To the fine folks behind the Tomes of the Chaos Bard podcast, and especially Abby, who has been such a sweet friend to me on Social Media, going so far as to design a book cover for this project of mine just because. Tomes of the Chaos Bard is a fantastic family-friendly D&D Actual Play podcast that has made me laugh and cry. Their show includes original scores and singing. It’s the D&D Musical you didn’t know you needed…but definitely need.
Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Rismyn’s point of view:
As we are leaving the council session, my mind still numbed from disbelief that this place is actually real, Solaurin is called back, leaving Mazira and me to wait for him in the shadow of the statue of Eilistraee.
I confess it’s not my favorite location. Temples and chapels make me uncomfortable. All my life they’ve been synonymous with slaughterhouses. It’s enough to dampen my awe and wonder.
Mazira doesn’t seem to be comfortable, either, as she kneels and distracts herself with that flea-ridden animal she’s taken a liking to.
But then it gets worse. Mazira starts to ask me about the goddess as if anyone bothered to tell me anything about a deity that wasn’t Lolth. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, and I’m irritated that it is even coming up, so once more, I fail to speak gently to her. Why am I like this?
But instead of flinching, she rises to my ire, which in hindsight, is a wonderful sign of her progress. In the moment it just bothers me more. Why in all the realms did I think it was a good idea to promise her a god was intervening in her life? Now she has ideas that this god specifically intervened.
The worst part is, though, she’s probably right.
Solaurin finally returns, and then we are walking. Again. Even I am starting to get tired of walking. Solaurin explains more of what it means to be our Conductor, and we learn an astonishing truth: he’s taking us to live in his home.
I’m not sure if you’ve been paying attention, but drow don’t do that in Menzoberranzan. Hospitality isn’t a word we’re familiar with. He’s not just inviting us over for supper, he’s expecting us to stay. Like one of his own.
And just as the emotion becomes too much for me, Mazira asks him about Eilistraee, and I am forced to listen to a tale eerily similar to one I grew up with, only it confirms what I have known for a long time: Lolth is wicked, unworthy of her title, and drow do horrible things because of it.
I’ve done horrible things because of it.
But there is no time to dwell on it, for we have arrived at the priest’s home, learning that he is a weaver by trade, and that his daughter…well…I’ll let you decide what you think of Ti’yana Zovarr…
~15. The Evensong~
Rismyn followed Solaurin up the stairs and into the house, still in a daze. He wasn’t sure which struck him harder; the intense commonality of the home which Solaurin claimed or the extraordinary beauty of the daughter he’d introduced.
Not that he hadn’t expected Solaurin’s daughter to be beautiful. He’d never met a not-beautiful woman, it just wasn’t how the drow were made.
But Ti’yana was…breathtaking. Alluring. Captivating in a way he hadn’t experienced–
Wait, no. That wasn’t true.
Mazira was captivating and alluring. She had left him breathless upon first sight. And second, and third. She was the one he found most beautiful in all the realms.
As if he needed the reminder, Rismyn cast his eyes surreptitiously her way, reassured when his heart fluttered in its usual rhythmic dance when he set himself to admiring her in secret.
What had he been thinking? Ti’yana was just another dark elf. No different, except for her eyes.
Eyes that reminded him of his vision when Solaurin had healed him. The silver disk and glittering dots scattered across the ribbons of green light. That glorious visage, reflecting back at him through her irises–
No!
What was wrong with him?
“Rismyn?”
The priest’s voice jarred him from his thoughts and he startled, glancing around. They had come to the top of the stairs without him noticing, standing in a room that was clearly used as a kitchen. A countertop spread along the back wall, laden with pots and pans, dishes and baskets of moss and mushrooms. There was even a stone basin with a water spigot, a fixture that was common enough in the upper classes of Menzoberranzan but seemed out of place in such a small, commoner’s dwelling.
Solaurin stood beside it, giving him the flattest of stares. “I asked if you would like something to drink. We have our own well, fed by a living spring, so the water is fresh. Or I can brew some tea. The shimmer wine we’ll save for another day.”
“Oh, right.”
They had their own spring-fed well? He might as well have just announced he could pour liquid gold.
Mazira had already received a drink in a cup that looked like it was made of silver. She sat stiffly at a small table positioned in the center of the room, staring into the cup as though it contained the secrets of the universe.
“I’ll just have some water. Thank you.”
Solaurin went to fetch it, and Rismyn edged nearer to Mazira. There were only two chairs at the table and he didn’t want to assume he had a right to the other one, so he contented himself with standing beside her, resting his hands on the back of the funguswood chair–
Wait, no, he was wrong again. The grain beneath his fingers was too fine for zuhrkwood. This table set was made of wood. Real, expensive, imported-from-the-surface wood. And when Solaurin put the cup of water in his hand, he confirmed that it was indeed made of silver.
