~2. Dream Terrors~
Mazira
Something was burning.
Mazira’s eyes fluttered open and she bolted up, flinging away the heavy coverlet. Her eyes darted about, looking without seeing, searching in vain for the flicker of orange amidst the cerulean light cascading through the window.
Flames. There were flames. There had to be flames. Why couldn’t she see the flames? Something was burning, she was burning.
“Oh no…”
The words belonged to Ti’yana. Jarring, grounding. Not spoken with the same sense of urgency that pounded through Mazira’s heart, but groaned in exasperation. It was enough to cut through the last lingering threads of dream-induced delirium.
Ti’yana rolled onto her back beside Mazira, rubbing her forehead. Even in the early Blue Light, fresh from slumber, the girl was unfairly beautiful. As though the hair splayed over her pillow was artfully arranged strand by strand.
She looked up at Mazira with a blank expression and said, “Who do you want to bet it is? Rismyn or Father?”
Mazira’s heart still raced, her hands knotted in her shift. She didn’t quite grasp the meaning of the question until her mind finally registered what her senses were trying to tell her.
There were no flames. Nothing was on fire. She was in her room, in her own bed, and someone was burning breakfast.
She let out a long breath and slumped back onto her pillows, feeling like an idiot. That should have been the obvious conclusion. Of course nothing was on fire. Nothing was ever on fire. This was Launa, not Menzoberranzan. She was safe here.
“I bet it’s Father. Rismyn is probably still hiding in his room avoiding chores.”
Mazira tried to smile, but her blood was still thick with adrenaline, her hands slick with cold sweat. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, so that the girl wouldn’t see the terror lingering in her eyes.
But of course, Ti’yana knew her better than that. They had shared a room for nine months now, and it seemed half those cycles ended with Ti’yana abandoning her own covers to quiet Mazira’s blood curdling screams, like when her mother used to hold her tight, reassuring her that the creaking outside their wagon was just the wind.
Except Ti’yana wasn’t her mother. She was a girl two years younger than herself. And a drow, though the longer they lived together, the less Mazira thought of that.
Aside from Blue Lights like this.
Mazira shut her eyes. It had been a year. She shouldn’t need the songs or the soothing anymore. She should be past this by now.
Ti’yana rolled over. “Mazira? Were you dreaming again?” Her hand touched down on Mazira’s shoulder.
The sensation sent a sickly feeling streaking through her skin. Mazira shot up again, scrambling into the corner where the bed met the walls, curling her arms around her knees.
Ti’yana watched her with wide, startled eyes, before her look of shock turned to pity. “I’m so sorry.”
Mazira’s face flamed and she put her head in her hands. “No, I’m sorry.” Her eyes stung with tears she didn’t shed. “I’m fine, really.”
The mattress creaked as Ti’yana sat up. “I’m going to go check on breakfast. Do you need anything?”
Mazira shook her head. She kept her eyes hidden in her palms as Ti’yana slipped out of bed, padded to the wardrobe for a cover, and then disappeared out the door.
When she was alone, she let out a huff and grabbed her pillow, hugging it to her chest. What was wrong with her? Ti’yana was her friend, and a very dear friend at that. Just a few hours ago, Mazira had awoken to the elf’s arms around her, holding tightly against her thrashing and humming one of Eilistraee’s enchanted melodies–although Ti’yana herself couldn’t actually touch the Weave. Eilistraee had gifted her with many things, but magic was not one of them. At least, not yet.
Still, the song was enough to calm Mazira. She remembered falling back to sleep, comforted by the nearness of the priest’s daughter. Keeping her safe, chasing her dream terrors away.
So why did Ti’yana’s touch make her shudder now?
Mazira flumped over, still curled in a ball around her pillow. Ti’yana’s voice rang out in the kitchen, calling for her father. Either he was the culprit of the burned breakfast, or Mazira would soon be receiving a knock on the door from the priest himself, inviting her to join him for a walk.
That’s usually what happened when her cracks went deeper than Ti’yana could mend. He might talk with her himself or he might conveniently cross paths with Tsaria, or Satara, or one of the many other women who also took an interest in her mental well-being.
Not that she resented it. Mazira knew she was incredibly blessed to have so many people care about her. She just wished she wasn’t such a burden to them all. Surely this little incident wasn’t requiring further intervention. It was just a dream.
