Forsaken by Shadows 43: Secrets

~8. Secrets~

Solaurin

By the time Solaurin reached the temple grounds, his head was full of conspiracy theories, all of which were unbecoming to an elf of his station. He was, after all, privileged with a front-row view of the running of the city, working closely with those who decided and enforced its laws. He was on the Council, a leading member of the clergy (with no other male cleric to compete for his position), and as much as he told Rismyn otherwise, was indeed privy to the inner workings of Mother Lara’s machinations. 

If anyone was going to have a hand in conspiracies, it ought to have been him. 

Which was why it was so unusually difficult to keep his frustration with the Reverend Mother at bay. True, they had their squabbles, petty arguments over nuances and details that hardly matter, but it was nothing. A mere trifling. Solaurin had always suspected she found as much secret joy in vexing him as he did in vexing her. Yet at the end of the cycle, he always held her in the highest regard. 

Perhaps that was why it was so hard not to assume the worst now. He trusted her judgments, but her silence on the matter of decommissioning Rismyn proved she didn’t trust him. It stung, if he were being honest, and he wasn’t usually prone to stung feelings. 

But dwelling on the matter was a waste of his imagination, so as he ascended the stairs into the vestibule, he endeavored to put his turbulent thoughts out of his mind. It was never wise to go into battle armed with assumptions over wit. 

Which, in itself, was an assumption. Who said there was going to be a battle? Emmalara might happily receive him and readily tell him all her purposes in interfering with Rismyn’s future. 

There was always a first time for everything. 

He went to the council room first, where the Reverend Mother would likely be receiving petitioners, yet he found it dark and empty. Odd, but not necessarily unprecedented. She sometimes instructed in the classes for aspiring clerics, so he moved on from the council room and poked his head into one class after another, dodging questions about Ti’yana’s absence from the lessons as he went. When still she was not to be found, he checked the private music rooms, in case she had sought solitude for prayer. 

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere, and no one could recall seeing her, not since the Blue Light invocations. 

Frowning, Solaurin made a snap decision and headed for the stairs. 

The Reverend Mother’s personal chambers resided on the highest floor of the western tower of the temple, a mere five stories up, and though Solaurin was quite familiar with the grand apartments and their splendid view of the entire cavern, he wasn’t fond of bothering Mother Lara in her own space. Running an errand for the Council or clergy was one thing. Invading her space for a personal grievance just felt wrong, even to him. 

But he had made Rismyn a promise, and was determined to see that promise through. So, gathering his resolve, he marched up the stairs. 

When he reached the landing just before the final stairway to Emmalara’s quarters, he found his way suddenly barred by two armored Songsisters, confirming his hunch that the Reverend Mother was indeed hiding in her chambers. The guardswomen reacted to his presence instantly, snapping their unsheathed swords into a cross that blocked his path, sending a clear message. 

“Satara,” Solaurin said, somewhat surprised by their reaction. He glanced from the crossed blades to the women wielding them. “Chasma. Well met, sisters.” 

“Well met, indeed, Songbrother,” Satara said, her smile tinged with weariness. “I apologize, but Mother Lara is resting now. She is not receiving any supplicants.” 

“Supplicants?” Solaurin repeated, raising an eyebrow. The women had yet to drop their blades, and he was struggling not to feel insulted. “I am hardly a supplicant.” 

“All the same,” Satara said. “The Reverend Mother is not to be disturbed.” 

Solaurin worked to keep his expression neutral, knowing it would do him no good to insult Satara, who stood just as high as him in the order of Songblades.  “And when will she be taking visitors again?” 

The women exchanged shadowed glances. 

“We don’t know,” Satara finally said.

Solaurin crossed his arms. “She left no instructions?” 

“She merely asked not to be disturbed.” 

Something in the way Satara refused to meet his eye made him suspicious. He glanced at Chasma, the younger of the two, and she studiously looked away.

“You are hiding something from me.” A statement, not a question, and the guilt that filled Satara’s expression confirmed it. 

“Please, Solaurin,” she said, sheathing her sword and raising her hands disarmingly. “I’ve said all that I’m allowed to say.”

“Then allow me to pass so I may speak to the one who can say more.” 

“I told you, she’s not—”

“It’s alright.” 

Startled, they all looked up. Emmalara stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a satin robe. Not a robe of her office, but a casual one, for lounging and resting. 

At this hour? 