The house might be common, but the furnishings were anything but.
“Have a seat,” Solaurin said, though he frowned as he surveyed the table. “I’ll locate more chairs. We have them, somewhere. We just don’t often host guests.”
Rismyn wanted to argue that he was fine standing, but Solaurin had already disappeared through one of the two doors that opened on either side of the room. So, numbly, he took the chair across from Mazira.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Mazira’s stunned expression mirrored his own.
Then, tentatively, she raised her hands and signed, ‘Is this really real?’
Rismyn wanted to say, yes, absolutely, but his hands refused to let go of his cup. Truthfully, he wasn’t all that certain himself. It just seemed too…civilized…after their last four barbaric months. Too abruptly perfect to reconcile with what he’d come to expect life to be. Perhaps none of this was real. Perhaps they’d jumped into the river only to drown and were now experiencing some sort of bizarre afterlife.
It was a pity the dead still had dragons to contend with.
It wasn’t funny, but Rismyn laughed anyway. What else was he supposed to do? ‘I don’t know,’ he signed. ‘I guess only time will tell.’
Mazira only looked more concerned, and the weight of her scrutiny became uncomfortable, so he took another look around the kitchen. All around them were little details that were so ordinary it made them feel all the more surreal. Sporebread loaves rising in the window sill, appearing purple in the red wash. Stone tablets hung over the counter, growing different culinary lichens and salts. Even an oven, which radiated heat from a fire cracking merrily in its enclosed heart, warming a shining copper pot that had the most delectable smell wafting from its contents. A scent that sent rumbles through Rismyn’s gut.
He was starving.
A moment later, Solaurin returned, dragging an extra chair that matched the pair already in the kitchen in one hand and carrying a stool in the other.
“A partial success,” he declared. “But it will do.” He set the furniture down. “I’m sure we had a set of four. Ah, well. It will turn up. Now then.” He paused as he helped himself to his own cup of water and drank deeply from it, reminding Rismyn that he wasn’t only hungry, but thirsty as well.
But whatever else he had to say was forgotten when the door clattered open downstairs.
“I’m back,” Ti’yana called from below, as if her presence hadn’t already been announced. Footsteps bounded up the stairs, and then there she was. In all her radiant, wondrous glory. The very picture of perfection personified.
Rismyn’s brain turned back to static, and he was glad he was sitting down. She made his knees weak.
“You will not believe what Goodie Amberfane tried to give me,” Ti’yana said. She carried a large woven basket in either arm, which she set down on the counter. “Her whole roasted leg-of-rothé! As if she hadn’t been smoking it for two days for her and Oswin. Honestly, the ‘tryma pies were good enough, I told her–”
Rismyn stopped listening to her chatter, too fixated on the mention of a whole smoked and roasted leg-of-rothé. His mouth watered at the sheer thought of it. The last time he had eaten so well was before he’d left for Melee-Magthere, when he was served the finest House Tear had to offer on a regular basis. One of the few perks of being royalty, even if he was just a male. They’d certainly never wasted so much fine meat on the students of the Academy.
And they probably never wasted it on the slaves, either.
The humming in his head slipped away as cold truth cut it off. He glanced at Mazira, who still stared placidly into her cup, wondering what all this talk meant to her. What had she gotten to eat in House Tear? Was it better or worse than their awful foraged bluecaps?
But there was no time to dwell on it. With the arrival of the food came all the activity of a meal with none of the servants he was used to to serve it. Instead, Ti’yana served them, lightly smacking his shoulder when he tried to stand up to help.
Which only sent his head spinning. She’d touched him. He would do anything she asked.
But they were the guests, Ti’yana insisted, as she handed out plates and flatware. Solaurin gathered the food, inexplicably gifted to them at no cost by their neighbors, something Rismyn had trouble comprehending.
They just…gave it to them?
What did they want for it?
Nothing?
They must want something.
Really?
Was it poisoned?
That last question, he didn’t voice out loud, but he still eyed the food warily before his growling stomach convinced him it was worth the risk. One bite was all it took to throw caution to the shadows.
The food was delicious. Flaky, butter-soaked pies stuffed with mushrooms, herbs, and ground diatryma meat, dipped in Ti’yana’s soup. A heap of steaming, fluffy, mashed gourdplant seasoned with salt and pungent bulbstock. A platter of various mollusks harvested from the river, also soaked in butter and herbs, and a dish Rismyn had never heard of, consisting of slices of an exotic fruit caramelized in a sweet, sugary syrup.
