~3. New Faces ~
Rismyn
“What are you doing here at this abominable hour?”
The voice cut through Rismyn’s trance, jarring him from his blissful subconscious and returning him to the present. But though the voice was loud and startling, he didn’t jerk awake.
Instead, he rose from his hypnotic state slowly, becoming increasingly aware of the world around him in little stages. The scent of moisture that clung to the cave, the sound of the Lirdvin river drifting along outside, deceptively calm. Finally, himself, seated cross-legged on a bench and dressed in his stiff practice armor.
He took in a deep, unhurried breath. In, then out, then opened one eye.
Beltel stood before him, arms crossed, wearing a disapproving frown as he stared down at him. It had to be Beltel, because if it was Belnir, he would have just let Rismyn be.
“Well, I was trancing,” Rismyn replied, arching an eyebrow. Cerulean light leaked from the entrance of the cavern, reflecting off the polished black metal of the lockers that lined the smoothed stone walls.
“Yes, but why here?”
Rismyn shrugged, unfolding to stretch his legs and roll his neck from side to side. “Seemed like as good a place as any.”
Beltel’s frown morphed into a mischievous grin. “What, did the priest finally kick you out? Happy anniversary–I’ve changed the locks, don’t come back?”
Beltel laughed heartily at his own joke, but fortunately, he spun away to his own locker, so he didn’t see Rismyn’s good humor evaporate. It might have been a joke, but to Rismyn, the words had touched too close to the nest of his deepest fears.
It was just a joke, he told himself firmly, forcing himself to remember the way Solaurin had embraced him just this Blue Light, telling him how proud of him he was.
But then his hand strayed subconsciously to the metal biting into his sternum, where Mazira’s ring hung safely from a cord beneath his leather armor. Would Solaurin be angry when he found out what Rismyn had schemed? Togethering with Mazira seemed to be the unbreakable, unspoken boundary that he was not supposed to cross. Would his actions get them both kicked out?
No, no. He was being ridiculous. Rismyn had said and done far more vexing things during his time in the weaver’s house than bare his soul to Mazira. If Solaurin could forgive that shameful shouting match, if he could tolerate the one–and only–time Rismyn made the mistake of coming home with far too much ale in his blood and not enough good sense, he could surely forgive a little romantic scheming.
The priest was, after all, a poet at heart. And weren’t extravagant love stories the very thing poets loved most? At least, all the poems Mazira had taken to reciting to him, now that she had learned to read, seemed to be about such topics.
“Helloooo, Rismyn? Did you fall back into a trance again?”
Rismyn did startle this time, snatching his hand away from the where the ring was concealed and painting innocence on his face. “What? No. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well. What did you say?”
Beltel rolled his eyes and briefly vanished from view as he pulled off his tunic. “Well that’s part of the mystery solved; you didn’t sleep well. Still waiting to hear why you’re trying to amend that here.”
Rismyn flushed, glancing away. “I didn’t get kicked out,” he said, sourly. “I left early to see Master Jasper since I won’t be seeing him later this White Light.” And then, because he didn’t enjoy being on the defensive, he turned the question around. “What are you doing here?”
“I?” Beltel said, as he replaced his tunic with a shirt of supple, fitted, black adamantine. It was Militia issued, enchanted and blessed by Eilistraee’s clerics, and an exact replica of what Rismyn would be changing into every day after the Evensong. “I am escaping my brother, who feels the need to lecture me once again about this great honor that’s being bestowed on me.”
He made a face, disappearing back into the shadows of his locker to fish out the rest of his armor.
“It is a great honor,” said another voice from the entrance of the cavern.
Belnir sauntered in, already dressed for combat. Were it not for the silver dove insignia glinting on his shoulder, marking him as a patrol captain, he would have been indistinguishable from his brother. After tonight’s Evensong, not even that would separate their appearance when in uniform.
Beltel raised his brows as his shoulders dropped. “What, were you just standing there waiting for the opportune time to make your grand entrance?”
“A happy coincidence. You left this at home.” Belnir dropped a sheathed dagger on the bench beside Beltel’s gear. He flashed Rismyn a warm smile, before turning back to his brother. “You’re not taking this promotion seriously enough.”
