Forsaken by Shadows 29: Religion

To Gina, my book coach. Because of her, Forsaken by Shadows will be the last story I ever write without an outline.

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Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Mazira’s point of view,

We walk through the city of Launa and it’s like walking through a dream. Everything seems so normal, a ghost of what my life used to be. Everything from the people to food that is cooking to the children running through the streets.

And then we come to the temple, and it is otherworldly. I never knew such a beautiful place could exist in the Underdark. The gardens are full of life, real plants, and mushrooms, and for whatever reason, cats.

But there are drow women, as well. Priestesses. They watch us as we make our way into the temple, where the guards inform Solaurin the Reverend Mother is already waiting. And indeed, she is waiting, greeting us in the vestibule and none too pleased. She seems upset about how dangerous it was to rescue us, but though she is sharp with Solaurin, she smiles at me.

We are led into a chamber where a council is seated, a panel of both men and women of varying races. Behind them are others, who have all gathered for what we learn is our trial. Solaurin and Torafein report what happened, and then Rismyn is questioned on how he was injured and what he regrets about leaving Menzoberranzan.

I don’t think I would have made it through the meeting, if not for the grey cat who let me carry her into the room. Her presence brought me comfort. In the end, we must have passed the test, for rather than kick us out, they assign Solaurin to Conduct us. What that means, I do not know, but hopefully, we’re about to find out…

~14. Religion~

Mazira knelt at the base of the statue of Eilistraee, not out of reverence, but necessity, for that was as far as they had made it into the chapel before the Reverend Mother called Solaurin back into the council hall. She’d said she had something else to discuss with him, a private matter, and judging by the iron in her voice, Mazira was glad they weren’t invited back.

Yet that meant they were now alone by the door, left to endure the scrutiny of every person who exited after them, which might have been tolerable if Torafein had remained to shield them. But he had long gone, bidding them a gruff farewell as soon as the proceedings were over and vanishing into the chapel.

After the second wave of curious onlookers brushed by, offering kind words that Mazira couldn’t connect with, she had needed to sit down. Her strength was spent, her nerves shattered. Unfortunately, the nearest bench was just far enough from where they were told to wait that Mazira didn’t dare stray to it. So she knelt right where she was, her attention rapt on the grey cat which lolled on its back, batting her hands whenever she ceased stroking it.

It was the perfect distraction. As the passersby paused to congratulate them on surviving their “horrendous ordeals”, Mazira kept her head down, leaving Rismyn the awkward task of accepting their words.  

As if continuing to breathe was some sort of accomplishment. When did survival become equated to heartbeats?

At last, there was silence, save for the harpist’s continued song, and Mazira was able to draw full breath again. She leaned back against the statue base, wrapping her arms around her knees. Silverpaw rolled over and mewed at her, brushing against her thigh.

Mazira rubbed the cat’s ears absently, taking solace in the softness of her fur and rumbling purrs. She’d always wanted a cat, begged her mother for one, but life on the road wasn’t suited for pets. Or at least, that’s what her mother told her. She was probably right, but Mazira remembered at least one instance of crying herself bitterly to sleep over it.

What a waste of tears. She’d take every terrible tantrum back if she’d known how short her childhood was going to be. But it was too late. Just another selfish act she couldn’t apologize for.

Shutting her eyes, Mazira leaned her head back and willed the swelling sorrow away like the tides that tugged on the ocean somewhere above her head. This was no time for feelings. Not sadness, not fear, not hope. For despite the pleasantries, the compliments, and the ache in her heart for it to all be true, she still couldn’t quell the deep-seated sense of unease festering in her gut.

The same sickening hitch that had haunted her when another slave came bursting in to inform her Toloruel was looking for her. That awful sense of wavering on the edge of a cliff, knowing you were about to fall and crack your head open on the canyon floor, and instead of dying, you’d just lie there and wait for the vultures to finish you off.