Solaurin’s cheeks warmed and he glanced away, but the image of the regal woman dressed down like a mere mortal would forever be imprinted in his mind’s eye. A strange sight to behold, considering her usual adornments.

“I’ve been expecting this interview,” the Reverend Mother continued. “Let him pass, Satara.” 

And then she was gone, disappearing back into her chambers. 

The guardswomen, to their credit, showed no sign of irritation as they stepped aside. Solaurin inclined his head, in hopes of concealing his own satisfaction, and made to ascend the stairs. But as he passed by, Satara caught his shoulder. 

“It hasn’t been a good cycle,” she murmured, her brows furrowed with concern. “Please, be kinder to her than usual.” 

The warning caught him entirely off guard, as the sparring matches between himself and the Reverend Mother were usually a subject of great amusement to the other Songblades, generally at his own expense, as he was the loser more often than not. But before he could fire off one of his customary sarcastic replies, he caught sight of details he had previously overlooked.  

Satara’s eyes were rimmed in red; she’d been crying.

The sight was just as disturbing as seeing Emmalara in her dressing gown, and Solaurin wisely clamped his mouth shut. He nodded to her and offered assurances of his best behavior, before ascending the rest of the way.

The door had been left open, so Solaurin let himself in. He’d scarcely made it across the threshold, however, before Emmalara was there, standing before him with arms crossed, a scowl etched onto her face. 

“I am not changing my order regarding Rismyn.”

Solaurin blinked, taking in her hair that lay straight instead of artfully arranged, her skin unadorned with her usual elaborate paints. She wasn’t a tall woman, standing only an inch or so higher than himself, which made her attempt at intimidation fall rather flat. 

What had Satara told him? To be kinder than usual? 

“A lovely cycle, Reverend Mother, and may I say, you look—”

“Don’t.” She raised a hand to cut him off. “Your merchant tongue has never worked on me, Solaurin Zovarr.” 

“And yet,” Solaurin mused, stepping around the priestess and looking her up and down in a way that probably would have gotten him slapped if he hadn’t clarified which details he was so closely observing. “A robe of rose-blush silk, ah, there it is.” Before she could stop him, he lifted the hem of her sleeve, where an intricate scarlet knot had been woven into the fabric, barely larger than the nail of his thumb. “My signature mark. It appears my merchant tongue has at least profited from your patronage, dearest Mother. I do enjoy seeing what my work is used to create.” 

Emmalara rolled her eyes, jerking her sleeve out of his hand. “Most of Launa is dressed in your textile,” she grumbled. “That is the advantage of running a monopoly.”

“Nonsense. I have plenty of competition, just not local. But rest assured, I have at least two apprentices almost ready to change that.” Solaurin waved his hand. “But, I digress. If you refuse to accept my compliments for yourself, consider them offered for the vanity of my own pride. You are looking resplendent in my weaving. The color suits you, and your natural beauty is on full display.” 

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“First, to thank you, for taking the time to see me when you are seeing no one else.” 

Mother Lara made a noise that sounded like a growl, and Solaurin relented, his tone growing more serious.

“I’ve come as you predicted, on account of Rismyn.” 

“My mind is made up and I will not change it.” 

“I’m not asking you to change it,” Solaurin said. He raised his hands to show he wasn’t looking for a fight. “I’m only here to ask you why.” 

Mother Lara breathed in deeply, lifting her chin. “I cannot tell you why. You must trust that I have my reasons and that they are very good.” 

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Which wasn’t an entirely honest statement. “And yet I have a very distraught young elf in my home who is struggling to have the same faith in your methods.” 

This, at least, broke through the Reverend Mother’s stony expression. She looked away, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I am sorry to hear he is upset. But it was, is, necessary. Please, trust me on this.” 

He might as well be talking to a stone wall. Solaurin opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. If there was one thing he hated, it was being brushed aside, like he didn’t matter. She asked him to trust her, but she might as well have said, I don’t trust you. 

It took three breaths before he mastered his annoyance enough to trust his tone to remain neutral, not petulant. “I’m trying to trust you,” he said, lowering his voice. “But it is difficult to accept. You must understand, Emma, Rismyn is my Voice. He is my responsibility. If there is something wrong with his character, something in him that renders him unfit for the Militia, I need to know.” 

Mother Lara narrowed her eyes. “I have told you not to call me that.” 