And a minor panic attack over the burning of breakfast.
“So stupid,” Mazira whispered, flattening out on her back. Her eyes watered again but she refused to let herself cry. She was tired of crying. “It was just a dream, Mazi. Just a dream. They wouldn’t really do that to you.”
But even as she said it, her voice broke and pain lanced across her heart. Images from Red Light surged forth in her mind, as vivid now as they had been in her sleep.
She couldn’t exactly recall how the dream started, but she remembered she had been with Rismyn.
Well, actually, she’d been kissing Rismyn. A thought which sent wild flutterings in her stomach. Why her subconscious felt the need to taunt her such imaginings she couldn’t fathom, but it was making it rather awkward to sit across the table from him at every meal and look him in the eye. She was fully aware of her feelings for Rismyn. She was also aware that he did not share them with her.
Mazira groaned and buried her face in the goose down. Mercy, she’d been kissing Rismyn. Their hands entwined, their bodies pressed together in a fervor that she couldn’t believe came from her own mind. Dream-Rismyn had pinned her against the wall, as Real-Rismyn had done on that awful day in the cleric’s ritual room. Only this time, Dream-Mazira hadn’t minded. Real-Mazira, however, shuddered, the fluttering making her a little too warm for the heavy blanket she slept under. She tried to bury her face deeper into the pillow, as though she could escape the images.
But it only got worse. She remembered the way it felt when her back hit the cold stone wall, and then everything shifted. She was no longer standing, but lying down, flat on her back on a table. Like Mindra’s operating table, where she lay as a girl and waited for the spiders to crawl over her flesh, knowing it was only a matter of time until one was coaxed to bite.
Rismyn was still there, but he was different. His hair was long again, and his features hardened in an all too familiar way. If it weren’t for the crescent scar on his left cheek, she might have thought he was someone else.
He straddled her around the middle, trapping her upon the table. He no longer kissed her, no longer held her hands. Instead, his fingers dug into her wrists. It hurt, and she struggled to work her hands free of his grip, but she couldn’t escape.
Then Ti’yana was there, looking down at her with disapproval. “Now, now, that color does not suit you at all.” She had a needle and thread in hand, and a bolt of slave-white fabric. “Here, let me fix you up.”
And then Ti’yana began to sew her a dress, right into the flesh of her skin.
Dream-Mazira screamed and struggled, but she couldn’t escape as Rismyn held her down. The needle punched and pulled, up and down, the sting exaggerated by her mounting terror. She remembered crying, begging Dream-Rismyn to let her go, pleading with Dream-Ti’yana to leave her alone. But on went the needle, with Dream-Ti’yana protesting that everything was going to be alright.
Above her, Dream-Rismyn laughed, and his laugh–like his face–was that of Toloruel.
The door burst open, and Mazira jumped, peering up from the pillow. Ti’yana bustled in, a sour look on her face.
“Father burned all the sporebread,” she said, marching to the wardrobe. “I left it in the oven last night and he didn’t check before rekindling the fire this morning. Then he wandered off to settle the books and didn’t even notice! You remember me telling everyone at that I’d left the loaves of sporebread in the oven overnight, right? I know I said it.”
Ti’yana flung open the doors of the wardrobe and started pulling out her outfit for the day.
Mazira took a steadying breath, willing herself to act normal. She sat up and smoothed her hair. “If I remember correctly, you said so many times.”
“Yes!” Ti’yana spun and gestured emphatically. “Thank you! At least someone around here listens when I talk.” She sighed and started to dress. “Well if he wants sporebread, he can borrow it from Goodie Amberfane because I am not spending all afternoon in the kitchen kneading dough again.”
Mazira smiled weakly. Even in her indignation, this Ti’yana was nothing like the Dream-Ti’yana. This was her Ti’yana, whom she trusted. “I can make the bread,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
“Absolutely not,” Ti’yana cried, as she stepped into a forest-colored day dress. “It’s the principle of the matter. He needs to experience the consequences of his actions. Will you help me with my laces?”
Normally, Mazira would have obliged at once. Helping Ti’yana with her laces was almost a daily ritual. But as she stood to join the girl by the wardrobe, she was suddenly lightheaded. Despite what she knew to be true, the thought of going so near to the seamstress sent prickles across her skin, tiny echoes of Dream-Ti’yana’s needle.