There was only one way to cope when the auguries came knocking. She took a breath, told herself it wouldn’t be worse than what she’d endured before, and opened her eyes, committing to play the role, whatever it may be.

The statue of Eilistraee filled her vision, and even from her strange vantage, Mazira’s heart leapt. Like seeing a friend she’d long forgotten, which was a feeling she’d never had before. Unless she compared it to the fluttering she used to get on the days Toloruel went on patrol and she knew she’d find Rismyn waiting for her when she finished her chores.

She couldn’t release the fluttering the way she’d released the sorrow. It simply wouldn’t let go, and the longer she stared at the statue, the more venomous hope leeched into her blood.

Did this goddess really give her magic? Mazira looked down at her hands, holding her palms open before her. She tried to will light to bloom between her fingers before realizing how stupid that was. What if she did something wrong and people got hurt?

Thankfully, nothing happened, and even though the practical side of her sighed in relief, the side that was gnawing on hope sank with disappointment. Solaurin had been so certain, certain enough to declare it before all those important people.

All those people, who stared at her in awe, telling her how happy they were to know her, how gifted and special she was. Based on what? The word of one elf? The weight of expectation pressed down on her shoulders and she shook her head, hugging her knees again.

But before long, her eyes were trailing back to the statue, and she found herself yearning to sing one of her father’s songs to it. It seemed like it would be appropriate, given the clear connection between music and Eilistraee, but she blushed just thinking about it.

Mazira tore her gaze away from the statue. Rismyn stood against the wall adjacent to her, beside the door. There was tension set in his jaw as he glowered at the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

The last thing he probably wanted was her questions pestering him. But just as she decided to keep her thoughts to herself, his eyes flicked her way, and their gazes met.

She was caught.

He tilted his head to one side, raising his brows in a silent inquiry.

Mazira shifted, but though her instinct was to look away, she found it lacked substance. So instead she looked him in the eyes as she voiced her question.

Just like old times.

“I was just wondering,” she said, her voice not quite as strong as she would have liked, “do you know anything about…her?” She gestured vaguely behind her.

Rismyn’s eyes drifted towards the statue and then darted away. “No.”

 “Oh.” Mazira’s shoulders sagged. “I thought maybe, since she’s drow…”

Rismyn laughed, and it was bitter and hollow, surprising her with its emptiness. He’d been so jovial ever since, well, ever since the healing in the crystal cavern. What had changed?

“The only thing I’ve been taught about the Dark Seldarine is that they exist and don’t matter,” he said. Then, as though he realized the harshness in his own tone, his expression softened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

But whatever he had meant, he didn’t elaborate. He just huffed and went back to glaring at the floor.

Mazira chose not to ask, instead resting her chin on her knees. Silverpaw had curled up at her side, now fast asleep. She didn’t blame the feline, she was tired, too. And Solaurin was still in the council room.

Though Mazira wasn’t entirely sure what had been decided in the meeting, she was fairly certain she was going to be seeing a lot of Solaurin in the future. He had been assigned to them in some formal way, accepting a position as their Conductor.

Whatever that meant.

Hopefully, he’d explain more when he came back for them.

Assuming he did come back for them. He hadn’t seemed overly thrilled about the assignment. Perhaps he was delayed because he was trying to change the Reverend Mother’s mind.

To her surprise, Mazira found that she hoped he would come back for them. He, at least, was a familiar face. Someone she’d come to know in some small way, and though she was far from trusting him, she was more comfortable in his presence than Torafein’s or Beltel’s. The former was too brutal and the latter was too boisterous.

But Solaurin had been with her through the dragon turtle fight. He’d supported her, encouraged her, and sang the most beautiful songs. He was still a drow, still someone to be wary of, but of all the strangers she’d met, she was privately glad it was he that had been assigned to them.

And, he was a priest. He would be able to tell her about Eilistraee if she asked. All she had to do was work up the courage, like she had with worked it up to ask Beltel about being an anomaly. It couldn’t be that hard. She’d done it before.

