Chapter Text
It’s only a murmur at first. One more of the Mighty Nein has married, with a small but beautiful wedding in the Menagerie Coast. The Bright Queen is mildly offended to have been both uninformed and uninvited - particularly after the same offense had been given by both the Lavorres and the Nydoorins - but sends her regards, nevertheless. Then the curious part makes its way through the grapevine into Xhorhas. For Caleb Widogast had always been almost overly friendly with the late Shadowhand, and all the whispers name his new husband Essek.
It’s absurd, of course - Shadowhand Essek perished in the Astral Sea years ago. The Mighty Nein had given the tearful report themselves, and what reason had they to lie? His replacement had made sure, regardless; scrying had turned up no trace. But the Dynasty is nothing if not thorough, and so the first Taskhand to volunteer finds himself far away from home with a mystery to solve.
The rumors get clearer the closer he gets to the Nein’s favorite haunts. The Taskhand’s heart skips a beat the first time someone suggests the mysterious husband is indeed a drow, and is surprised that most others he asks confirm it.
He gets nothing from the Blooming Grove. It’s difficult to tell whether the firbolg, the aasimar, and the tiefling are playing dumb or not playing at all, though he suspects it’s a mix of the two. They run him in circles with intentional misunderstandings, and he writes them off as a lost cause at the end of two days.
The Lavorres are even less helpful, though this time he’s absolutely certain it’s on purpose.
He goes to the monk, next; he wrings out of the others that she spends most of her time at the Cobalt Soul in Rexxentrum these days, and from there it’s easy enough to track down her home and wait there. She rolls her eyes when he explains his business, but agrees to let him question her as she sits down for dinner.
“It’s a common name,” she says through a mouthful of food, when he brings up the coincidence.
“It really isn’t,” the Taskhand replies.
She shrugs. “You know I met a guy named Bo once? That was pretty weird.” She pauses to chew for a moment. “Cause my name’s Beau.” Before he can press further, she waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “Listen, man, I met the Shadowhand and I know Caleb’s husband. Definitely not the same guy. Trust me.”
She points him with a heavy sigh in the direction of the Brenattos, whose brand new apothecary is nestled into a bright little street in Nicodranas. A grinning little boy answers the door, but is quickly shuffled behind a pair of stone-faced halflings. He begins the same way as he had with the others, but gets not even so far as his first question before finding a crossbow aimed directly between the eyes.
None of it is enough. He will get no information from these people, and it isn’t worth getting shot to try. What he needs, in the end, is to find Caleb Widogast, himself.
The Taskhand considers waiting there. By all accounts, the man and Veth Brenatto are close as friends can be, and he’s almost guaranteed to find him if he waits here long enough. But he’s itchy to find what he can as quickly as possible, and instead he asks around some more.
It isn’t easy. The leads almost always take him either nowhere, or to yet another cryptic clue in this odd scavenger hunt. The wizard in Nicodranas claims not to have seen him in years, despite assurances from the local courtesan that he had been seen entering the tower not a month ago. A shopkeep in Zadash runs him around for nearly an hour before at last admitting that he has no information, but would the Taskhand like to buy a potion anyway?
Then, at last, by chance, he sees him. Passing through the town of Trostenwald on the word of a guard in Alfield, he passes by a red-haired wizard in the market, speaking with a Zemnian accent and wearing a ring on his finger.
“Caleb Widogast?”
The man turns, surprise and apprehension on his face as he takes in the Taskhand’s armor. Nothing too conspicuous in the heart of the Empire, but clearly of Rosohna to those who know what to look for. The helmet must be the most intimidating part of it, even without the usual beetle-like shape.
The Taskhand bows. “I have business with you, on behalf of the Bright Queen.”
Caleb shows him to a little, nondescript house on a little, nondescript street. It seems his aversion to revealing his hiding place is outweighed by his desire to have this conversation somewhere private. With the door firmly locked behind them, Caleb sets about drawing a teleportation circle on the floor as they speak. A tactic to draw the Taskhand’s attention away from his reactions, perhaps?
“Your husband.” No reason not to get to the point.
Caleb’s fingers catch in their pattern for just the shortest instant, but it’s enough to catch the Taskhand’s attention. “Ja, what about him?”
“Word has reached the dynasty that he may be someone of interest.” He clasps both hands behind him, clutching his own fingers a bit too tightly. “Someone we were told was no longer with us in this life.”
Caleb tilts his head a moment, as though trying to remember something. “Ah,” he says at last. “The Shadowhand, you mean. No, he is not.”
The Taskhand arches an eyebrow. “Is he present?” he asks. “I would like to meet him for myself before returning to the Bright Queen.”
“Ah, no,” Caleb says apologetically. “He did not accompany me to the city.”
“Where is he, then?”
Caleb’s fingers drum against the wood floor. “He has business elsewhere, I did not ask.”
The Taskhand moves to stand across the circle from Caleb. “I’m very curious,” he says, “where did you meet a drow outside of Xhorhas?”
Caleb looks up, brow furrowed in what might be warning. “I am pretty well traveled,” he says. “There are not many drow outside of your country, but that does not mean there are none.”
The Taskhand hums. “I have heard that this particular drow is a dunamancer,” he says. A little white lie, but it catches Caleb’s attention.
“No,” he says firmly. “Your sources are mistaken.”
The Taskhand takes another step forward. “I don’t believe they are.” He leans down, watching the discomfort in Caleb’s posture grow with every second. The Taskhand gestures to the ring on his finger. “I think it would be in your best interest to stop lying.”
Without warning, Caleb’s hands flash away from the circle on the floor and towards him, magic buzzing angrily in the air.
“Wait!”
Something about his tone must have rung in just the right way, as Caleb’s hands freeze. Carefully, slowly, as though trying not to frighten off a stray cat, the Taskhand lifts off his helmet.
Caleb’s eyes scan his face for only a moment before his eyes widen. “You are…” His eyes catch on the slope of his nose, the lavender of his eyes, the angle of his cheekbones.
“Verin Thelyss.” He bows his head in greeting.
Caleb’s hands fall to his side, and he makes a weak little sound of acknowledgement before nodding himself. “Well, that is a surprise.”
Verin weighs the words on his tongue, running through every practical question he’s been told to ask, every ounce of professionalism he’s expected to uphold. “He’s spoken of me, then?” he asks instead.
Caleb nods silently. The conflict is written plainly on his face. The two of them don’t know each other, aside from whatever Essek has told him. He has no reason to believe that Verin won’t sell out his own brother. He’s under orders to do just that, after all, and the twinge of guilt hasn’t left his chest since he got here.
But… despite it all, it’s Essek. His brother. His blood. It might not mean much to Essek, but it does to him. He tucks the helmet under his arm and bows his head again.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he says with all the confidence he can muster. “But I think we should speak.” He chances a glance back up at Caleb, and lets the slightest grin tug at the side of his mouth. “We are brothers, after all, yes?”