Candied apples, Solaurin told them it was called, and then launched into an explanation of how apples were just one of the many fruits they grew in the Garden Caverns, a concept that sounded like a miracle in itself. Large caves filled with dirt that had been dug up from the surface and sailed in on river barges, filled with enchanted light that mimicked the sun. The enterprise had taken a tremendous amount in ingenuity and resources, but now fed the few thousand people that lived in the Sanctuary in a way trade alone could not have sustained.
The look on Mazira’s face as Solaurin explained–in great detail–how it all worked was almost painful to witness. Rismyn hardly understood half of what was being said, mostly because the process was so foreign it required Common words to describe, but Mazira understood. He could see it in the way her throat tightened, how her hands folded into little balls.
Something about the promise of false sunlight and agriculture (one of the new Common words he learned over the course of the discussion) struck nerves in her. Whether it was a good thing or not, he couldn’t decide.
But she listened attentively, even raised her eyes from her food and let them drift between Solaurin and Ti’yana, depending on who was speaking. It was a marvelous improvement, so Rismyn decided that the meal was a success, though he could have eaten far more and he was sure Mazira could, too.
But Solaurin warned them away from it. “It won’t settle well,” he advised, much to Rismyn’s regret. “You haven’t eaten properly in far too long. Your body needs time to remember how to handle it.”
He was right, of course. Rismyn had been taught such truths in the Academy. But as he watched Ti’yana gather up the rest of the ‘tryma pies and hide them away in the basket, he privately thought he’d like to put that theory to the test.
“So,” Ti’yana said, as she set the basket out of reach and dusted the crumbs off her hands, “will you tell me what happened? Was there really a dragon turtle? Is Belnir dead or alive?”
Solaurin leaned back, having taken the third chair for himself and leaving Ti’yana the stool. Another curious nod to the strange power dynamic that seemed to be at play. “Belnir is fine,” he said. “The rest will have to wait until Blue Light. It is almost time for the Evensong.”
Ti’yana’s lips pursed in the most flattering pout Rismyn had ever seen. “You’re not going back to the temple for that, are you? You just got home!”
“No, I am not,” Solaurin assured her. He looked and sounded weary. “But we will observe it all the same.”
Relief washed away Ti’yana’s pout, just as appealing as the former, but unease crept over Rismyn’s contentment.
What was the Evensong? It sounded religious, and if he ever experienced another ceremony or ritual again, it would be too soon.
“In the meantime, there’s work to do,” Solaurin continued, before Rismyn could ask. “We need to air out the guest room. I glanced in looking for our elusive fourth chair and it has become a second storeroom. Did you know we have whole merino fleeces in there?”
“That’s where those went,” Ti’yana said, smacking the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I was wondering where I’d stashed them. I’ll get it cleared out right away.”
“No need to hurry,” Solaurin said. “It can wait until after the Evensong. But I was hoping you’d be willing to settle Mazira in your room. Rismyn can take the guest room and you and I will share my room until I work out a more permanent solution. I will set up a pallet for myself.”
“That sounds like a lovely plan,” Ti’yana said, and she sounded genuine.
Rismyn, on the other hand, blanched, looking between father and daughter as panic surged in his chest. “That’s alright,” he protested. “It sounds like a lot of work and rearranging. Mazira and I can share the guest room. Please, don’t put yourself to any trouble.”
He glanced at Mazira for her support, but she had returned to contemplating her silver cup, as if she didn’t care that the priest was trying to separate them when they were safer together. This house didn’t even have outer walls. So far as Rismyn could tell, the only thing between them and anyone who decided they wanted to walk in was a locked door. It was hardly adequate security.
But Solaurin didn’t seem at all put off by Rismyn’s agitation. He merely tapped his fingers on the table and said, “Are you married?”
That got Mazira’s attention. Her head whipped up, and she looked genuinely horrified.
“What?” Rismyn spluttered, unsure he had heard the question right.
“Are. You. Married?” Solaurin repeated, slowly, as if he didn’t speak Undercommon.
“N-no!” Rismyn stammered.
“Lovers?”
Gracious, it got worse. “No!”
“Are you otherwise intimate in any way?”
He thought of the very candid position in which Solaurin first found them and his skin warmed. “No,” he said. The bluntness of these personal questions was bordering on offensive, even for drow. He cast Mazira another glance and found her face as red as the light shining through the window.
“Well then it simply wouldn’t be appropriate,” the cleric concluded. “Mazira will stay in Ti’yana’s room.”
“But–!” Rismyn started, before the look Solaurin gave him cut him off.