Beltel didn’t try to hide the you-see-what-I-mean look he gave Rismyn. “I am taking this seriously; I seriously don’t want it. Look! I’m not even responsible enough to remember to bring my weapons with me to Blue Light Rounds.”
“Ah, so you did leave it behind on purpose. I was wondering. You know Anders won’t buy that excuse, and neither will Mother Lara.”
Beltel grimaced, before turning beseeching eyes on Rismyn. “Rismyn, you think I am an irresponsible lout with no business leading our fine men and women into the wilderness on patrol circuits, right?”
Rismyn hesitated, glancing between the brothers.
Up until four tendays ago, the twins had merely been good friends, the first Rismyn had ever made after Mazira. They’d gone out of their way to make him and Mazira feel welcome, invited him into their home just for the joy of his company. Rismyn had learned the meaning of excessive drinking with Beltel–a lesson he’d only needed to be taught once–and had overcome his initial culture shock thanks to Belnir’s patient explanations.
But all of that was before the promotion was announced. The patrols were changing, and Rismyn, along with five others, was being raised to fill in the ranks. Belnir had always been a patrol captain since Rismyn had known him, but now, he was going to specifically be Rismyn’s patrol captain. And while he didn’t think anything was going to change now that Beltel was becoming a captain as well, he couldn’t be certain.
“Sorry Beltel,” he finally said, as the twins waited for his opinion. “I’m with your brother on this one. Besides, your misfortune is my gain.”
Beltel sighed dramatically, yanking up his greaves. “Next time, I’m going to let the ilithids eat all your brains.”
That earned him an exasperated smile from Belnir, who glanced at Rismyn as if in commiseration. “They weren’t going to eat us, they were going to enslave us, which is infinitely worse,” he reminded Beltel, as if they weren’t both there when the Mindflayers ambushed their patrol, leading to the heroics that had earned Beltel his promotion. “Honestly, I’ve never met anyone more reluctant to have their merits recognized.”
“It’s just ‘cause he doesn’t want to give up his carousing.” Yet again, another newcomer joined the conversation, entering the shadowed locker cavern. This time, it was a drow named Tarmar, one of the veterans remaining under Belnir’s command, and therefore soon to be one of Rismyn’s contemporaries. “You can’t fool us, Beltel. You’re irresponsible on purpose and we’re all ecstatic you’ve been found out.”
By now, Beltel had changed fully into his armor and howled his protest to his former patrol-mate’s accusation. But his words were losing meaning, as more and more men of the Cove arrived to prepare for the cycle’s rounds of training.
Rismyn smiled and laughed along, but he offered none of his own jests to the growing cacophony. Though he was pleased on his friend’s behalf, and though he was thrilled at his own opportunity, his nerves were starting to get the better of him.
He was only twenty-six. Had he been in Menzoberranzan, he would still have had four years left in his education before he was considered fit to be released onto the city’s patrol. Three years of grueling physical training and one year split between dabbling in magic with the wizards and brainwashing with the clerics.
Well, at least he’d still received his religious education, whether he’d wanted it or not. Solaurin turned everything into a sermon.
Though it was still early, Rismyn excused himself from the locker cavern and stepped out into the main chamber of the city. The Cove was exactly what it claimed to be; a large swath of sandy shore encircled by low bluffs. The perfect place for learning to fight. Schools were already gathering, the three classes divided by skill level, and smaller groups of patrols huddled together as they waited for the sessions to begin.
Rismyn made his way to the weapons rack in search of his preferred shortsword, a strange twist in his gut when he realized this was the last time he’d need to take this walk. Patrol members were issued blades of their own, specifically crafted and enchanted just for them. Singing Swords, they were called, said to fill the heads of their handlers with Eilistraee’s song, empowering their ability to fight. How a head full of music could be anything but a distraction, Rismyn couldn’t fathom, but he’d been at the wrong end of the blades enough times in practice to know that the warriors who wielded them were in no way impeded.
He could have purchased his own sword whenever he wanted, as he’d made a point of obtaining a dagger at his first opportunity. Carrying weapons wasn’t forbidden or regulated, it just wasn’t necessary for survival in the way it had been in Menzoberranzan, and a small part of him craved the pride that would come by earning his next blade through merit, not gold.