“And I have asked you not to treat me like a lesser being,” he replied, knowing full well he’d call her Emma until the day he died, if that’s what it took to remind her she was only mortal like the rest of them. It was, after all, his goddess-given mission. Or at least, that’s what he’d decided Eilsitraee must have wanted from him. 

Mother Lara turned away from him in disgust, pacing her sitting room, which was comfortably furnished and lit with soft lantern light. “Not giving you the answer you want to hear is not the same as belittling you.”

“And what of denying a young man his dream without context?” 

She whipped around to face him again, her glare full of daggers. “You can tell Rismyn that this decision has nothing to do with him,” she said. “Neither his skills nor his character are in question. His captain-to-be, his instructors, and Commander Anders all signed off on his Commission request, and the letters of recommendation were quite moving.” 

“That only raises more questions,” Solaurin said, though he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of the good opinion offered for the young man he’d been caring for over the last year. “If he is so well thought of, why deny him his right?” 

“There are things you don’t understand—”

“Which is why I am here, asking.” 

The priestess tossed up her hands in frustration. “And I will not answer. Not now, at least. Not until I am ready.” 

Solaurin scowled. They’d come to a stalemate. She wouldn’t budge and he wouldn’t leave. At least, not until she ordered him out. His impertinence only stretched so far.  

But he needed these answers, now more than when he had first walked into the room. Something was deeply wrong, something that had rattled the immovable Reverend Mother and stained the eyes of implacable Satara. Chasma wouldn’t even look at him, and somehow, some way, all of this had something to do with Rismyn. 

Well, they weren’t truly at a stalemate. He still had cards he could play, subtle words and suggestions to needle his way through her defenses, but it was cruel. And risky. If he misstepped, if he played the wrong hand, at the very least, she would throw him out of her room. At the worst, any credibility he’d ever had with her would be sundered, and who knew then what the consequences would be? 

Was Rismyn’s peace of mind really worth all of Mother Lara’s ire? 

Maybe not. But standing here now, considering the avenues before him, the taste of intrigue was almost too strong to resist. He was annoyed, he was frustrated, he was growing more concerned by the minute, but he couldn’t deny the insatiable thrill that seeped through his blood as he beheld a puzzle he knew he could smash. 

Except Emmalara wasn’t a House he was about to destroy for his beloved’s conquest. She was a woman, one he admired greatly. An ally, not an enemy, and she deserved better. 

And he wasn’t supposed to be that elf anymore. 

Emmalara turned her back on him again, as if surveying her domain out the large windows overlooking the city. She radiated tension and hostility, her walls as impenetrable as a Matron Mother’s hallowed manor, and Solaurin read the path to success in her arched spine and stiff silence. She was a challenge he shouldn’t accept. He should just walk away, tell Rismyn he’d failed and they’d just have to trust her. It would be so easy, all he had to do was turn around, and go home. 

He moved to stand behind her instead, and though his steps were silent, he met her wary eyes in the reflection of her window. But she didn’t move, or turn to confront him, so he took that as a sign to proceed. He placed his hands on her shoulders and began to knead the tension from her muscles. Or at least, he tried to. The moment his fingers brushed her, Emmalara stiffened like a cat raising her hackles. 

“This works better if you relax,” Solaurin said, low and soothing, sweeping aside the curtain of her hair for better access to her back. 

The Reverend Mother stared murder at his reflection, but, after a few heart beats, she took a breath, and her body relaxed beneath his hands. “You can neither bribe nor flatter me into telling you my reasons,” she said, just as stubborn as before. 

“I know,” Solaurin said, the perfect picture of contrition. “Satara tried to warn me… I didn’t listen. I am, as always, selfishly concerned with only myself.” 

He could still feel her eyes on him in the reflection, but he kept his gaze locked on the space between her shoulder blades, as though he were ashamed to look at her. The knots of her muscles crumbled under his touch, his fingers sliding easily across the rose silk that had been crafted by these very same hands. It was a fine weave, he noted, having not particularly remembered working on this specific fabric when he’d first seen her wearing it. But now that his expert hands had the opportunity to feel the work, he knew exactly which technique and fiber he had used, as well as the exact amount of coin it must have cost her. 

“Is this an apology, then?” She sounded rightfully disbelieving. 

“Would you like it to be?” 