But as she considered raising her eyes to his, of speaking words without invitation, of daring to ask the cleric about his most sacred beliefs, she paled. Solaurin had so far been very kind to her, but she didn’t know him well enough to know where his lines lay. She dared not cross a boundary and lose his blessing.

“Rismyn,” she said instead. “Would you ask Solaruin about her, when he comes back?”

Rismyn stiffened. “I’d rather not.” He looked away when she tried to catch his gaze.

Disappointment bubbled to the surface of Mazira’s container of emotions. Had this been last tenday, she would have left it at that. But a lot had happened since last tenday, and though his words were hard as stone, she didn’t flinch from them. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t care.”

Well that was a lie. She didn’t need to read minds to know that. But why he was being so difficult about it, she couldn’t guess. 

“I care,” she tried.

“So then ask him yourself,” he spat, and then shot horrified eyes to her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like–”

“It’s fine,” Mazira said, covering the way his words cut with sharpness of her own. He sounded like a petulant child, a tone Mazira was all too familiar with. He was sulking, but she still couldn’t figure out why. She rested her hand on the warm ball of fur at her side and was rewarded with soothing purrs. The cat was serenity incarnated, and with the contact came relief to her wound.

Rismyn wasn’t snapping at her. He was just snapping. Something else was bothering him, and the fact that he recognized his lashes were poorly aimed enough to apologize was an improvement over the last four months.

She waited a few more heartbeats until the sting subsided, before trying a different tactic. “When we first left,” she began, hoping he would pick up the context without her having to call the city by name, “and I wanted to go back and you told me you wouldn’t take me, you said it was because a god had intervened in our lives. You said you didn’t want to risk upsetting them with disobedience. Don’t you want to know if it was her? And if it was, don’t you want to know more about who she is?”

Rismyn’s stone expression crumbled, and the vulnerability that replaced it made her regret she’d spoken at all. He looked away again, fidgeting, and she could see his walls rising once more. He didn’t say anything.

This time, Mazira let it go. The conversation was following a familiar pattern. He used to shut down like this when they were children, too, when he didn’t have an argument for the challenges she posed to his worldview. If she continued to nudge him, he’d snap again, and this time Silverpaw might not mollify her fragile heart.

So they continued in silence, until the door at Rismyn’s side suddenly opened and Solaurin swept through.

“That,” he declared, his arms folded into his billowing sleeves, “was the shortest council meeting I have ever had the privilege of sitting through. Praise Eilistraee. Come along, I apologize for making you wait.”

Rismyn perked up at once, his brooding replaced by curious interest. Mazira scrambled to her feet, that familiar sense of unease rearing up once more. The cat opened her eyes, but as Mazira followed in the priest’s wake, she remained still, evidentially not intending to go with them. Mazira stifled her disappointment as they moved through the chapel and back into the vestibule.

“And I apologize for not warning you about the trial,” Solaurin continued as they pushed through to the colonnade. “It is our custom not to warn newcomers of the interview to come. We find it leads to more candid conversations when there is no time to prepare lies. You did well, both of you. Mother Lara was quite impressed.”

The light outside the temple had turned to a sultry red, painting Mazira’s skin the same shade as Styx’s, and for a moment, she lost herself in the distraction of imagining what her life would be like if she had been born a tiefling. Probably just as miserable, but at least she’d have had horns. She turned her hands over to contemplate her palms when Rismyn spoke again, drawing her back.

“So, then…” he said, hesitantly, “you’re not in trouble? Because of us?”

Solaurin laughed, the epitome of good humor. “You give yourself too much credit. I’m always in trouble around here. It’s a perpetual state of being.”

Rismyn didn’t look convinced, and Solaurin must have noticed, for he went on.