In the meantime, he was content to select a practice sword from the community weapon’s rack, which currently had a handful of students gathered around it, mulling over their own choices of blunted blades. Rismyn paid them no mind as he approached, only interested in finding his preferred weapon. Fortunately, it was still there, hanging right where he left it the previous cycle, but as he reached for it, another hand grabbed for it as well, their wrists colliding.
Rismyn withdrew, glancing at the one who had gone for his weapon. “My apologies, I–” he began, but then hesitated as he took in the elf.
Strangers were not common at the Cove. The Sanctuary was small, and their Militia smaller. By now, Rismyn recognized the face of every warrior who trained here, even knowing most of them by name. But he did not recognize this one, or the others standing at the rack whom he had mistaken for students.
The elf who had gone for his blade stared at him, his golden hair tied in a knot at his crown, his eyes the same shade of yellow. His skin was deeply tanned, the color of sandstone, but not a shade belonging to a drow. He was of the surface, though Rismyn had never seen an elf of his hues before.
Beside him stood a woman whose features marked her as a half-elf. Her hair blazed like torchlight and her half-smile had a predatory gleam in it as she looked Rismyn up and down. She’d already selected her weapon, a two-handed longsword, and Rismyn got the sneaking suspicion she was imagining what the dulled edges might do to him if given the chance.
There were two others, though the last of them was obscured behind the form of the third. The man stood head and shoulders taller than anyone Rismyn had ever seen and had the brawn to match. His round ears and the dark hair growing on his face marked him as human, though Rismyn had never met a human so large. How he had missed this one when walking up to the rack was an indication of his own distractedness, distractedness he couldn’t afford.
He was about to be commissioned. He should be better than this.
Rismyn took a step back, giving space to the strangers as wariness overshadowed curiosity. “My apologies,” he said again. His hand twitched to reach for the shortsword, but before he could commit to the motion, the golden elf beat him to it, grabbing the weapon and turning away from Rismyn without a second glance.
“I don’t see why I have to test with a sword,” he said in Common, speaking to the hidden fourth person. “I don’t need it.”
Rismyn blinked, taken aback as the elf swung the shortsword haphazardly, not even gripping it right. Perhaps he hadn’t understood Rismyn, since Rismyn had spoken in Undercommon, but that seemed a poor excuse to not at least try some sort of communication, let alone snatch up the weapon Rismyn had clearly wanted.
“I told you,” said the fourth person. “It’s just how things are done here. Also, I think he wanted that.”
As the unseen speaker spoke, he stepped around the human and into Rismyn’s direct line of sight, switching from Common to Elvish. “I apologize for my friend, he’s having an off day–oh.” The drow, or rather, gloam-drow, as those with mixed heritage were called, broke off, staring at Rismyn with as much surprise as Rismyn was feeling. His eyes traced the curved scar on Rismyn’s cheek and then glanced away. “You’re Rismyn Tear, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Rismyn said, adopting the Elvish tongue out of courtesy. It was likely the language they all had in common.
He studied the stranger, trying to place where he knew him from, wondering how he had been recognized with just a glance. It had been a year since these caverns buzzed with his story. By now, he was old news. He was certain he’d never seen this person before, yet he seemed awfully familiar.
And then, it hit him. The shape of his face, and those telltale broad shoulders…
“I’m Ardyn,” the stranger said, confirming Rismyn’s suspicions. “Ardyn Xarrin.” He extended a hand and Rismyn took it automatically, trying not to gawk. Though his features were more delicate and his coloring lighter, Ardyn Xarrin was the spitting image of his father, Torafein, right down to his posture. “I only just got back last night, er, Red Light, but I’ve already heard quite a bit about you.”
“Same,” Rismyn said, his wonder replacing his irritation with the golden elf. “That is, I’ve heard much about you, too. Your sister is quite fond of you.”
Ardyn laughed, but his eyes wouldn’t quite meet Rismyn’s. He seemed nervous, fidgeting even. “Yeah. I’m surprised she remembers me. It feels like decades since I’ve been gone, but I guess it’s only been about two years. Oh, I’m being rude. These are friends of mine, who came with me to deliver the Fleet’s messages. They’ll be testing today for the Militia.”