Emmalara stepped forward out of his grasp, waving him off. She turned back to face him, but they stood very close, thanks to the glass at her back that kept her from putting distance between them. Close enough for Solaurin to see the details he was searching for, to confirm his suspicions and make his final play. 

“No,” she said, her eyes filling with malevolence. “Even your repentance comes with a price. You are up to your old tricks again.”

“And you’ve been crying.” He said the words gently, as different in tone and stance from her hostility as he could manage. “So it seems we are both acting out of character.” 

Emmalara’s eyes popped wide, and she wiped her face, as if expecting to find the traitorous tears on her cheeks that had given her away. But her hands came away clean, because the only evidence Solaurin had found of her tears was a smudge of gold paint in the corner of her lashes, where she had hastily tried to wipe her usual cosmetics away and failed to do so properly. 

Solaurin had raised a daughter. He knew what a post-cry woman looked like. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, taking another step toward her, though he was rapidly running out of steps to take. Had he been his younger self, he might have even touched her face, or drawn her close. But those were cards he wasn’t willing to play anymore, as if that somehow made him a better person than he’d been back then. 

Mercy, she had been crying, and he was using her grief against her for his own gain. The part of him that had been renewed by Eilistraee’s song was disgusted with actions. He ought to have walked away, been content with his lack of answers, or even genuinely concerned with her wellbeing. But no,  he was too used to getting whatever he wanted to accept defeat without a fight. 

So he didn’t back down. 

“Look me in the eye,” he said, holding her gaze hostage, “and tell me there’s absolutely no reason that I should be concerned about your tears, and I will leave you in peace.”

Emmalara’s expression shut down completely, turning to solid stone. “You are a snake,” she growled. “I don’t know why I put up with you, O Thorn of my Side.” 

She looked murderous. 

Solaurin smiled. “You flatter me.” 

“Fine,” she spat. “You win, or rather, you will think you have won. I meant to spare you this burden.” 

Quick as the snake she had just accused him of being, she grasped the collar of his overcoat, catching him completely off guard. Their sparring matches were always of words alone, not physical acts. Cold dread washed away his simmering pride; had he finally crossed the line? 

“I will give you the answer you seek,” Emmalara said, yanking his face close to hers. “But mark my words, Solaurin Zovarr, if you breathe a word of it to anyone, especially the young people in your home, I will strip you of your robes and cast you out of the temple permanently. Do you understand?” 

Her reaction was so strong, so visceral, that Solaurin didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how he’d expected his ruse to go, and that renewed part of his heart was now mocking him.

You reap what you sow. 

Solaurin raised his hands and covered hers, gently removing them from his person. “You would have me excommunicated over a secret?” 

“Yes. I would.” There were no subtle undertones in her words as there had been in his. Her threat was direct and honest. “Because the moment you learn this secret, it will torture you not to share it, but you must not. Not if you value the lives of those in your care.” 

He was beginning to suspect he might have made a mistake. Another affliction he wasn’t used to.  “Stars above, Emmalara,” he said, “what is this about?” 

The Reverend Mother sniffed and backed away. “Give me a moment to make myself presentable, and I will show you. Just remember, I tried to spare you.” 

He said nothing as she vanished into another room, dazed by the sudden turn of events. Emmalara was many things, but dramatic was not usually one of them. And he… what had he been thinking? Trying to manipulate her like that, and for what, answers to a problem that wasn’t really his? 

But, no, the problem was his. Even if it only concerned Rismyn, Rismyn was his, and that made his problems Solaurin’s problems. Yet how Rismyn could be at the center of whatever this much grander debacle was, he couldn’t comprehend. 

The wait for Emmalara’s return was almost unbearable. What could she possibly have to show him that would endanger the lives of his children if he spoke about it? Solaurin’s imagination was vivid, yet the best he could concoct was some sort of cursed object that ensnared all who knew of it. 

Then Emmalara would’ve been right; he would have lost this game of words. 

At last, she re-emerged, dressed in a velvet gown of sapphire. The fabric was not one of his creations, and he suspected she’d picked it purposely for that reason. She hadn’t wasted time with applying her usual paints or hair adornments, but instead gestured sharply for him to follow her. 

“Do not speak a word to anyone on the way,” she commanded. “No one else knows what I am about to show you except myself and Satara’s Songblades. And Torafein,” she added as a disgruntled afterthought. “He, like you, insisted on knowing the whole truth.”

“And did you threaten to excommunicate him?”