“She merely called me back to remind me of my place, as though I had forgotten I am the token male cleric in all of Launa and am therefore supposed to exist as an example of model citizenship for the rest of my gender to look up to.” He rolled his eyes. “Apparently, ‘reckless displays of heroism’ are not traits I am supposed to be encouraging.”

“Oh,” Rismyn said, exchanging a glance with Mazira. She could tell he was just as mystified by this explanation as she was. “You’re the only male cleric?”

They were passing through the gardens now, and Mazira felt a pang in her heart as they left the beauty behind. There had been real plants in some of those hedges. With green leaves and roots, the kind that fed off the sun, not fraezress. How’d they gotten them to grow was a question she put away for later. 

“Indeed,” Solaurin said. “So far as we are aware, I am the first male to be called into Eilistraee’s service, though admittedly, there are congregations we might not know about. So I suppose, as Beltel would put it, that makes me an anomaly.”

He flashed Mazira a knowing smile, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

This was it. This was the moment where she could squeeze in her question about Eilistraee and it would be a natural part of the conversation. Her whole body electrified as she scrambled to grab enough coherent words out of her brain to put her throat to work voicing them.

But Rismyn ruined everything by stopping dead in his tracks. “Oh no,” he gasped, and Solaurin turned, his humor morphing into concern. Mazira forgot her own question as warnings screeched in her mind. What had he realized that she hadn’t?

“What is it?” the priest asked.

“Beltel and Belnir,” Rismyn said. “I never said goodbye. I never told them thank you. For coming for us.”

Solaurin just stared at him, his expression flat and unreadable. Mazira’s own panic wavered, as her worst conclusions faltered into false alarms. But then, she hadn’t said thank you, either. It was never a good idea to withhold gratitude from a drow when they thought they deserved it, and in this case, they definitely did deserve it.

Finally, Solaurin shook his head. “I genuinely do not understand how you didn’t get eaten alive in Menzoberranzan. Come along, you’ll get your chance again. Our community is very small. You have to work very hard to avoid seeing someone.”

Rismyn’s dark skin flushed darker. “Right. Sorry. Uh, what does it mean that you’re our Conductor?”

In typical Rismyn fashion, he changed the subject to cover his embarrassment, and Mazira realized she’d lost her window of opportunity to ask her own question.

She deflated, swallowing her words.

“Ah, it is simple,” Solaurin said, as they turned onto the narrow streets of the city. “To be your Conductor is just a formal way of saying I’ve taken on the responsibility of ensuring your care and well-being until such a time as you are able to care for yourself.”

Rismyn frowned. “But we can take care of ourselves.”

“Truly?” Solaurin quirked an eyebrow. “You have income to rent or purchase a dwelling? Food? Clothing? Do you even know how to cook for yourself? Do you know any trades or skills that don’t involve beheading your enemies? No? This is not the Wilds, young Tear. This is a thriving civilization and it does not operate in the way you are accustomed to.”

The shadow returned to Rismyn’s expression. “We can figure it out–”

“And you will,” Solaurin said. “I am merely tasked with making it easier for you. Lesson one; it’s okay to accept help. You’re not alone in this world anymore.”

Rismyn looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he hung his head and muttered, “Right. I’m sorry.”

“Gracious, I’ve never met a drow who apologized as much as you, and heaven knows most of them should,” Solaurin said. “It is not a cause for you to feel sorry, it is a cause for you to feel grateful. I am delighted to be of service.”

So he said, but Mazira saw how he had wavered when asked to be their Conductor.

As though he had read her thoughts, Solaurin added, “Believe me, if I didn’t want to do it, I would have no problem telling the Reverend Mother so. It is one of the reasons I am perpetually in trouble.” He gave them a rueful look before going on. “I only hesitated because I was surprised to be given the opportunity. For one, we don’t normally appoint Conductors. They volunteer and argue about who gets to claim the new Voice until only one remains. For another, Conductors are supposed to have lived here for thirty years and undergo training. I have only been here twenty-three years. But, again, this whole circumstance is special.” 