Rismyn’s brows furrowed. He’d heard of Ardyn, and heard that he was traveling with the Fleet. But what were these newcomers doing being tested for the Militia on their first cycle in the Sanctuary? Rismyn had been forced to wait a month, undergoing an unknown observation trial to make sure he was truly ready to leave his old drow ways behind. He thought all newcomers, drow or otherwise, experienced the same probation. Were these excused because they came from the surface? That didn’t seem wise.
Or fair.
But it also wasn’t his business.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Rismyn said at last, because it was expected. He might have even meant it if the golden elf wasn’t still holding his preferred weapon as if it were a writhing snake. “The Militia can always use more help.”
“You want this?” The golden elf interrupted, brandishing the shortsword. “Sorry. I didn’t understand your language.”
He didn’t sound sorry, and Rismyn blinked at him, honestly unsure of what to say. Undercommon wasn’t that different from Common. He glanced at Ardyn for support and found the gloam-drow glowering at his friend, the look all too much like his father’s.
Okay, so he wasn’t crazy. The golden elf was being rude.
“I had been planning to use it,” Rismyn said, cautiously. “But I can select another. It’s no matter.”
The elf tossed the sword at him, and Rismyn caught it on impulse, not sure which was more offensive to him; the disrespect to the weapon or the disrespect to his person.
“I don’t need a sword, Ardyn. They’re wasting their time making me test with one.”
“Just take the blade, Vaylan,” the woman said, exasperated. Her Elvish wasn’t quite as polished as the others. “You knew what we were signing up for.”
“If I may…” Rismyn interjected, and then immediately regretted it. This wasn’t his business, and now he had his sword in hand. He ought to be walking away.
But he’d gained their attention, so he had to go on.
“The sword is sacred to the goddess who guards this community,” Rismyn said, surprising even himself. Defending Eilistraee’s doctrines? Solaurin would be ecstatic. “Not everyone here is required to worship her,” he continued, thankful that piety wasn’t commanded the way it had been where he was raised, “but all who choose to serve in her Militia are required to carry and know the sword, out of respect for her matronage.”
He raised the blade and offered it back to the elf, hilt first, showing the weapon the respect it deserved. He himself might not worship the goddess of swordplay, but that didn’t mean he was going to tempt her wrath with disrespect.
“It’s alright if you don’t know how to use it,” he added, thinking himself quite genteel. “They’ll teach you.”
The golden elf–Vaylan–scowled and ripped the sword out of Rismyn’s grasp. “I know how to use it,” he snarled. “But I’m deadlier without it.”
And with that, he stalked away, back towards the carved stairs that led down into the Cove, where Rismyn saw what he hadn’t noticed before; Torafein and Anders, the stout mountain dwarf who commanded the Militia, speaking together with grave expressions.
“Well, he’s in a fine mood this morning,” said the half-elf. She glanced at Rismyn and flashed him a coy smile. “Sorry ‘bout that. He’s usually so peachy, too.”
Peachy? What did peaches have to do with this?
The big man rumbled with laughter. “Don’t be telling lies, Jezzra. Vaylan’s always got something to prove. We’re just used to it.”
“I’m sorry, Rismyn,” Ardyn added, staring after the elf. “He’s been on edge since we came underground. I think he’s missing the open sky, being a sun elf. But I did warn him…” he trailed off, and still wouldn’t meet Rismyn’s eye.
Rismyn shrugged and selected a sword, almost at random, from the rack. “Doesn’t bother me.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. So the elf was rude. So what? Nothing to get worked up over. He’d likely be placed in the beginner’s class, based on his swordsmanship, and as a member of the Militia, Rismyn would hardly ever interact with him. “Again, a pleasure to meet you all.”
And then he left, seeing no purpose in staying. It wasn’t his business, he didn’t have a reason to care, and his patrol mates were already gathering beside the river. Ever since Belnir called him up from the reserves, he’d been training with the team, learning the maneuvers and strategies specific to his soon-to-be captain’s methods.