“Rismyn,” he said, soberly. “After everything you have seen and experienced so far, do you still doubt our good intentions?”
The question felt like an accusation, and Rismyn hung his head. “No.”
“Then allow the girl her privacy. You’re safe here.”
Rismyn looked away, hating the way Solaurin guessed his motivations in the matter. Then again, a misunderstanding would probably have been worse. Still, the feeling of exposure was unpleasant, and he almost missed the concealment of the ever-dark tunnels.
“Now then,” Solaurin said rising from the table and rolling his shoulders. “Rismyn, will you join me?”
Rismyn hesitated, his eyes finding Mazira’s. Despite what Solaurin had just said, he was still reluctant to leave her side. He was just trying to work out how to politely decline when Solaurin beckoned him towards the door he had disappeared through earlier.
There was no getting out of it. Resigned, Rismyn rose and followed the cleric out and into a short hallway. Mazira remained at the table, stiff and rigid as a statue, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was abandoning her.
Once in the hall, Solaurin stopped, casting a hand around to the doors which lined the wall. “The bedrooms,” he declared. “And the water room,” he added, indicating the closed door straight ahead. “The other door from the kitchen leads to our sitting room, which I am sure we will visit later. For now”–he tapped the first funguswood door on the right–“this is Ti’yana’s room, where Mazira will be staying. See.” He crossed the hall and tapped the door across from Ti’yana’s. “This is the guest room—your room, now.” He looked back and forth between the doors. “You’ll notice they’re quite close. She will not be far from you.”
Rismyn couldn’t keep the scowl from his face. It was nice to know, but he felt like a child being managed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you–” he began.
“You’re not in trouble,” Solaurin said, waving his protest away. “Your desire to protect Mazira is admirable, and arguably a defining trait of who you are. Which concerns me, but that’s a conversation for another day. For now, I’d like for you to share the Evensong with me. And then we’ll rest. We all need it.”
Rismyn’s frown deepened. “What does that mean?”
“Which part?”
“Sharing the Evensong.”
“Ah, for you, tonight, nothing but spending a little while in my company. Come.” He beckoned again and led Rismyn to the second door on the left. “My room,” he said, as he opened the door and stepped inside.
Rismyn followed him, now a little curious to see where this was going. He’d seldom seen the inside of another drow’s sleeping chambers. One wasn’t allowed in such private and personal places without an explicit invitation. Aside from the occasional visit to serve Mindra or his trespassing into Toloruel’s room, Rismyn didn’t think he’d ever stepped inside another’s bedroom before.
Solaurin’s room was altogether more interesting than the rooms of his siblings. For one thing, it was massive, open and spacious even with the luxurious marble-framed bed taking up most of the right wall. To the left a small seating area was arranged, a stack of books piled high on a low round table. There was a wardrobe carved of matching marble that Rismyn didn’t even want to consider the weight of (or the cost), and a writing desk beside a glass door that appeared to lead out to a balcony.
And then there were the tapestries. Elaborate hangings hung from every wall, each motif more interesting and unique than the last, and none of them patterned after spiders like the art in House Tear. The colors were warm hues, all yellows and reds and oranges. Even a splash of green. Shades not normally favored in drow décor.
“These are beautiful,” Rismyn said, so struck by the intricacy of the art he forgot he was supposed to be annoyed. “Did you weave them?”
“Me? No,” Solaurin laughed. He crossed to the wardrobe. “I am not that vain. They are imports, work that I admire. They depict images from the World Above, or so I’ve been told. I’ve never been there myself. Come here.”
Rismyn obliged, moving to join the cleric as he swept the cabinet doors open. He looked Rismyn over with a frown and said, “You’re unfortunately very tall.”
“So I’ve been told,” Rismyn muttered. Depending on who said it, it was either praise or complaint.
“And of a broader build than I.” He leafed through the garments hanging inside. “I may not be able to supply you with a decent change of clothes until tomorrow, but we’ll find something for the night.”
“Oh,” Rismyn began, surprised at how the gesture disarmed him. “Don’t worry about it. What I have works–”
“What you have is mercenary armor,” Solaurin interrupted. “Which is quite fitting for wandering in the Wilds. But you are back in civilization now, and if you don’t want to be stared at, you’ll want to look less like sellsword and more like a decent member of society.”
“But I can’t repay you–”
“Did you forget I’ve claimed responsibility for your wellbeing?” He selected something from the wardrobe and thrust it at him.
“Well, no, but I–”
“Good. This might fit you. And…this, too.” He stuffed something else in Rismyn’s arms. “We’ll sort out the rest of your needs tomorrow. Do you enjoy a good pipeweed?”
