Chapter Text
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips.Macbeth, Act I, Scene VII.
It was the time of night when only insomniacs and thieves were awake. Despite the late hour, guards still patrolled the Friendly Arm Inn, their torches only a faint light in the darkness. Given the iron crisis currently ravaging the Sword Coast, the armor and weaponry on display were an ostentatious show of wealth, attesting to the Friendly Arm’s prosperity. By all appearances, the night was peaceful, and the fortified inn was a rare bastion of calm in the region. Ever since Bentley and Gellana Mirrorshade had claimed it, it had been the safest place for miles around. And indeed, on the ground, all was well.
Perhaps a hundred feet up, atop the wide outer walls, there was an elven girl reading a bounty notice. She was a small, wiry thing, with unruly dark hair and the sort of pallor gained from too little time out of doors, and although she wore plain but practical leather armor, she carried no visible weaponry. Probably for the best, what with bandits all along the Coast Way looting anything iron or steel. Currently, she was enjoying a brief respite after the third attempt on her life today.
A coward she was, and a coward she’d always be, but better a live coward than a dead hero. Lyris had yet to meet a fight she couldn’t run from. There were a thousand names for her kind – sneak, deserter, and worse – but the one she preferred was “survivor.”
So Lyris told herself, wanting to put a pretty face on an unforgivable deed. She could slant the truth all she liked; the fact remained that she had abandoned her only living family to save her own skin, and it seemed a poor trade. Lyris was not wholly convinced that her skin was worth the trouble. She was in no particular hurry to die, but, after several attempts on her life in less than a day, it was easy to believe that her life was of greater value to whoever was so desperate to claim it.
And the most egregious part, Lyris thought indignantly, was how hackish this had all been. If she sought an enemy’s head, she could write a far better bounty notice than “Be it known to all those of evil intent.” Ye gods, she’d write a notice of such surpassing beauty that the target would turn themselves in, out of respect for her art. More to the point, she would ensure that her foe knew what they had done to deserve her ire.
Lyris had always felt that style was important in these matters, and it was distressing to realize that her nemesis – whoever they might be – had none. It must have been that glowing-eyed man in spiked armor. No one else could have such terrible taste.
If her life were to take on the characteristics of some dreadful adventure novel, she’d rather it be more competently written. Perhaps it would involve an impossibly attractive rogue, breaking into some heavily-guarded compound in order to abscond with an inordinate amount of loot and rescue an impossibly attractive prince or princess. Her skills were far better suited to a mediocre page-turner than the tragedy this was shaping up to be.
Truly, Oghma wept for such wasted potential.
Yet literary criticism was hardly a survival skill, and – not for the first time – Lyris felt herself reflecting that her time reading terrible novels might have been better spent at, well, anything else. Learning to embroider, perhaps, or studying dead Netherese languages. She had not been in any particular hurry, assuming that an elven lifespan would grant her the time to study whatever she chose at her leisure. More fool her.
It was ironic, really. Lyris had had an education that many nobles’ children could only dream of. She could give a passable lecture on the major settlements, leaders, and primary exports of the Sword Coast, but couldn’t tell with any certainty which way was north. She had trained at combat for most of her life, yet couldn’t raise a hand in her own defense. Such were the benefits of a classical education – all theory, no practice.
Lyris flirted with the notion of turning back. Candlekeep had, after all, been safe for the majority of her life. An assassination attempt within its walls represented a troubling change, but could be dismissed as a statistical outlier. She was reasonably certain that she could even scale the outer walls; there was a point by the northeast tower, just near the temple of Oghma, where part of the wall had collapsed, and the Watchers hadn’t yet gotten around to fixing it. She and Imoen had used to hide up there at night. They had never quite gotten up the courage to sneak out of Candlekeep, but they had spent hours planning what would happen if – when – they did.
As much as she missed Imoen, she was grateful that the other girl was not here. Grateful that she was safe, and that she did not know what a worthless coward Lyris had turned out to be. If Gorion had handed her over to that strange man with the glowing eyes, it would have been for the best. Her father had left the Keep with plans, knowledge, and resources. He’d known secrets he had promised to entrust to her – when there was time, he had said, but there was none, and his secrets would remain so. She had no resources, no contacts on which she might draw; she’d sought her father’s friends, Khalid and Jaheira, as he had bidden her, but there, too, there was no safety, only another would-be murderer whose spell had sent her fleeing into the darkness.