He crossed the sandy cove, glancing over his shoulder once as the human made his weapon selection and they all retreated after Vaylan. Beyond the strangers, Torafein was holding out a sealed scroll–official orders, by the looks of it–and Anders was gesticulating emphatically.
What a strange encounter. Rismyn shook his head, endeavoring to put it out of his mind as he joined Tarmar and two other rookies who were being raised into Belnir’s patrol with Rismyn. Zalees, a female drow, and Kilia, an elf who could almost be a drow if the tint of his skin wasn’t so blue. He claimed to be from under the sea, and his ability to breathe water made few people question it.
The moment Rismyn reached them, Zalees spoke. “Who were they?” She stretched onto her tiptoes to see around Rismyn, gawking unashamedly at the strangers.
She wasn’t the only one. Several heads were turned in the direction of the newcomers, the chorus of whispers drowned by the river.
Rismyn shrugged, glancing back at them again. “New Voices, I guess. They said they’re testing for the Militia.”
“Really?” Tarmar frowned. “I haven’t heard of any new Voices. Shouldn’t they be on probation?”
“That’s just what the gloam-drow told me. He introduced himself as Ardyn Xarrin.”
At this, Zalees’ face lit up and she smacked Tarmar’s arm playfully. “See? I told you that was Ardyn! Wow, surface life has been good to him.” She wiggled her eyebrows and giggled at herself, needing no encouragement to find entertainment in life, a quality both mystifying and endearing.
Tarmar, however, was not amused. “I never said it wasn’t Ardyn. I just said it couldn’t be Ardyn”–as if that weren’t the same thing–“since he’s off with the Fleet. If the Fleet were back, we would all be waist-deep in barley ale and revelry, not standing here waiting for our regular dose of knocks and bruises.”
“He said something about bringing messages,” Rismyn offered. “I think he just returned early.”
Kilia frowned ever so slightly, watching the strangers with keen eyes. “You think those messages are what has Anders all in a fit?”
Rismyn glanced again and was surprised to see the dwarf red-faced and fuming. He’d seemed upset before, but now he was positively livid. Torafein’s rigid stance exuded the same ill humor. Ardyn and his friends stood well back, and Rismyn didn’t blame them.
As he watched, a younger student scurried by, and Anders threw out a hand to stop him. The poor lad slunk towards the commander, received some orders, and then changed direction, hurrying into the locker cavern.
“Is someone in trouble?” Zalees asked, watching the drama unfold.
No one answered, though Rismyn was just as curious to know as she seemed to be. A moment later, the patrol shared a collective gasp as the boy emerged with Belnir. Thenerios, Belnir’s lieutenant and the only non-elven member of their team, followed close on his heels.
“Are we in trouble?” Zalees asked, far more alarmed than curious now.
“That doesn’t bode well,” Tarmar agreed.
Rismyn said nothing at all. He had a sudden, sinking feeling, and he was acutely aware of the way Ardyn had refused to look him in the eye, even as they conversed.
Why had Ardyn known who he was at first glance? Why would his name and description come up so quickly in the brief time that Ardyn had been home with his family? It’s not that Rismyn was a stranger in the Xarrin home, but he’d chiefly been invited there as an add-on with Mazira, whom Tsaria had taken a keen interest in. There was no reason for his name to be mentioned in the midst of the joy of a beloved son’s homecoming.
Something else was going on here, and Rismyn couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion it had to do with him.
Belnir followed the boy straight to Anders, while Thenerios split off and came toward them. He appeared human, though it was said he possessed divinity in his blood, not unlike Ti’yana. Though Rismyn had never seen it, there were rumors he could manifest spectral wings.
Any hope of relief Rismyn had was dashed when Thenerios reached them. He knew even less than they did, only that Anders was asking for Belnir. The arrival of new Voices was news to him.
The patrol fell into speculation, but Rismyn watched his captain earnestly. Belnir had just reached Anders, his eye wandering curiously to the strangers, then widening in surprise when they found Ardyn before Torafein called his attention back. More than anything, Rismyn wished he had developed the ability to read lips. He was dying to know what was being said.
As Torafein spoke, Belnir went stiff. He glanced at Anders, who nodded as if in confirmation, handing over the scroll, now unsealed. More mysterious words were spoken as Belnir scanned the document, and even from this distance, the tension was palpable.