Rismyn blinked, trying to keep up. “No,” he said succinctly, afraid that if he tried to explain that he’d never tried any pipeweed before–good or bad–he would get cut off again.
“A shame. Ah, well. Change into that and join me on the balcony.”
Solaurin left through the glass door, an even worse security risk than the solid one at the street level. So much glass could easily be shattered, and anyone could just walk right into the priest’s room. He was starting to suspect, however, that what made the people of Launa safe wasn’t walls or weapons, but something else. Something deeper that ran in the core of the citizens here.
As Rismyn stripped off his enchanted adamantine armor, he hoped his assumptions were true. The material of the clothes Solaurin gave him was soft and thin, with a lingering trace of incense clinging to them. It offered such little protection he might as well have dressed in paper.
Still, he obediently pulled on the deep, wine-colored tunic, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute, and not just because it stretched taut across his chest. At least the trousers were a proper shade of dark-elven gray, though admittedly lighter than he would have liked and the hem a little higher than he would have preferred.
But it was good enough, for tonight.
Not knowing what else to do, Rismyn folded his discarded clothing neatly and set them atop a chest that rested at the foot of the bed. Then, he went to the door–as instructed–and followed Solaurin out.
The cleric had removed his outer robes, hanging them over a low stone wall that formed the border of the balcony. It left him dressed in a loose, pale blue shirt and black breeches. He leaned forward in a high-backed chair designed for rocking, fidgeting with some flint over a long-stemmed pipe.
The whole image was so different from what Rimsyn had come to expect that he paused, trying to absorb the moment. It was so ordinary. Not at all what he’d come to associate with clerics, Solaurin being no exception. The elf had literally repaired the bones of his ribs with a song and a touch. He belonged in regal robes and spectacular temple gardens, not small dwellings fighting for a spark to light his pipeweed.
Solaurin glanced up, his eyes lingering on the ill-placed hems of the Rismyn’s clothes. “We shall most assuredly find you something better to wear tomorrow,” he said. “Please, sit.”
There was a second rocking chair beside Solaurin’s, and Rismyn took it just as the priest managed to get his pipe lit. The balcony was not large, but it was comfortable, overlooking an expense of unworked cavern. The forest of stalagmites swallowed the red light of the city, creating a haunting effect that sent a chill down his spine.
Solaurin, on the other hand, seemed to have no concern. He leaned back in his chair and took a long drag on his pipe, releasing a cloud of smoke with a sigh. “So, my young friend,” he began. “Your first cycle in the Sanctuary. I am curious–what surprises you the most?”
It was an effort not to cough and splutter on the cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. Kelafein–his mother’s consort–had enjoyed the pipe, but Rismyn was seldom close enough to the wizard’s presence to have to deal with it. He supposed it might be a common habit among those whose power didn’t come from maintaining peak physical condition. When one could wave their hand to incinerate their enemies, it didn’t matter what the pipeweed did to your lungs.
He tried to lean back surreptitiously, so as not to offend the cleric, mulling the question over. It might have been easier to answer what hadn’t been surprising. But as he thought about it, one thing floated to the surface of his mind.
“Your daughter,” he said.
Solaurin’s eyes cut sharply to Rismyn, but Rismyn hardly noticed it.
“And Torafein’s, the way she reacted to him. And yours, how she calls you by your title, not your name.” He thought again of Kelafein, the drow who was probably his own father. “I’m not even certain the elf who is said to be my father is actually my father, and the only interest he ever showed in me was when I was tested to see if I had any magical talent.”
The sharp expression on the priest’s face softened. “Well, did you?”
“What?”
“Did you have any magical talent?”
Rismyn blinked. It wasn’t the response he expected. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I didn’t actually try. I wanted to go to Melee-Magthere, not Sorcere.”
Solaurin laughed. “So you cheated the test? Clever. And what made you want to learn the sword over the staff?”
Rismyn shifted and the chair creaked. “I don’t know. It’s just what I always wanted. Or…what I thought I always wanted. I’m not sure I know how to know what I actually want.”
“Mm. That is a skill that takes centuries to master, and some never learn it. I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself over it.”
Rismyn scowled. “Well that’s not good enough. If I’d been able to figure it out sooner, I wouldn’t have gone to Melee-Magthere at all. I’d have taken Mazira and run decades ago.”
“You were a child decades ago.”
“So?”
“So you would have gotten yourself killed.” The priest sucked in another puff on his pipe. “And we wouldn’t be here, having this delightful conversation.”