Thankfully, Ti’yana didn’t notice. She was still grumbling about her father’s oversight, running a brush through already smooth and perfect hair. Mazira clenched her fists, willing them to stop shaking.
Ti’yana was not like Mindra. Ti’yana was her dear friend.
She crossed the floor and took up the laces, and though her hands defied her wishes, her mind steadied. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it.”
“Oh no, don’t you defend him,” Ti’yana said, though she already sounded less annoyed. “How can someone so brilliant be so…so”–she waved her brush as she struggled to come up with a word– “oblivious.” She sighed. “I dread the day I move on and leave him alone. We’re going to have to find him a wife, Mazira.”
That made Mazira smile for real. If there was one thing she had learned about the priest over the last year, it was that there was nothing he desired less than a wife.
Fortunately, Ti’yana didn’t often require her verbal participation in conversation. “Well, I’m off to salvage what I can. Do you need help dressing before I go?”
“No, I’m going to wear the blue dress today.”
Ti’yana stepped toward the door, then paused, as though the whole of Mazira’s statement had needed time to sink in. She turned back and smiled one of her radiant, room-lighting smiles. “That’s a good choice for today.”
Then she was gone, and Mazira let out a sigh. She considered flopping back into bed, but she was already at the wardrobe. She might as well get ready for the day. It took her far longer to make herself presentable than Ti’yana, for Ti’yana was beautiful without effort.
Mazira was not so fortunate. She let her hands trail over the many dresses that had become hers over the last few months, marveling at the collection as she often did. She’d tried telling Ti’yana that she only needed the one dress and a spare, but the girl wouldn’t hear of it. Mazira had all but replaced Millie as Ti’yana’s dress mannequin, and she had the closet to show for it.
But today was a special day, and special days called for her favorite dress. She found the turquoise chiton by the feel of it, the finer weave standing out among the less grand material. The very dress Ti’yana had presented her with the first Blue Light she awoke here, one year ago. The first thing that was hers and hers alone since she’d come to the Underdark.
As far as Mazira was concerned, it was the most beautiful dress she could ever own. The fabric gathered high around her throat, draping long and loose and completely obscuring the hideous marks Toloruel left on her. A matching sash of fabric cinched it around her waist in a shape she felt was almost flattering.
Then again, everything was flattering, compared to a slave smock.
Mazira owned nothing white anymore, not even a shift, and she suspected that had been by design. The Zovarr’s had done everything in their power to make her new life as different from her old as possible. They hadn’t even allowed her or Rismyn to help with house chores at first, which had been absolutely dreadful. Mazira didn’t know how to exist without work to give her value.
Which, of course, was the lesson they were supposed to learn. One had value simply because one lived. Mazira had been taught that as a girl, but it took a few tendays to remember how to embrace it. Most cycles, she still had to be reminded.
Even still, she was glad when Ti’yana offered to teach her how to spin threads and harvest silkworms. She might not need productivity to have value, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend the rest of her life in idleness.
As the light outside gradually brightened, Mazira slipped the blue gown over her head. She then tied, untied, and re-tied the sash around her waist until she had just the right silhouette. Or at least, a good enough silhouette.
Better than slave smocks, she reminded herself, and the beautiful fabric would make up for the flaws of her shape. Even after a year of being allowed to eat her fill of whatever food she desired, Mazira still thought her body too thin.
Once dressed, she closed the wardrobe and perched on the stool of the vanity she and Ti’yana shared. Carefully, she opened her drawer and removed the ivory comb that Lina and her brothers presented her with shortly after she’d come to Launa. A ‘welcome gift,’ they called it, as if risking their lives to find her wasn’t enough. Mazira still kept it wrapped in the fine paper they had given it in, marveling that such a beautiful thing could belong to someone like her, especially when she had done nothing to earn it.
Ti’yana had been the one to insist that she couldn’t just look at it, that the comb was meant to be used. So Mazira worked the teeth through her curls, picking the strands apart and layering them back where they belonged. A fruitless attempt, really, for in the end she gave up and tied the whole thing back with a ribbon. She would ask Ti’yana to braid it before they left for the temple, and then it wouldn’t matter.
Replacing the comb back in its wrappings, she gave her face a long, scrutinizing stare in the mirror.
She really did have such sallow skin.