“He does not look happy,” Zalees remarked, voicing the concerns of them all.
At last, the discussion ended. Anders waved over Ardyn’s party, and they separated. Torafein left, the three new Voices followed the dwarf, and Belnir clasped arms with, and then embraced Ardyn, before the pair of them crossed the Cove.
All around them, activity was beginning to pick up. Instructors called their students to order, patrols lined up to receive instructions from their captains. Rismyn’s own team stood around him, now silent, as they waited to receive the news Belnir was so clearly upset over.
Was it his imagination, or was Belnir avoiding looking at him as much as Ardyn had? What did these elves know that Rismyn did not? His dread mounted, and the temptation to flee was almost impossible to ignore.
“Thenerios,” Belnir said, when he finally reached them. “Start them on warm-ups. Everyone, get acquainted with Ardyn Xarrin. He’ll be serving with us, for now.” At last, Belnir’s eyes found Rismyn. “Rismyn…walk with me.”
Numb wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the sudden evaporation of feeling. Rismyn stared, hollowed from the inside out. Beside him, his patrol mates muttered their surprise, but the meanings of the words were lost on him.
Mechanically, he stepped forward, falling into step beside Belnir as they turned and walked away from the patrol. He was distantly aware of Thenerios calling commands, following Belnir’s orders, but beyond that, he couldn’t think.
What was going on? Why was he being singled out? Why was Ardyn remaining behind where he ought to be, preparing for whatever drill Belnir had planned?
They walked in silence until they reached the edge of the Cove, well away from prying ears. Belnir led him to a sheltered inlet, which didn’t entirely block them from view, but still offered some measure of privacy. Then, he turned and faced Rismyn, took a breath, and said, “I’m so sorry.”
Rismyn already knew what was coming next.
“Something’s come up. We won’t be commissioning you at the Evensong.”
Everything inside of Rismyn turned to stone. He didn’t breathe, he didn’t move, he didn’t comprehend. This couldn’t be real, and yet, as he stood there mulling it over, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Life had been going alarmingly well lately. It was about time something caved in.
Finally, after an eternity of piercing silence, his chest expanded, his throat vibrated, and he managed to utter a single word.
“Why?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Belnir offered him the scroll he’d received from Anders. “The orders came from Mother Lara. It doesn’t list a reason.”
Rismyn looked at the document without truly seeing it. The note was brief, stating only that Rismyn was to be removed from the commissioning ceremony and replaced with Ardyn Xarrin, signed and sealed with Mother Lara’s signet.
Of course, she didn’t use the word replace, but Rismyn got the gist of it.
His hand shook as he handed the document back.
“For what it’s worth,” Belnir said, gently, as though Rismyn were a child who needed to be managed, “it’s not what I want. It’s not what any of us want, Ardyn least of all. It’s no secret he joined up with the Fleet explicitly to avoid joining the Militia, in defiance of his father’s wishes. I can’t imagine his opinions have changed that drastically.”
The valves in Rismyn’s heart suddenly released, flooding him with the emotion he’d been too shocked to feel. The first to burst forth was anger.
“So, what, this is Torafein’s fault?” he snapped, ignoring the kind words of commiseration completely. “He wanted his son here, so he’s having me removed?”
Belnir looked startled, then unimpressed. His flat stare reminded Rismyn to temper his tone; they might be friends first, but Belnir was his commanding officer, even if he wasn’t commissioned. A captain certainly outranked a reserve student.
“Of course not. The last thing Torafein wants to see is you set back like this. He has a vested interest in your future, you know, seeing he taught you himself, freed you himself, and recovered you himself. He’s not happy about this, either.”
Rismyn glowered, but he was careful to control his temper. No need to behave like a child and prove himself unworthy of the position he was being denied. “If no one is happy about this, why is it happening? Can you fight it?”
Belnir hesitated, and his stern expression warmed to compassion. “No,” he said finally. “I will not. I don’t know the reason, but I know Mother Lara has a good one. She isn’t in the business of ruining people’s lives, at least, not anymore.” He attempted a smile, but Rismyn wasn’t in the space to receive it.
“So am I just too young? Too inexperienced? Did I do something wrong? Should I pick another service?”