“Mazira almost died,” Rismyn said, his throat constricting over the words. “She has acid scars and knife wounds and secret agonies I’ll never know about because I was too stupid to realize what I really wanted, that what was happening to her was wrong.”
But that was a lie. He’d known from the beginning it was wrong, sensed it in his core. He hadn’t been too stupid, he’d been too afraid to do anything about it. Too weak. Too pathetic.
Too selfish.
Solaurin breathed out another wave of smoke, rocking back and forth as he contemplated the stalagmite forest beyond. He was quiet for so long that Rismyn regretted that he said anything at all. Why was he spilling his heart to this priest, anyway? They were practically strangers. He didn’t need to hand him a key to all his inner turmoil.
But just when Rismyn opened his mouth to try and recant his words, Solaurin finally spoke.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” he said, catching Rismyn off guard with the abrupt change of subject. “It begins about a hundred years ago, give or take, with a silk merchant who had the misfortune of loving the youngest daughter of a matron.”
Rismyn sat back, not sure what to say. Part of him was hoping Solaurin would absolve him of his guilt, tell him what happened to Mazira wasn’t his fault. Part of him hoped Solaurin would blame him for everything so he could suffer like he deserved.
None of him was in the mood for a story, even if that story was about love, the subject of which he wanted to learn the most. What right did he have to love anyone?
But whether he wanted the story or not, a story was what he was going to get. Solaurin wasn’t watching him, and Rismyn suspected he wasn’t watching the shadows, either. His eyes were distant, far away, glazed over the way Mazira’s glazed when she told her stories.
“Now this silk merchant,” he began, “wasn’t an impressive drow. He was raised in a common home by his elder brothers, in the city of Sschindylryn. Have you heard of it?”
Rismyn shook his head.
“It is a small city, deep in the Wastes of the Middle Dark, only reachable through magic portals. The people there are more interested in prosperity than warfare, though it has its fair share of squabbles as all drow societies do. But because of the relative safety, the silk merchant never bothered to learn much in the way of martial training or magic. He trusted in his gold and wit to keep him safe, hiring bodyguards when he traveled to peddle his wares, which is how he met his Matron’s daughter.”
“He doesn’t sound very smart,” Rismyn muttered. There was no amount of gold that could buy loyalty among drow.
“On the contrary, he was very smart,” Solaurin countered. “So smart, in fact, that he managed to steal the silk business right out from under his middle brother’s nose, after the untimely death of the eldest. But that isn’t pertinent to the story. What matters to the story is that this merchant had none of the superior skills that daughters of matrons are usually looking for when selecting a consort. So when this silk merchant was selected, he understood that he was loved in return.”
Rismyn narrowed his eyes. Was that what love was, then? Choosing someone it didn’t make sense to choose? If that were the case then he might have a chance with Mazira after all.
Yeah, right. And Dragon Turtles could fly.
“What do you know about building a noble house?” Solaurin asked, jarring him from his bitter reverie.
“Uh…” His brow furrowed. How did one build a noble house? It must be possible. Houses fell every day in Menzoberranzan, and there was always another to take its place. “I don’t actually know,” he admitted.
“Well, it takes a great deal of ambition, and a great deal of blood.” Solaurin’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Very similar to building a business. And though the silk merchant had no skill in war or sorcery, he was excellent at building businesses and had plenty of gold to fund it. If his princess wanted to be matron of her own house, he would give her the entire city to rule. Such was the love he had for her. And she, in return, remained faithful to him alone, and valued his counsel above even her women advisors.”
Now that was insanity. Not just that she took her husband’s counsel, but that she remained faithful. No one expected a woman to be faithful, no matter how fond of her consort she was. Faithfulness in exchange for a city was a pretty even trade.
“There was only one problem,” Solaurin said, and he stilled his rocking, tapping out the ash of his pipeweed. “Husbands do not give power or cities to priestesses of Lolth. That is the Spider’s prerogative. And if the Spider decides that her priestess is just a little too attached to her husband, then that priestess is given a test. Are you familiar with the tests of Lolth?”
Rismyn shook his head, though he thought he could guess.
“Mm. In this particular instance, Lolth sent whispers into the ear of the priestess, spreading rumors that her silk merchant intended to betray her.”
Solaurin set his pipe down, which seemed to have burned out, and ran a hand down his braid as though reassuring himself it was still there.
“The priestess didn’t believe the lies, of course, but she understood the test. She either kill her love, or lose the Spider’s favor, and therefore her fledgling house. She had just born a daughter to inherit it, just begun to amass an army that wasn’t made up of mercenaries. Can you guess which one she chose?”
Rismyn hesitated. Every part of him wanted this to be like one of Mazira’s stories, where love triumphed over evil in the end. Unfortunately, he’d met too many priestesses.