He sounded sincere, but Mazira wasn’t convinced. Her sea of unease roiled and there was nothing she could do about it. She had nowhere else to go and no one else to trust. Solaurin said he wanted to take on this role, and though she hated the thought of burdening him, she was grateful that it had been given to him, and not an unknown volunteer.

“So where are we going now?” Rismyn asked, as they turned down yet another street.

“Home,” Solaurin said. “To my home, specifically, which is now your home.”

Mazira froze, and so did Rismyn. He’d said home. The same word in Common used in her mother’s song, Home is the Heart of my Love. They exchanged a look before Solaurin turned to raise an eyebrow at them.

“Is it so shocking that I am taking you home with me?” he said, seemingly unimpressed. “What did you think I meant when I said I was responsible for your wellbeing? You are part of my household now, a part of the Zovarr family. Now do keep walking. I’m exhausted and ready for supper.”

Again, Mazira stared at Rismyn, who seemed just as stunned, before they both hurried to catch up with the priest.

It was unfathomable. She didn’t know what she pictured when he said he’d take care of them, but it wasn’t bringing them into his own house. And by the way Rismyn staggered, he was struggling to process it, too.

But of course, home had a robust connotation for drow. Home for dark elves was synonymous with identity. Solaurin hadn’t merely declared he was going to make sure they had food and shelter. He’d offered his whole personhood. Whatever they did now, both good and bad, would be a reflection of him.

Or rather, the woman who probably ran his house. He’d mentioned a daughter, so that implied a mother, right?

Regardless, it was an astonishing offer from a dark elf they’d only just met. He was giving them more than necessities. He was giving them a place. A purpose. A belonging. The significance wasn’t lost on Mazira, and it was exactly what she needed to find the courage to speak.

“Master Zovarr,” she stammered, flinching at the sound of her own voice. “I was wondering…could you tell us more about Eilistraee?”  

Beside her, Rismyn’s expression remained carefully neutral, but a muscle spasm rippled across his jaw. He kept his gaze anchored straight ahead, even as Solaurin turned to regard Mazira.

Although the priest himself had been the one to declare her a cleric, and though he had been nothing but informative since she’d met him, Mazira still cringed as his eyes fell on her, expecting a sharp rebuke for speaking out of turn.

But of course, no such rebuke came. Instead, Solaurin beamed at her, swelling with pride as he spoke. “Of course. I could speak on this subject all cycle–and have, actually, now that I think about it. But as we’re almost home, I’ll try to give you the short version of it. What do you already know of her?”

When Mazira and Rismyn just stared at him blankly he nodded.

“As to be expected. Her name is forbidden to be spoken in Lolth-worshipping societies. Well, we must begin your re-education at once. Eilistraee is a member of what we call the Dark Seldarine, the pantheon of gods and goddesses that generally take an interest in our subterranean world. Have you heard of Corellon?”

The name tinkled like a bell on the edge of Mazira’s memory, but she couldn’t quite place it. She shook her head, feeling like she failed a test.

Rismyn, on the other hand, had an answer, though he sounded hesitant in speaking it. “He’s the father of elves.”

“Correct,” Solaurin said, seeming pleased. “The father of all elves, the surface, and the drow. And I suppose, being a properly educated young elf, you’ve been taught of Corellon’s crimes?”

Rismyn nodded, but didn’t explain. He looked increasingly uncomfortable with every step they took. 

“Well, you can forget all of it,” Solaurin said. “The priestesses of Lolth have lied to you. No surprise there. Corellon never desired to constrain the elves to slavery, quite the opposite. It was his wife, Araushnee, who grew greedy for his power. But, I am getting ahead of myself. We are speaking of Eilistraee. She is the daughter of Corellon and Araushnee. Beloved of her father, and tricked by her mother into killing him.”

Mazira gasped, but her shock only seemed to feed Solaurin’s theatrics.