“Rismyn.” Belnir’s hands came down on his shoulders, firm and grounding. “This is only a setback. It’s not the end of your military career, unless you let it be.”
His words were sobering, if hard to swallow. Rismyn fidgeted out of his grasp, turning away and folding his arms across his chest. “So, what? Do I go back to training in the reserves?”
It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Rismyn had actually been rather proud of himself when he tested straight into the advanced class, holding his own against warriors twice his age. As it turned out, Menzoberranzan wasn’t exaggerating when they boasted of the most elite Academy in the Underdark, extreme though their methods may be.
But in the end, all that skill he’d been so proud of amounted to nothing.
“Not at all,” Belnir said. The sand crunched beneath his boots as he paced. “I told you, this is a setback, not a demotion. There’s nothing in these orders that lead me to believe the decision is anything more than temporary. I expect you to keep training with the Death Risers until whatever this is can be reversed.”
Rismyn remained silent, letting his captain’s words sink in. The inlet flowed close to the river, and he watched as small, nearly-transparent salamanders edged along the cracks of the rock wall.
Death Riser was the name given to Belnir shortly after he returned from rescuing Rismyn from the wilderness. Before that, it had been Dark Adder. Every captain earned a name, based on their traits or reputation, and every patrol was called by their captain’s name. Names only changed when something significant happened, and apparently surviving despite a dragon turtle’s best attempt at fixing that was one of those events.
Rismyn was supposed to be a Riser after this cycle had been spent, and he was having trouble imagining how he could still train with them. Patrols were teams of six, each warrior assigned a role with a number. True, they were all cross-trained and given backup numbers in the unfortunate event someone fell in battle, but it was still a well-structured system. There was no room in a patrol for a Riser Seven.
As though he sensed Rismyn’s thoughts, Belnir came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I still want you on my team, and not just because I like you. Your skills and temperament fit well with the rest. I understand this is difficult. If you need to take the cycle, I’ll dismiss you from your duties, but I expect you back tomorrow for rounds.”
Despite the frothing bitterness churning in his gut, Rismyn warmed at the thought of still being wanted. He inhaled deeply and turned to face his friend, and his captain, even if his hopes were significantly diminished. Part of him wanted to accept the offer and go home to sleep off the disappointment until it was time to see Mazira. The thought of walking back to the team he’d grown close to over the last few tendays and having to admit he wasn’t one of them wasn’t appealing, and despite what Belnir said about Ardyn’s dislike of serving in his place, he hadn’t quite absolved the gloam-drow of blame yet.
But going home felt cowardly, and though Rismyn was miserable, he didn’t want to be accused of being cowardly. He would face this challenge head-on, the way he was taught to face challenges. Besides, he’d have to face Zalees eventually, if not everyone else. Her insatiable curiosity would send her his way with a bombardment of questions the moment she got the chance. Might as well get it over with now.
“No,” he said, proud of how firm his resolve sounded. “I’m fine. I’m here to work.”
It would be a lie to say Belnir’s obvious approval didn’t please him. The captain nodded and gestured for Rismyn to follow him back into the Cove.
“Excellent. I had hoped you’d say that, because as it turns out I have a special assignment for you.”
“Special assignment?” Rismyn echoed, immediately wary. This smelled like a trap, one of those colored-fish things used in Mazira’s stories to make you think something was true when it wasn’t. What was it called? A blue trout? A red hairy?
Whatever. A special assignment, on the heels of such devastating news, was bound to be a tedious distraction in disguise.
“Oh yes. Anders requested you personally. He’s assessing new Voices and needs someone to test them against. Go meet him at the Pit, and he’ll tell you the rest.”
Rismyn just gaped at him, completely at a loss for words. On any other cycle, this might have been a great honor. It meant that Anders trusted Rismyn’s skill enough to pit him against unknown fighters.
But Rismyn had already met these new Voices, and the last thing he was in the mood for, now that his mood was damaged beyond repair, was to spend more time with that arrogant, petulant, ill-mannered, golden elf.
Who would be dueling him with his favorite sword.
On the bright side, he thought darkly, the cycle couldn’t possibly get worse from here.
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.
Share this post