“She killed the silk merchant,” he said, wondering why Solaurin would tell him such a depressing tale. He was miserable enough already.
“No,” Solaurin corrected, and for a moment Rismyn’s hope soared.
The moment didn’t last long.
“The silk merchant killed her,” Solaurin said. “Though she confronted him with tears in her eyes, begging him to understand, he couldn’t. When she attacked, he defended himself, and this merchant who had no formal killing training slew his wife with his own two hands.”
Silence fell as a heavy shroud, as though the pipeweed still smoldered away, thick and suffocating. Rismyn didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Had this been one of Mindra’s bedtime stories, it would have been a lesson in why men were worthless, and the priestess would have come out the victor. Had it been one of Mazira’s tales, they would have lived happily ever after.
But this…this was just strange. Where was the moral? What was the lesson? There was always supposed to be a lesson, right?
But before he could bring himself to ask, Solaurin suddenly tensed, turning his head aside as though listening for something.
And then Rismyn heard it, too. It sounded like the same stringed instrument that played at the feet of Eilistraee, magnified a hundred-fold to echo throughout the whole city.
“The Evensong has come,” Solaurin said. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply.
In the homes on either side of them, doors suddenly opened and people stepped out onto their balconies. Rismyn went rigid, suddenly acutely aware of just how close to his neighbors Solaurin lived.
But for all his concern, the newcomers paid them no mind whatsoever. To their left, a male and female couple stood together, hand in hand. They rose to only half Rismyn’s height. Their curly hair framed faces rapt in reverence, eyes shut like Solaurin’s. On the right was a single male, drow, in equal enchantment. As the last note of the harp faded away, they began to sing. Judging by the sudden sound bouncing around the cavern, they were not the only ones.
But for once, Solaurin did not sing. He raised his hand and swayed it, somehow finding a rhythm in all the different melodies floating about. The smallfolk to the left sang a merry jig in a language Rismyn didn’t recognize. The drow on the right only held out deep, somber notes in no language at all.
Not knowing what to do, he sat very still and waited, feeling more awkward by the minute. On and on the song went, more focused and purposeful than the music he’d heard before, reverberating in his bones and tugging on his heart.
The whole event must have lasted about five minutes or so, with the music swelling to a crescendo as more voices in the streets join in. Then the song faded until at last there was silence again–or as much silence as a city could have.
The drow on the right turned back into his home without a glance in their direction, but the couple to the left opened their eyes and looked directly at them. Both faces broke out into hearty smiles and they waved excitedly.
Solaurin raised a hand in a friendly greeting. “Madam Versonica, thank you for the last-minute supper. It was magnificent, as always. We are in your debt.”
“Auf, don’t mention it,” the small woman called back, in such a thick accent Rismyn didn’t realize at first that she spoke Undercommon. “Next time come over, and bring the whole family.”
“Perhaps we shall. Thank you.”
The smallfolk bade the priest goodnight–or rather, a pleasant Red Light, which Rismyn assumed meant the same–and returned inside.
“Oswin and Versonica Amberfane,” Solaurin said, after they had gone. “Wonderful people. Forty years enslaved by drow but you’d never know they suffered a day in their life based on their generosity and hospitality. But halflings are said to be like that.”
“Right,” Rismyn said, still uneasy.
Solaurin glanced at him and his brows knit together, whether in concern or disapproval, Rismyn couldn’t tell. “That was the Evensong,” he said. “It is a cyclical ritual here, where one pours out the emotions of their day in a song to Eilistraee.”
Great. It was going to happen again. “But you didn’t sing,” Rismyn observed.
“Not aloud,” Solaurin agreed. “My emotions are heavy tonight, and my voice is strained from the recent adventure. I chose to enjoy the song of others and sing in my heart. Eilistraee will hear.”
Rismyn nodded, not understanding a word of it but stashing the excuse away in case anyone tried to ask him to sing.
“Now, back to my story,” Solaurin said, which hardly relieved Rismyn’s tension. “Tell me, young Tear. By your estimation, is the silk merchant a murderer?”
Rismyn held his breath, trying to remember the exact words of the tale before the strange ritual washed it all away. He sensed there was a trick in this question, and he didn’t want to be caught in the trap. But as he recounted what Solaurin had told him, he couldn’t find the noose.
“No,” he said, finally. “He was defending his own life. How could he be held accountable?”
“How indeed,” Solaurin muttered, leaning forward and taking up his pipe again. “But it could be argued that he did know it was coming. That he wasn’t unfamiliar with the Spider’s jealousy, that one day he understood it would come down to his life or her own. And yet…” his words faltered. “And yet I let her love me anyway, knowing it would one day be the death of her. Or me, more likely.”
