waiting for.
“MIJANDRA!!!”
Deviant Hearts Archive | Back to main index