Sighing, Mazira collected her pallet of brushes and powders. Ivory chalk to add definition and hide the circles blooming under her eyes, rouge to color her cheeks. Stain to deepen the pigment of her lips, and charcoal to line her lashes. The effect was subtle yet dramatic, and as far as Mazira was concerned, the only way she was fit to be seen.
Ti’yana was beautiful without effort. She was not so fortunate.
As she finished her ritual, Mazira beheld her reflection without satisfaction. She did look better this way, but it was hard to know if it was enough. The people of the Sanctuary were so kind. She didn’t think any of them would tell her if she was unsightly. Not like Toloruel, who had used his brutal honesty as a weapon to wound her.
Not for the first time, Mazira wondered what he would think if he saw her now. And as always, the thought sent a wracking wave of nausea through her gut. It unnerved her how much she fantasized about him seeing her now and being stunned by her appearance. Not because she wanted his approval, but because she wanted to gloat. She wanted to rub it in his face. She wanted him to see that she could be more than what he made her.
You tried to ruin me. But look, I’m not ruined. I’m radiant.
But she didn’t feel radiant. She didn’t even know if she really was beautiful. Rismyn had said so, once. Ti’yana said so often. Beltel said so the most, but he said as much to every female. She learned quickly not to take his flattery to heart.
Though it was nice to be treated like the other girls. Even if his intentions were, as his brother put it, less than pure. But to her, who had never before received such attention, the flirtation acted as a sort of medicine for her soul. She mostly repaid the compliments with red-faced stuttering, but that only seemed to amuse the scoundrel more, until eventually Rismyn or Ti’yana came to her rescue.
The thoughts of Beltel’s antics brought a smile to her face as she turned from the mirror to go clean her teeth in the washroom, but there was no escaping her reflection. There was a mirror there as well, along with an enchanted stone that rained warm water upon command and a claw-foot tub for particularly taxing days. Ti’yana wasn’t wrong when she said her father liked his luxuries.
Her smile faded as she caught sight of herself again, and she avoided eye contact with her reflection while she made herself ready. She plucked a mint leaf from the little plant growing in a pot on the washstand and popped it in her mouth, chewing it as her mind mulled over nothing and everything at once.
Then another disturbing thought struck her.
Would Real-Rismyn be as interested in kissing her as Dream-Rismyn was, now that she’d learned to better her appearance?
Her face burned.
Mercy. These stupid dreams were going to be the death of her.
She hurried from the washroom, suddenly craving the company of others to distract her from her thoughts. To her dismay, Rismyn’s door was cracked, meaning she would have to see him soon. She wasn’t sure she was composed enough to face Rismyn yet this morning.
But as she stepped into the kitchen, she found only Ti’yana, wrist deep into a bowl of flour.
“Would you like help with that?” Mazira asked, drifting toward her friend. The fear of the dream terror was fading now that she was up and moving.
Ti’yana had been scowling at her dough, and there were three thoroughly charred loaves from this morning on the counter beside her. When Mazira spoke, however, Ti’yana’s expression lightened. “Oh, no, I’m alright. I’m just making flatrock cakes. They’ll be done soon.”
Mazira nodded, slightly disappointed. She wouldn’t have minded pounding the thoughts out of her head. “Where are the others?” She tried to ask the question as casually as she could, hoping Ti’yana wouldn’t sense the real question lying beneath the surface. Where is Rismyn?
Ti’yana shrugged. “Haven’t seen Rismyn. Father is in the sitting room, as he has be banished from the kitchen!”
She finished her statement in a shout, glancing over her shoulder with pointed disdain toward the room her father occupied.
Solaurin’s voice wafted back, flat and bland. “And I am utterly distressed about it.”
Ti’yana rolled her eyes and went back to kneading.
Mazira smiled, knowing the rift between father and daughter was trivial at best. She’d been afraid, in the beginning, every time the two would break into bickering. By now, however, she understood that it was just another way they communicated their affection. She left Ti’yana in the kitchen and went to join Solaurin in the sitting room.
The priest sat in his preferred armchair, where the light spilled in to illuminate the ink scrawled in the ledger book he held in one hand. As she entered, he glanced up and raised a finger. “Ah, Mazira, my savior. Would you be a dear and bring me my mug of tea which Ti’yana will not allow me to return and collect?”
“Don’t do it,” Ti’yana hollered. “He needs to suffer.”