Rismyn blinked as the full implication of the words sank in.
Silk merchant. Weaver.
He was an idiot.
“I am a murderer, Rismyn,” Solaurin said. He tapped the bowl of his pipe and the remaining herbs reignited. “If not because of what I did to Korinna, my wife, the mother of my daughter, then for all the hundreds of lives I conspired to destroy on a conquest for her glory. It doesn’t matter that I never raised a blade myself, that I never marched with the armies I commanded. There are rivers of blood that I laid the path for.”
He paused to breathe in more of his smoke, and the tendrils drifted towards Rismyn like clawing fingers. In the curling ribbons, Rismyn saw the ruins of the house where he had once stalked and slaughtered a rogue priestess.
All those bones in the water. All those senseless killings. Had Solaurin been the author of it?
“If you’re wondering,” the priest said from within his pipeweed haze, “I do consider Korinna’s death to be murder. I did know one day Lolth would come for my head. She doesn’t take second place well. I told myself when that day came, I would offer my beating heart willingly. It already belonged to Korinna, she could take it when she wanted. And yet, when she asked for it, I proved myself a coward, and took hers instead.”
Rismyn sat still and silent, unsure of what to say. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was. Though he’d heard the stories of the others on the Songbreeze, he’d somehow imagined Solaurin was different, unstained by drow society. A holy priest for a goddess that was supposed to stand for everything that was good. Of course, he had no interest in the religion, but it still felt like a slap hearing the cleric’s confession. Like the vision of the healing was now tainted.
Solaurin rocked back and forth, and when he spoke, it was as though he sensed Rismyn’s thoughts. “Every drow who has not been raised here has come from a deplorable past,” he said. “We all bear scars and tragedies. We all have blood on our hands. Whatever it is you have done, or not done, whatever burdens you carry, you may release. You belong to Eilistraee now, whether you like it or not. She knew what she was rescuing. Your past does not define you. Your new life has already begun.”
He said it like it was easy. Like Rismyn could just forget turning a blind eye to Mazira’s struggles, to the way he convinced himself he hated her after he–
No. He didn’t want to think about it. Nor did he want to talk about it. And while he was at it, he didn’t particularly enjoy being told that he belonged to any goddess, let alone against his will. He couldn’t deny any longer that Eilistraee was probably the one behind Mazira’s miracles. The evidence was too great. But though he would thank her for saving Mazira’s life, he was far from ready to start singing her songs.
“How did you come to be here?” Rismyn asked, because any conversation was better than the one they were currently having.
“Ah, now that is an interesting story,” Solaurin said, rocking back in his chair. “But I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it, yet. It requires an awful lot of faith to believe.”
Rismyn scowled. “What does that mean?”
“It means that Eilistraee herself led me here by the hand, and I can tell by the way you flinch every time she comes up that you’re not interested in her workings.”
This priest was far too perceptive. “Well maybe your story will convince me,” Rismyn said, now determined to get the tale if only because he was being denied it.
“I doubt it,” Solaurin shrugged. “But, in time, I will tell you, if Ti’yana doesn’t first. She is well aware of the story, as well as the reason why she has no mother. I do not hide secrets from her. But now, young Tear, I am quite interested in hearing your secrets. You have heard of my demons, now I wish to hear of yours.”
Rismyn stilled as Solaurin broached the very subject he’d been trying to avoid. He diverted his attention across the expanse of wild darkness. “I have nothing to share.”
“Really? Well, then let’s talk about that face of yours. I’m dying to know why you didn’t want that wound healed.”
Rismyn jerked, a hand going subconsciously to his cheek. He hadn’t understood, at first, until his fingers brushed against the groove now permanently etched into his skin. He’d nearly forgotten about the scar, since he still hadn’t had a chance to see what it looked like. It was easy to forget it was there.
The reason he’d wanted it was not so easy to forget. As the priest peered at him expectantly, he realized Solaurin had him–metaphorically–by the throat. The single mark was the lynchpin to all his pain, to all his soul unraveling.
How was he supposed to just talk about it?
He shook his head. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Solaurin said. He breathed deep on his pipe again and settled back. “For once, I’m tired of talking. And we’re drow–we live for centuries. We have all the time in the world.”
Rismyn hesitated, but what else could he do? Solaurin had fed him, clothed him, and offered him shelter. The least he could do was offer his story.
And so, reluctantly, Rismyn opened his mouth to speak, and was shocked to discover that once he started, he couldn’t stop.
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.
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