“Araushnee gave an enchanted bow to her daughter, cursed to fire only at her father’s heart, then allowed an enemy to invade their realms. In the battle, Eilistraee rose to her father’s defense–but her arrow struck him instead.”

Mazira’s hand covered her mouth, a twisting in her heart as though she were there when it happened and she was reliving a memory. A feeling which didn’t make sense; Solaurin wasn’t going into explicit detail, yet as his words painted a rough sketch, she felt an echo of the anguish Eilistraee must have felt when her arrows struck her father.

“Yes,” Solaurin agreed, solemnly. “It is fortunate for Corellon that another of his pantheon knew of the plot and was able to intervene in time to save him. When he awoke from his wounds, a trial was held, in which he banished his wife, Araushnee, from the heavens. She now resides in the Abyss, as the demon you know to be Lolth. He exiled his daughter, as well.”

Mazira had heard parts of this story before, she realized, though from a different perspective. Toloruel had told it to her, endeavoring to make her believe his cruelty was her own fault. He had a right to exact his vengeance on her, for he served a goddess who had once tried to save all the elves but was in the end betrayed by Mazira’s ancestors. Lolth had been a victim, along with the elves loyal to her, which was why they worshipped violence so much. They would never be victims again, and it was her destiny to pay back the bloodguilt of her people.

Rismyn had tried to tell her the same story, once, when he still wanted so ardently to believe it was all true. But even then, as he stumbled through the words, unable to look her in the eyes as he said them, she could tell he wasn’t convinced. The rocks just didn’t stack up right, and she hadn’t needed to point it out to him. He knew, and he couldn’t reconcile what he believed in his head with what he knew in his heart.

The rocks were stacking up, now, though. She could see it in his troubled eyes. This version of events fit in nicely with the cruel queen that thrived off the agony of her people. It made infinitely more sense.

All except for one detail.

“Why did Corellon banish Eilistraee?” Mazira asked, emboldened by her last question. “You said she was tricked.”

“Indeed, she was, which is why Corellon desired to exonerate her. But our First Sister, the Dark Maiden, chose exile on our behalf.” He glanced at Rismyn. “As you probably know, the dark elves once lived in harmony on the surface until they chose to side with Lolth–another sad tale of her manipulation, but one for another day. Anyway, tricked or not, the dark elves chose their side. But Eilistraee had faith we could still be reconciled.”

He paused, his eyes closing, before continuing in a voice that sounded strained.  

“She chose exile to be a light to us, the drow living in darkness. She is the goddess of freedom and beauty, song and dance. Of swordplay and the Hunt. Some on the surface have also ascribed to her ties to the moon. Her mission, which has become our mission”–he gestured to the community around them–“is to find drow who would be saved and draw them back to the light. And also, to rescue those the drow have done great harm to.”

As Solaurin’s words faded, Mazira became acutely aware once again of the constant song drifting through the cavern. A multitude of voices, a multitude of tunes. It was quieter now, as they walked through more residential streets. There were less people out and about, but laughter drifted through warmly-lit windows. Little remnants that implied happiness hid inside these stone walls.

Happiness in the Underdark. Who would have thought?

It seemed impossible that there could be a goddess out there who loved the drow, who desired to turn them into something more than slaves and murderers. A goddess who not only noticed her people but noticed Mazira, as well. A faerie dragged underground, tortured at the hands of a worshipper of demons. A goddess who had somehow intervened, as Rismyn had said, and brought Mazira out of the darkness of Menzoberranzan and into the light of Launa.

That such a being would look upon her and notice, look upon her and care, was enough to rend her heart into tatters. It was too good to be true. Yet here she was, walking the streets of a civilization that thrummed her praises.

At what point would she wake up and realize it was all a dream?

“Master Zovarr,” she began, but he raised and the motion made her flinch.

Yet he didn’t strike her, as a raised drow hand usually implied. He had only meant to interject. “You may call me by my given name,” he said, not at all unkindly. “Though I am a master of my trade, we are not so formal here.”