Mazira hesitated, caught between the wills of her friend and her benefactor, before she remembered who was master of the house. This wasn’t a real fight, it was an elaborate game. If Solaurin wasn’t in the mood to play along, nothing Ti’yana said or did would keep him from his own kitchen in his own house. In fact, he probably rather enjoyed sitting back with his numbers, allowing the girls to serve him. He would never admit as much, but he could’ve very well burned the sporebread on purpose to orchestrate this very outcome.
Well, maybe not. Solaurin might be shrewd, but he wasn’t devious. He was, however, prone to forget small details in the pursuit of what he considered more important work.
Mazira crept back into the kitchen and found the stone cup still steaming on the table, full of an earthy liquid. As she reached for it Ti’yana whirled about in a flourish of flour.
“No!” she wailed, pointing dramatically at her. “Traitor!”
Mazira only offered her an apologetic smile. “Sorry?”
Ti’yana deflated with a sigh and waved her on. “Fine. It’s fine. I understand. He pays your wages, right?”
“I pay yours, too,” Solaurin called. “And provide your food, shelter, and clothing. Gracious, it’s almost as if you wouldn’t survive without me.”
“Don’t you have temple duty today?” Ti’yana shot back. “You’re late.”
“That’s tomorrow, my heart. Sadly, you are stuck with me.”
Ti’yana scoffed, going back to taking out her frustrations on the dough.
Mazira’s smile gained strength as she brought the tea to Solaurin, setting it beside his ledger books. He thanked her without looking up, his eyes roving up and down the page.
With nothing better to do than wait for breakfast, Mazira perched on the edge of the settee which rested to the left of Solaurin’s corner chair. Her eyes trailed to the unoccupied seat to her own left, the one which Rismyn usually sprawled in when he was present in the sitting room.
“He went out before the Lightening,” Solaurin said, as he turned a page. “Something about a project left to cure over Red Light.”
Mazira jumped, warmth creeping into her already rouged cheeks. “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. There was no question of who Solaurin spoke of. His workshop might fill with apprentices each Blue Light, but there was only one other who lived in their home. “I wasn’t wondering, I was just…” Just staring at his chair. Like a simpering handmaid. “Allowing my mind to wander.”
She sat up a little straighter, feeling the need to appear more formal in the presence of her guardian. Solaurin radiated dignity, even when he was teasing his daughter. Mazira wasn’t uncomfortable in his presence, but she was never quite relaxed, either. As if she needed to appeal to sensibilities higher than her own.
Yet for all his astute observation, the priest seemed to be paying her little mind. “Did it wander anywhere pleasant?”
Mazira flushed darker as Dream-Rismyn tantalized the edge of her mind. “No,” she said quickly, staring pointedly at the empty hearth and carved mantle that took up the entire wall across from her, the only one of its kind Mazira had ever seen in the Underdark, for fire was usually only a tool in these caverns, used for cooking, forging, and killing. She’d never seen one lit just for the sheer joy of its ambience. Then again, even in this hearth, she’d never seen a fire lit.
It didn’t seem out of place, though. It was just another subtle reminder that Solaurin bore a soft spot for frivolous living, no matter what he claimed about his impoverished state. He might have come into the Sanctuary with nothing but a babe and the clothes on his back, but Mazira had seen the ledger books. She knew he had made up for lost time.
A crease formed between his brows. “Well, that is disappointing.” He lifted his eyes from his numbers to rest on her face. “Unpleasant wanderings, then?”
Mazira read the concern in his expression and went as cold as she had just been hot. “No! Nothing of the sort. My mind didn’t have time to finish wandering before you asked me your question.”
His gaze bore into her, and she felt the weaver calculating her words like he calculated the numbers in his book. But whether or not he decided to believe her, he went back to his numbers.
Tension knotted her shoulders stiff. “I’m so sorry,” Mazira said. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just–”
He held up a hand to stop her words. “It is my job to worry for you whether you need it or not.” He’d said this before, and Mazira knew what was coming next. She almost recited the words with him. “It is not something to apologize for, but a role I take great pleasure in.”
She breathed in deeply, but stopped short of releasing the sigh. Who could actually take pleasure in worrying?
As though he sensed her distress, Solaurin snapped his ledger shut and reached for another one. “What are your lessons this morning?”
Mazira’s tension melted away as the subject changed. “Arithmetic and reading,” she said. “And songcrafting, of course.”