“I didn’t have to. Unlike you, I can trust his heart not to bleed.” 

Solaurin frowned, but didn’t say another word as they left the privacy of her sitting room. When they reached the landing where Chasma and Satara stood guard, Emmalara beckoned them to follow, as well. The guardswomen looked surprised, then wary, as they fell into step behind Solaurin and the Reverend Mother. 

Down and down they went, to the ground floor of the temple and then beyond. Solaurin’s concern only escalated as they descended to the cellars, and still, Emmalara kept walking. The only thing lower than these rooms was the dungeon and the mortuary, and both were equally disturbing destinations. 

They didn’t stop at the dungeons, and Solaurin’s blood ran thick with anxiety. This did not bode well.  

The door to the last corridor shut firmly behind them, plunging them into the blue shadows of infravision as they left all natural light behind, before Emmalara finally spoke. “Three cycles ago, we sent our Songsisters into the Wilds to reinforce the Outer Rim.”

“Indeed, I was there,” Solaurin said. The event was as routine as it was random. Once a year, those who were blessed with the ability to touch the Weave traveled to the invisible barrier that protected their borders to reinforce the magic. Four clerics were sent in each cardinal direction, ensuring another year of protection against scrying eyes and oversized monsters. Solaurin had thought nothing more of it beyond being grateful he hadn’t been called upon to make the journey this time. It was one thing to galavant into the Wilds to rescue orphans, surrounded by elite warriors, in the comfort of a rented trade boat. It was an entirely different thing to be forced to camp in the wilderness and sing until his throat was hoarse and his magic was drained as dry as the stone around them. He’d do it without complaint, of course, but he wasn’t at all displeased to be spared by the lottery. 

“Three of our teams have returned,” Emmalara said. She lifted a torch from the wall and Solaurin winced as she lit it with radiant fire, bathing them in pure white light. “One has not.” 

“What?” His brows knit together with concern. They should have all been back by now. Why hadn’t he heard of this? 

“When Ardyn Xarrin arrived yesterday,” Emmalara continued, beckoning him to follow, “I realized he should cross paths with them. They had traveled the same route, but he claimed not to have seen anyone.” 

“So we went to scout,” Satara interjected, her head hanging low. “And found them.” 

They stopped outside the mortuary door. Emmalara placed a hand on the knob, but hesitated, searching Solaurin’s expression. “You do not need to see this. You can still turn back.”

Solaurin swallowed hard. He wasn’t as immune to the sight of death as most drow were, having done his best to order killings without ever having to face them himself. After Korinna, he’d become even softer. Every corpse risked bringing hers to mind, especially the corpses of women. 

But if what she was saying was true, he had Songsisters in there. Songsisters he knew, even if he wasn’t sure which ones. 

“What does this have to do with Rismyn?” he asked, delaying the inevitable. 

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I’ll let you decide what you think.” She pushed the door open, and they were greeted by a gust of frosty air. “Satara, Chasma, don’t let anyone in.”

Solaurin followed the Reverend Mother inside, flinching as the door banged shut behind them. A sheet lay over the stone table in the center of the room, concealing the figures beneath. Emmalara moved toward it, singing a song of Light as she went. Her single torch was joined by a golden orb that flickered above them, giving the illusion of warmth as his breath misted before him. She set the torch on a metal table and waited. 

Solaurin didn’t move. He just stared at the table, fearing what lay beneath the sheet. 

“Who?” was all he asked. 

“Jaedirra Hun’urden. Scheda Tlintua. Amadrii Khaluna. Halae Eilisett.”

Solaurin shut his eyes as the names dropped like hammer strikes, nailing wounds into his heart. There wasn’t a single Songsister in all of Launa that he didn’t know and care for, and this loss was monumentally felt. He took a breath, steeling himself, and said, “How?” 

“Come and see.” 

“I’d rather you tell me.” 

“This is what you wanted,” she said, and her words cut. “I tried to spare you.”

Shame spurred Solaurin onward. She was right, this was what he insisted on; the truth. He’d prodded for an answer even as Satara warned him to be kind. Those were his sisters on that table. They deserved more than his weak stomach. 

Moving mechanically, he walked until he stood across from Emmalara. Gently, reverently, the Reverend Mother lifted the sheet, revealing the ashen corpses from the waist up, and Solaurin understood at once what this had to do with Rismyn. 