Mazira blushed, nodding. “Yes, sirrrr”–she trailed out the syllable as he gave her a significant look–“Laurin.” She amended. She swallowed hard. “Solaurin,” she repeated.

The cleric smiled. “Feels strange, yes?” 

More than he could know. She bobbed her head and decided she didn’t have any more questions for him, after all.

 “It will come naturally, in time,” he said. “Ah, here we are. Home. I’ve never been so happy to see it.”

They’d turned onto one final street, and Solaurin picked up his pace, as though renewed by the final stretch. Mazira gazed at the houses that lined the street, as though the one they were destined for would be marked with some obvious sign, and in a way, it was. 

Solaurin led them to a two-story dwelling halfway down the row. The structure was as ordinary as any other stone-carved house Mazira had seen, plain and unadorned save for a sign that hung over the door, depicting a rope tied in an intricate knot. It was the only house with such a sign, and she wondered what it meant. It didn’t seem like a religious symbol, but then, Eilistraee did favor cats. She thought she remembered something about cats having a fondness for string.

“You’ll have to forgive the untidiness of the workshop,” Solaurin said, as he produced a key from the folds of his robes. “The apprentices never put it to rights unless I am there to make them. Oh, I suppose I never told you what else I am, aside from cleric and councilman–”

Before he could say anything else or use the key he had in his hand, the door suddenly burst open. A streak of black and white dove across the threshold and pounced on Solaurin.

Mazira gasped, stumbling back into Rismyn as the sudden movement caught her off guard. His hands went around her waist to steady her, but the contact only sent wretched shivers down her spine. Now she was trapped and couldn’t get away from whatever had sprung from the house. She pulled out of his grip and ducked behind him instead, shielding herself from view.

But as her panic subsided, Mazira realized there was no monster. There was only a woman, a drow woman, with her arms flung around Solaurin’s neck in a tight embrace. 

“Father,” the woman cried. “You’re okay! Is it true you fought a dragon turtle? Is it true Belnir died and you sang him back to life?” 

“Gracious, child–” Solaurin began, trying to extricate himself from the woman. He managed to fight her off and shook out his robes. “What gossip have you been listening to?”

But the girl didn’t seem to notice as she babbled on. “I’ve heard the most awful tales and no one will tell me anything! Only that you’d arrive back and Belnir was hurt and Beltel was promising to tell the story in detail after the Evensong at the Sunglow Tavern which doesn’t exactly help me now, does it? Are you alright? Is everyone alright? Is Mother Lara still mad at you?” 

“Ti’yana,” Solaurin said, this time in a sharper tone. The girl’s rambling suddenly ceased, and the priest ran a hand down his braid as if straightening it. “My dear child, we have guests.” 

It was then that girl–evidently Ti’yana–noticed them. Mazira peered over Rismyn’s shoulder, clutching the back of his shirt. Ti’yana might not have been a monster, but Mazira’s hands weren’t ready to let go of their death grip yet.

And yet, as she beheld the woman, she was suddenly struck by how absolutely lovely she was. The girl was the picture of beauty, with perfect features and lustrous silver hair that seemed to glow. Her body, beneath her sage-colored linen dress, was curved in all the ways Mazira knew her own was supposed to, her skin blacker than pitch.

But it was her eyes that were the most striking. Not the usual red of a drow, but a bright, shining silver, like the moon glimmering at midnight.

She was quite possibly the most beautiful person Mazira had ever seen, and it only served to remind her how pitiful she herself was.

Ti’yana’s luminous eyes went wide. “Oh! My gracious, I am so sorry. How terribly rude I’m being. I’m Ti’yana Zovarr and you must be…” she trailed off, staring at them blankly before suddenly seeming to understand. “Oh, my gosh! You’re them. The exiled prince of House Tear and”–her eyes flicked to Mazira–“and you must be starving and here I am rambling out in the street. Come in, come in!”