It was not an exaggeration to say that literally everyone she had met outside of Candlekeep had tried to kill her. Lyris’ opinion of the wider world had never been particularly high to begin with, even when she had known only that it had fewer books and more bandits. The fact that it lacked Ulraunt, the cantankerous Keeper of Tomes who had at times made her life a living hell, was a point in its favor, and yet nowhere near sufficient to balance out the various wolves, gibberlings, and bounty hunters she had fled.
Perhaps it was odd, but Lyris minded the wild animals rather less than the bandits; she was not eager to be eaten by wolves, but, well, at least it wasn’t personal. Being hunted, being hated, was new. Lyris would be the first to admit that her grasp of such niceties as personal property could be lacking, but she was certain – well, relatively certain – fairly certain – that she’d never done anything that would warrant her death. She was no deva, but neither had she ever truly hurt anyone, not even the various men who had tried to kill her. Cowardice, not pacifism, but the result was the same.
The latest assassin was probably still down there somewhere, and she was too frightened to check. In retrospect, picking his pocket might not have been the brightest move. It had only confirmed that someone was trying to kill her, which, by now, she already knew perfectly well, and now he had both personal and professional reasons to kill her. So. No safety within the Friendly Arm, not for her.
Lyris had no real sense of where to go, but anywhere had to be better than here. She’d follow the path wherever it led until…until something happened.
Well, she’d certainly had better ideas, but none of them were making themselves known. She reluctantly began her climb down the outer walls, hoping that something would occur to her by the time she reached the ground.
Jaheira misliked settlements at the best of times; better to have let the land grow wild. The Friendly Arm Inn was not an unpleasant place. The Mirrorshades were justly famed for their hospitality, and the high walls and armed guards made it a much-needed haven from the region’s many dangers. But after days of waiting with no word, the place was rather beginning to pall, the comfortable wood-paneled common room more a prison than a sanctuary. She paced back and forth, agitated; with her dark golden hair, she resembled a caged lioness. Occasionally her oaken quarterstaff rapped against the inn’s floor, as though for punctuation.
“How long must we wait here? Things stir to the south as we sit!” She sighed, frustrated, and returned to her seat. “I am sorry, Khalid. But this waiting! It is insufferable.”
Her husband smiled gently at her and took her hand. “I worry for them t-too.” Where her voice was sharp, his was quiet, hesitant. The armor and helm he wore, even indoors, spoke to a martial prowess that his gentle face belied.
She shook her head. “It is not like Gorion. I fear –” She paused, reluctant to give voice to what they both already suspected.
They had arrived at the Friendly Arm Inn in answer to their old friend’s summons, but there had been no sign of either Gorion or his daughter. The roads were bad even in ordinary times, and the banditry of late made them nearly impassable. It seemed unlikely that simple highwaymen could overcome such a powerful mage, but…
But it had been days, and still there was no sign.
“We c-cannot wait much l-longer,” Khalid said at last, resigned. The admission did not come easily; Gorion had long been a friend, and if he had fallen, it meant that they had failed him. As for his daughter…whether or not she lived, she was beyond their reach either way. The odds that she had survived were slim, and even if she did, they had no means of finding her. If there was even the slightest chance she had survived, ordinarily, they would have sought her out. Should have, at any rate. They owed their old friend that much and more.
But as much as it felt like a second betrayal, they could not afford to delay any longer. Not when strange rumors of vanishing miners and ore that crumbled at a touch were pouring out of Nashkel. And worse ones, besides, darker mutterings, anxious whispers of Zhentarim and Cyricists. There were wilder tales still, some who swore that demons were stealing honest folk from their beds. Privately, Jaheira thought that this last seemed too far-fetched to be believed. But it was not out of the question; only a few years past, the Second Dragonspear War had seen devils tear open a gate to this plane. If there was even the slightest chance of a serious threat, whether demonic incursion or Zhentish scheming, she and Khalid were needed – to observe and report, at the least. Much as it pained her, there were obligations other than those of friendship to fulfill.
Jaheira nodded, her face grim. “Give Bentley the girl’s description. The Mirrorshades will aid her, if we cannot.”
Khalid departed to speak to the innkeeper, returning a moment later with his expression somehow more worried than before. “A man was asking about her, only a d-day ago. But he departed, and Bentley’s seen n-no sign of her.”
Had they missed her? It was agony to think that she had been right here, and they had not even known. And if she was being hunted, so much the worse – trained or no, the girl had no knowledge of the world outside her home. A fortified library would not have equipped her for what was to come. Jaheira understood the nature of predators and prey, and would not judge nature’s children for what they must do to survive. But the world of civilization often seemed far crueler than the wilderness.
For now, they would place their hopes in the natural proclivity of adventurers – even novice ones – to find trouble, and head south.