Each of the women lay with their heads turned to the right. Their torsos were lashed open, cut cleanly with a blade, but it was their faces that held his attention. All of them, from Jaedirra to Halae, bore the same mark. A single crescent cut, from temple to jaw, identical to the scar Rismyn had begged to keep. 

“Heavens above,” he whispered, gripping the table for support. “What does it mean?”

“The marks were made post-mortem,” Emmalara said, grimly. “As though someone wanted to make a statement.” 

She gave him a pointed look, and Solaurin struggled to understand her meaning until the worst possible conclusion struck him.

“Wait, you cannot possibly believe that Rismyn is responsible for this!” 

Her expression didn’t move. “I admit, the thought crossed my mind. He wouldn’t be the first to join our community and then regress, though I struggled to see how a boy his age could contend with four master Songblades, no matter what his commendations say.” 

“He couldn’t, he wouldn’t—”

Emmalara raised a hand to silence his babble before it could begin. “I’ve already looked into it and confirmed the boy never left the city. Don’t give me that look. You know I had to.”

If it wasn’t for the break in her voice, Solaurin would have been livid with her. To suspect Rismyn of such ghastly crimes as this! But though her face remained as cold as the corpses between them, her eyes glistened, reminding him that she did, indeed, have a heart.

He fell silent, and she covered the bodies of their fallen comrades. 

“I do not believe that Rismyn is responsible for this,” she said. “But I do have reason to believe the culprit is the one who initially gave him his scar.”

Solaurin’s head was spinning. Toloruel Tear, out in the Wilds? Skulking through their borders, murdering his Songsisters? 

“It’s not possible,” he breathed, knowing full well that it was. His denial had been a plea, not a statement of fact.  

“It is absolutely possible,” Emmalara said. “And until I know, I am not allowing Rismyn or Mazira outside of our city walls. Do you understand now? I had to pull Rismyn from the Militia, for his own good.”

The words ran rampant in Solaurin’s mind. The truth was far more terrible than all of his conspiracies combined. He staggered back, reeling from the implications. 

They’d never been discovered before. They were so careful to keep Launa a secret, safe from the Spider’s followers. Their entire existence depended on no one knowing that they existed. How could Toloruel Tear have found them? The one who had dripped acid on Mazira’s skin, who had authored her dream-terrors, who had ruined her life. 

Who else was out there, hunting them?

“You must tell him,” Solaurin said, catching Mother Lara’s gaze. “Rismyn deserves to know.” 

“I shall do no such thing,” Emmalara snapped. “And neither shall you.” 

Her threat of excommunication hung heavy between them, and Solaurin’s shock was beginning to ebb into anger. “It is his right to know.” 

The priestess’ expression darkened. “So he can race to his own demise? Oh yes, I know all about his grudge. He told me of it himself, at our three-month visitation.” 

Solaurin narrowed his eyes. Emmalara made it a habit to meet all new members of the community, three months after they arrived, to introduce herself more properly, to get to know them, and to judge for herself how they were adjusting. The event had come and gone without note, as Rismyn generalized that it had been a good conversation and moved on. Solaurin never wondered what they spoke of. 

“He is a sweet boy,” Emmalara continued, advancing on him. “He told me all about how much he loved our community, how grateful he was to you and your daughter for taking him in. But with all his praise, he shared with me his one regret.” 

Ah. Now he knew where this was going. 

She stood mere feet from him now. “His one regret,” she repeated. “How he failed to fulfill his oath to Mazira, to make sure he put his brother in his grave.” 

It wasn’t surprising. Solaurin had heard the boy lament that same regret many times. 

“And then there is Mazira.” She placed a hand on his elbow, turning him toward the door. “Who was barely able to speak to me without stuttering every word. But one thing she managed to say; she’d never have peace until she knew for certain her tormentor was dead, his body burned for good measure, lest any necromancers catch any ideas.”

Now that, Solaurin had not heard. It was a shockingly vicious thought for Mazira, one he wouldn’t have suspected of her.

“If you tell that boy he has an opportunity to make good on his word, he will do something stupid,” Emmalara concluded. She was guiding him toward the exit. “Worse, he might tell Mazira, who is growing in confidence and power, and she will do something stupid. Solaurin.” Emmalara stopped abruptly. “I will not build any more funeral pyres. I will not lose any more children.”

Her ruby eyes burned with sorrow unshed, her gaze boring into his. 