She shot forward and grabbed Rismyn by the hand, pulling him across the threshold. He slipped out of Mazira’s grip, leaving her startled and vulnerable as she watched him go.

He didn’t resist the girl. In fact, he stared at her as if in a daze. As though all coherent thought had left him.

Mazira had thought Ti’yana was the loveliest person she had ever seen. Evidently, Rismyn did, too.

Her heart, inexplicably, turned to lead.

Solaurin merely sighed. “Come in,” he said to her, “and we’ll get you fed and rested.”

Numbly, Mazira did as she was bid. Solaurin followed after her and shut the door behind them.

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ti’yana was saying as they entered. She turned from Rismyn even as he was stammering something back, and reached for Mazira. Mazira couldn’t help herself. At the sight of drow hands coming for her, she jerked back.

Ti’yana froze, looking startled by Mazira’s reaction. But before the awkward moment could stretch, Solaurin was there, stepping in to take his daughter’s hand and drawing her near, brushing her cheek with a kiss.

It was quite possibly the most affectionate act Mazira had ever witnessed between drow.

“Daughter, this is Rismyn and Mazira. They will be staying with us for the foreseeable future,” Solaurin said when he let her go. “We are Conducting them.”

Ti’yana’s concern melted away at this statement and she radiated joy once more. “Really? Us? But we’re not Conductors.”

“Mother Lara seemed to think the circumstances were best.”

“So she’s forgiven you, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, as he turned to survey the room. “But we’ve come to an understanding. I see you kept the apprentices to their tasks.” 

It was then that Mazira actually looked around, taking stock of her surroundings. Solaurin had mentioned a workshop, and a workshop was what they were standing in.

There were no less than six spinning wheels, of varying sizes, as well as an assortment of looms, from small wooden frames to a grand floor loom pushed against the back wall. Several of the frames had half-finished tapestries adorning their spokes. There were baskets of fluffy roving being spun into thread, shelves against the wall with folded fabrics stacked tall, and crates off to the side containing who knew what else. To their right, a staircase ascended upward. Across the room, a door led to some other unknown room.

Mazira stood there, confused, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Why would all this be in the house of a priest? Didn’t priests and clerics dwell in large manors, paid for by the tithes of their followers? Come to think of it, the size of the house on the outside didn’t seem large enough to house someone as important as Solaurin seemed to be. Was this actually his home?

“You can check the inventory later,” Ti’yana said. “You must be hungry. I have a mushroom soup on–oh! No! I don’t have enough for four.” Ti’yana’s beautiful face crumpled in dismay. “What’re we going to do? Oh, I wish I had known–”

Solaurin placed a hand on her shoulder and she calmed at once. “It’s alright. There was no way for you to know. Go next door and ask Goodie Amberfain what she has to spare. You know she always prepares a feast.”

Ti’yana sighed in relief. “Oh, right. Of course. I’ll be right back.” And then she simply went, without an argument or complaint.

As if Solaurin, the male, ran this drow household, and not his fully matured daughter.

Solaurin heaved another sigh. “I apologize, my daughter is easily excitable. She’ll calm down soon.” He glanced around the room again and seemed to remember something. “Ah, yes. Welcome to the weaving room. Something you will learn soon enough is that our community is quite small. None of us merely do one thing. I serve as cleric and councilman, but I make my living and contribution to society through weaving, my master trade.”

Mazira just stared around her, trying to reconcile the thought of a cleric–who was akin to royalty in Menzoberranzan–needing to make a living through something as ordinary as spinning threads. Judging by Rismyn’s stunned expression, he was having trouble accepting it, as well.

Solaurin noticed and laughed. “I told you, this society does not operate the way you are used to. Come, let us not stand around the workshop. The house is upstairs. We shall eat, and we shall talk. And then, finally, we shall rest.”

And with that, he led them up the stairs, into the Weaver’s House.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.