The lessons alternated daily. Today numbers and words, tomorrow history (which included religion) and the study of how things worked; everything from life to why larger rocks rolled down hills faster than smaller rocks, things she’d never thought to wonder about. But every day, there was songcrafting. The study of music, art, lyrics, and for Mazira, the study of magic.
Solaurin nodded in approval, as if he wasn’t aware what they were teaching her at the temple despite being the one to enroll her in the school. The classes were a mix of children born in the Sanctuary and older students, like herself, who lost the chance to study when they were younger due to the unfortunate turn of their lives.
“Very good,” the priest said. He offered her the thicker of the leather-bound ledgers. “Care for a warm up? I have scripts here that need to be recorded.”
“Of course,” Mazira answered, before she actually thought through his request. But it didn’t matter. Whatever Solaurin asked of her, she would do. She owed him that much and more, and would have done it all for free in exchange for the life he had given her. Yet even now he made note of the light the moment the book was in her hand. He would add these minutes to the rest of her minutes, and pay her two silver for every hour she worked at the end of the tenday.
Mazira slid onto the floor and rested the heavy book on a low, rectangular table centered in the room. Solaurin didn’t bat an eye at her choice of workspace as she settled onto the crimson rug. He merely leaned forward and set a bottle of ink down before her and returned to his own book of accounts.
“Do not hesitate to ask if you require assistance.”
Mazira assured him she would, though it wasn’t true. She would struggle through the complicated words and large numbers until she figured it out herself. It might take time, but she would do it, because it wasn’t natural for a girl her age to struggle through such simple tasks, no matter what anyone told her.
In the beginning, when Solaurin first invited her to help with the ledgers, he gave her blank paper to work the figures on, and only after checking behind her work did he allow her to add the debits and credits into his most sacred tome of accounts. It had been frustrating to have him hand the work back to her with a gentle request to try again until she got it right. In a moment of weakness, she allowed herself to complain to Ti’yana about it, wondering how bad her spinning must be if Solaurin would rather help her with the numbers when she was clearly not suited for it.
That was when she learned Ti’yana kept no secrets from her father. The next time she sat across from the priest, with ledgers and ink between them, he saw fit to teach her a new lesson.
“Spinning is but one skill,” he had said, seemingly out of the blue. “I can teach you to spin and weave and then you will be a weaver all your days. But if you learn to keep accounts, you may do more than weave for other artisans.”
Mazira couldn’t fathom what ‘more’ she could want to do, but she applied herself anyway to the books, and now, as she opened the pages to where Solaurin had pressed the scripts, she no longer required her work to be checked. She might take twice as long as the priest, but she recorded her numbers directly into the ledger, and he rarely checked behind her work.
They fell into silence, aside from the occasional scratching of Mazira’s pen and the sounds of Ti’yana in the kitchen. Today was an easy load, most of the scripts were for profit gained. Adding figures was easier than taking away figures, and Mazira lost herself in the work until Ti’yana’s voice suddenly cut through the din of white noise.
“Breakfast is ready,” she announced from the door to the kitchen.
Mazira startled, spilling a drop of ink onto the page. Frantic, she did her best to smear it away from letters she had just written. Solaurin might not say anything to her about it, but she knew he would scowl when he saw the blotch.
The priest didn’t even stir. “Oh, dear. What a conundrum. I’ve been banished from the kitchen; however will I acquire sustenance?”
“Oh, father,” Ti’yana sighed, her hands going to her hips. “Just get in here and eat. And don’t you bring that book to the table I–”
But she trailed off, as her eyes fell on the ledger in Solaurin’s hand. Mazira looked between them, not understanding what about the scene made Ti’yana lose her words.
Solaurin seemed to understand, though. He snapped his ledger shut again, springing to his feet. If Mazira didn’t know better, she would have sworn he was trying to hide the book from Ti’yana. She peered at the ledger more closely and noticed, for the first time, that she had never seen it before.
Evidentially, Ti’yana had. “What are you doing?” she asked, a grin spreading across her lips.
“Coming in for breakfast,” Solaurin huffed, dropping the ledger in the chair behind him to hide it from view. “As my lady commands.”
“No, you’re not.” Ti’yana advanced upon him. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s not important.”
Solaurin stood his ground as his daughter stopped in front of him, his arms crossed, his stance rigid. Ti’yana’s face shone with glee. She made a motion as though she were going to dive around him for the book, and Solaurin fell for it. He moved to intercept her, but she twisted and went left instead, seizing the book and raising it up triumphantly.