And he had used this grief against her. Solaurin stood transfixed, hating his arrogance, and seeing her for the first time. 

She was right. Absolutely right, and Solaurin hated that, too. Rismyn would dash into the Wilds the moment he heard the news, and Mazira might run off with him. They would get themselves killed in a heartbeat. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, as they stepped out into the hall. Satara and Chasma remained at their post, pretending not to notice their conversation. 

“That is a matter for the Council to decide,” Emmalara said. “They will want to issue a Hunt, I expect, but I prefer a different method. We will meet this cycle, after the Evensong. It will probably be a late Red Light.” 

Solaurin’s mind was already spinning out suggestions for courses of action when the full weight of her words hit him. “Wait–tonight? But I have…”

He trailed off at the baleful look Emmalara gave him, and shook his head. 

“Nevermind. This takes precedence.” He sighed, running his hands down the length of his braid, his nervous habit. “After the Evensong, then. But Emma–” Mother Lara shot him a scathing look, and Satara and Chasma gasped, unable to pretend they didn’t hear that. He would certainly pay for this show of disrespect later, but for now, he didn’t care. “You owe Rismyn something. Perhaps not an explanation, but some sort of consolation. You’ve harmed him greatly.” 

Emmalara looked as though she were chewing on iron, and their Songsisters gaped. He didn’t know why they were so surprised. Calling the Reverend Mother out on her errors was his specialty, even if was sorely in need of reprimand for his own. 

Emmalara took a breath, and he could see the struggle to relax play out across her face. “Yes, I suppose I have,” she finally admitted. “I will think of something.”

It wasn’t the promise Solaurin had hoped for, but he knew it was the best he’d get. “Until Red Light, Mother?” He bowed low and formally, but Emmalara’s derisive sniff told him he hadn’t made up for his previous boldness. 

“You may take your leave,” she agreed, gesturing for him to go on. 

And so Solaurin did, hurrying to put some distance between himself and that horrid place, the lifeless, mangled faces haunting his every step. When he reached the ground level of the temple, he hesitated, having intended to go straight home. 

But Rismyn was there, and so was Ti’yana, and he wasn’t ready to face any of his children yet. 

Unfortunately, fate seemed to have other plans. 

He whirled about the vestibule, turning away from the colonnade to go find himself a quiet prayer room, and nearly stumbled over Mazira.

“Great heavens, child!” he exclaimed, snatching her by the shoulders to keep her from falling as she staggered back. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

Mazira’s eyes were wide and wounded, and she recoiled. Beside her, a golden-haired elf reached out for her protectively, but Mazira artfully evaded his grip. 

“I’m sorry, I called your name,” Mazira began, her gaze drifting down, even after all this time. 

“No, child, I am sorry,” Solaurin said, engulfed in shame. He never should have left his house. All he had done since then was inflict misery on people he cared about. “I… My head was elsewhere. I didn’t notice.” He took a deep breath, his gaze bouncing from the girl to the boy, and the joy he’d wanted to feel when he finally properly met this miraculous elf crumbled to ash.  

Mazira began a hasty apology, something about being sorry for not coming home to work her shift in the workshop, but he hardly heard her. He was staring at Vaylan Rivertone, who glowered back at him, but Solaurin couldn’t find it in himself to be offended. Instead, his heart splintered. For him, for Mazira, and for Rismyn, who had no idea how close their tormentor lurked. 

A crushing wave of emotion welled inside of him, and on instinct, Solaurin pulled Mazira into a tight embrace. Her words cut off with a squawk, and somewhere in the back of his head, he heard a warning, in his own voice, admonishing him to remember to ask before reaching for Mazira, whose fear of physical touch manifested in unpredictable ways. Some cycles it was debilitating, in others it was nonexistent. 

He let her go at once, but the emotion lingered. “Bless you, child,” he managed, pouring all the weight of his hopes and prayers into that simple phrase. “And you, young man. Welcome to Launa.”

Mazira stared at him in shock, and Vaylan looked equally perplexed, but Solaurin was already moving on. 

May she never have to face the demon of her dream-terrors again. May she never know what danger lurked for her, what malice stalked the caverns outside their door. He would give anything to protect Mazira from the knowledge he carried, and with that thought in mind, he found it easy to avoid excommunication. 

Without another word of explanation, Solaurin hurried down the hall, seeking a quiet place where he could pray.

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.