“Aha! It is! You’re reviewing the Fleet ledger!”
“Ti’yana,” Solaurin growled. He didn’t look amused, but his voice hadn’t yet taken on that dangerous resonance that signaled when games were over. He reached for the book but she danced out of his grasp.
“It’s been two years,” she continued, ignoring him completely. “What do you know that we don’t know, hmm?”
Solaurin reached for the book again, but Ti’yana was taller than him. She held it up out of his reach, opening to the page marked with a ribbon. Her look of delight faltered as she beheld it. In her moment of distraction, her father finally managed to snatch the book back, tucking it safely under his arm.
“It is not your business what I know, child.”
“It is my business,” Ti’yana countered. “Because this business is my business.” She gestured to the house around them.
“Not yet it isn’t. I still have time to disown you.”
The threat carried no barbs, yet the words would have cut Mazira if they had been directed at her.
The weaver’s daughter, however, didn’t even blanch. “You never touch that book unless the Fleet is here,” she pressed. “But the last entry is dated the day they left. So, if they’re not here, but you have the accounts, it means you’re expecting them.”
His blank expression was all the confirmation Ti’yana needed. Her face lit up as she cheered and spun around, twirling her skirts. Her display of joy was so infectious, even Solaurin’s expression softened, though he didn’t smile.
“Keep your voice down, child,” he said. “And sit before you hurt yourself.”
Ti’yana fell back into Rismyn’s usual chair with wide, innocent, eyes. “Please tell us what you know, Baba.”
For the first time since Ti’yana had come in, Solaurin’s eyes flickered to Mazira, as though he had forgotten she was there. His look of surrender turned briefly to concern, but it was too late. He’d already revealed too much to Ti’yana. She wouldn’t let him have peace until he told what he knew.
“The knowledge isn’t common yet,” the priest said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving both girls a significant look. “So don’t go making it so.”
Ti’yana squealed again.
Solaurin raised his brow and she stilled, painting innocence on her face once more.
“Sorry, go on.”
The priest looked like he’d rather have burnt sporebread for breakfast, but he relented. “Ardyn Xarrin returned to Launa last night. I happened to be at the temple when he arrived, with three new Voices pledged to join our cause. The Fleet is four tendays behind them.” He held up a silencing hand before Ti’yana could exclaim again. “I’m sure the rumors will be abroad, but Mother Lara will make her official proclamation tonight, at the Evensong. Do not repeat these words to anyone. And don’t go hunting Ardyn down. He’s been away from home for a long time. Give the young man some time to rest.”
Ti’yana was now bouncing in her seat, barely able to contain her excitement. “Four tendays!” She dove forward and grabbed Mazira’s hands.
Mazira would have jerked away, but the lounge against her back prevented her from escaping the sudden contact.
Ti’yana didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “Four tendays! Do you realize what this means, Mazira? If the Fleet is back in four tendays, we could be on the surface by the end of the year!”
Whatever Ti’yana expected the reaction to her statement to be, it was not the silence she received. Mazira gaped at her as the full weight of the news finally sank in. She had heard of the Fleet, of course. After Guides, the Fleet emissaries were Launa’s greatest heroes. Fearless sailors and merchants who traveled a circuit from the Underdark to Sword Coast. Trading in hostile environments, suffering prejudice in the face of their dark elven heritage, endeavoring to spread the message of Eilistraee.
They would return once every few years, depending on the dangers they encountered. They brought with them gold and surface luxuries, filling the coffers of merchants (such as Solaurin) who had invested in the Sanctuary’s stock. Essential to the economy, most agreed Launa only thrived because of their efforts.
Most importantly, after a brief respite, they would return to their circuit, and they would take anyone who wished to go to the surface with them.
Ti’yana wasn’t wrong. They could be on the surface in less than a year. But though excitement radiated from her, Mazira was punched with fear.
Solaurin, for his part, looked as though he had been turned to stone. “We?” he asked, and his voice found that joy-slicing cadence. He glanced between the two. “Have you been making plans behind my back?”
Ti’yana’s face went ashen. She let Mazira go and turned to her father. “No, of course not!”
Which was true. Although Ti’yana had peppered her with questions about life on the surface, and often exclaimed her wistfulness to go, they’d never discussed anything remotely close to plans on going.
Ti’yana laughed nervously. “I misspoke, that’s all. You know how I get carried away.”
“You did not misspeak,” Solaurin stated, and Mazira sensed the end of all playful banter. “You said it because it is in your heart.”
Rather than bolster her defenses, Ti’yana deflated. “Well don’t act so surprised. I’ve always wanted to go, you know that.”
“And you know that you’re too young, too inexperienced. The surface is too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous?” She barked a scornful laugh. “We live in the Underdark. I have to be careful about what mushrooms I trip over.”
“It’s not the same,” Solaurin said, straining to remain calm. “The surface is full of dangers you cannot comprehend.”
“How would you know, when you’ve never been?”
“Because I listen when the traders talk,” he snapped. “And I notice who doesn’t come home each year. You’re not ready for a pilgrimage, I won’t allow it.”
Ti’yana was on her feet, but her lower lip trembled as her eyes blazed. Solaurin remained fixed and immovable, seemingly unfazed by the cut his words had made. For one terrible moment, Mazira thought Ti’yana would burst into tears.
Then her jaw clenched and her fists balled. “But you’ll let Mazira go? It’s not too dangerous for her?”
Mazira shrank back, shocked at the acid in Ti’yana’s words. It felt like an accusation, but Mazira didn’t know what for. She hadn’t said or done anything, why was she in trouble? She wrapped her arms around her knees as Solaurin swelled with indignation.
“Mazira won’t be stoned on sight because of the color of her skin.” His voice was harder than steel. He glanced at Mazira, and something in her own expression must have struck him because he softened at once. “This isn’t a discussion, Ti, and it is unfair of you to drag your friend into this.” He turned away, resting a hand on the mantle, a signal that he was done talking.
The taut silence was broken by a knock on the door downstairs, followed by the sound of it opening. A voice called a greeting, and Mazira recognized it as belonging to Learsin, one of Solaurin’s apprentices.
The spell broke. Ti’yana spun on her heel and fled into the kitchen. Her footsteps carried down the hall, punctuated by a door slamming.
Solaurin sighed, his expression empty. He didn’t say a word to Mazira, didn’t even look at her as he swept into the kitchen. His steps carried him down the stairs, and when he greeted his apprentice, Mazira would never have guessed he had just had a disagreement with his most beloved daughter.
Mazira sat still and afraid, wondering what had just happened. Was she in trouble? Had she done something wrong? Carefully, she closed the ledger she’d been working on and sat there, dazed, until she heard more voices arrive downstairs.
If the apprentices were arriving, it meant she needed to be leaving. But she’d never walked to the temple alone before. Ti’yana always walked with her and Rismyn always walked her home.
Tentatively, she rose and went to her room. When she peeked inside, she found Ti’yana on her own bed, sobbing into her pillow. Mazira hesitated, torn between going to comfort her and leaving her in peace. Real fights between father and daughter were uncommon, and Mazira wasn’t sure that she wasn’t somehow to blame for her distress. She did want to go to Ti’yana, but she didn't know what to say.
She also didn’t want to be late for her lessons.
“Ti’yana…?” she tried.
The girl didn’t look up.
“Ti’yana…” she said again. “It’s getting late, our lessons…”
“I’m not going today,” Ti’yana choked out. “Just go on without me. I’m fine.”
Mazira flinched. She knew the raised voice wasn’t directed at her, but it still hurt. Quietly, she slipped the door shut.
She would have to walk alone. Ti’yana was crying and all she cared about was having to walk alone. What was wrong with her? Mazira twisted her dress in her hands, biting her lip, unsure of what to do.
In the end, she resolved to go. It’s not like it wasn’t safe to walk through the city alone, and it had been a year. She shouldn’t require hand holding anymore. It was just a walk. She could do this, and when she came home, Ti’yana might be ready to talk.
Steeling her nerves, she went downstairs. When Solaurin saw her without Ti’yana, he asked no questions. Instead, he suddenly remembered an errand he needed to run at the bank, which was conveniently near the temple. The master weaver asked Ithior, his youngest apprentice, to do it, and all at once, she had company on her walk.
Ithior, a half-elf barely older than sixteen, was all too happy to oblige. His cheerful demeanor and constant chatter were a surprising comfort. By the time she reached the temple, the last of her dream terrors had been chased away.
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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