Forsaken by Shadows 44: At the Sunglow Tavern

~9. At the Sunglow Tavern~

Rismyn

When Rismyn had awoken to the sound of Ti’yana pounding on his door, he’d mistakenly believed the cycle would get better. He’d been so naively refreshed, after four solid hours dead-to-the-world. Sleep had done him wonders; he was now acutely aware of exactly how overly dramatic, temperamental, and childish his previous behavior had been.

Not that that made the memories sting less, but it did allow him to process the emotions rationally, rather than filtered through the lens of sleep-deprived misery. 

Losing his commission had hurt, but Belnir was right. This wasn’t the end of his opportunity. His captain still wanted him, and Elvyr had suggested he speak to Jillette about instructing in the beginner’s class when the Death Risers were on circuit rather than hobbling back to his own advanced class like a rejected failure. Instructing had never been something Rismyn had considered, but the idea wasn’t unappealing, and he had to admit he was flattered to be asked. Even in Launa, whose standards were significantly lower than Menzoberranzan’s, they didn’t just let anyone teach. 

Of course, there was still the gnawing matter of why he’d lost the commission in the first place, but with his senses renewed, he had faith again in Solaurin’s ability to fish out the answer for him. 

That only left him the problem of Vaylan Rivertone, which, if he were being honest, wasn’t really a problem. True, the elf had been arrogant and snide, but considering what Rismyn now knew of his past, he could forgive him, if not quite excuse him. Regardless, Rismyn would give Vaylan a second chance. For Mazira’s sake, if not his own. If Vaylan was important to her, it was worth the effort to endear himself to the sun elf. 

After all, now that he was awake and refreshed, he could clearly see what he’d been blinded to when he came blundering home at White Light; the cycle wasn’t over yet. He still had plenty of time to find Mazira and resume his confession plans, with the added boon of knowing he had Solaurin’s permission. Or at least, the assurance that Solaurin wasn’t going to disown him for it. 

Now, whether it was a good idea to continue with his plan, sleep hadn’t revealed to him, but rather than agonize over it, Rismyn chose to think of the things that had led him to want to confess in the first place. Mazira’s secret smiles, that she only offered to him. The way she said his name. The days that weren’t grey, when she could brush past him without flinching and seemed to take full advantage. 

She must love him, too. She had to love him, too. And no matter what Solaurin said, that love couldn’t be dangerous. It had saved their lives.

Rismyn clung to those thoughts as he dressed for the Red Light in his silver coat and ran a hand over his hair to flatten it. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover Solaurin had wasted no time on his errand to speak with Mother Lara on his behalf, and only slightly concerned that the priest had yet to come home. 

It probably didn’t mean anything. Solaurin would have lived at the temple if he hadn’t needed so much space for his weaving business. He hardly needed an excuse to linger when given the opportunity.

What was more concerning than Solaurin’s absence was Mazira, who had apparently not returned all White Light, either. A thread of jealousy snaked around his heart, constricting his fragile goodwill, before he considered the silver lining. If Mazira had truly spent all of the Bright hours with her childhood friend, then he had every right to steal her away for Orange and Red. She could see Vaylan again tomorrow if there was still so much to discuss. 

His revised plan had been almost identical to his first, merely delayed a few hours. Go to the temple for the Evensong and commissioning ceremony, then invite Mazira on a detour before the celebration at the Sunglow Tavern. The Garden Cavern would be just as lovely with the red hues painting the flowers scarlet. It might even be better now than it would have been at Bright White. 

Unfortunately, there were several factors he had failed to consider with this new plan, the first of which being that nothing ever went the way he wanted. 

He and Ti’yana walked together to the temple, and he had been pleased to see Mazira standing at the edge of the gathering crowd, clearly looking for them. His pleasure at seeing Vaylan standing with her was a little more forced, but he was still stubbornly clinging to his new resolve to give the elf a chance. 

The first test to that resolve came in the form of vibrant pink flowers tucked into Mazira’s hair, a sight he would have admired appropriately if it hadn’t been proof that she’d already been in the Garden Caverns, with Vaylan, no less. His mind had filled with images of the golden elf walking at her side, plucking the flowers and tucking them in her hair, and of Mazira bestowing that precious, secret smile on him. 

But Mazira’s excited wave had chased that bitterness away, and when she peeled away from the crowd to come to him (and Ti’yana, he supposed) he decided the visit didn’t matter. The flowers in her hair gave him a better excuse to ask her to walk with him there after the ceremony. 

“Such lovely flowers,” he would say. “Will you show them to me?” 

As if he hadn’t already scouted the entire cavern three times for himself, looking for the best location to give his confession. 

But the chance never came. The moment Mazira drew near to him, her face was full of concern. 

“Rismyn, I’m so sorry,” she’d said, with her golden shadow not far behind. “I heard about your commission.” 

That had darkened his spirits considerably. She’d already heard about it? Had his disgrace spread so far so fast? 

“Where did you hear that?” he had asked, a question which turned her as pink as the flowers in her hair and left her stuttering. 

She never actually gave a coherent answer to that question, but instead Rismyn had to suffer the humiliation of confirming that it was, in fact, true, and no, he didn’t know why. A conversation he would later awkwardly repeat when he found Master Jasper in the crowd. 

At least Vaylan hadn’t gloated over him, nor did he glower or say a harsh word, either. Mazira had changed the subject by introducing him to Ti’yana, and Rismyn had never been so happy to bask in the presence of Ti’yana’s divine essence. Even the sun elf’s prejudice against drow couldn’t withstand her alluring aura, and it gave Rismyn immense satisfaction to watch Vaylan stammer over his greeting to her.

Judging by the way Mazira’s face twisted, she was less thrilled, but he tried not to think too much about why it would bother her so much. 

Eventually, others joined them. Jezzra and Corith arrived with the rest of the Xarrin family, save for Ardyn, who would have already reported to the temple to prepare for the ceremony, and any hopes Rimsyn had had of pulling Mazira aside were once again stunted. From the moment of their arrival, the women converged together, seeming to be interested only in gushing over the miraculous reunion of Mazira and Vaylan, which was a subject Rismyn had already grown sick of.

Torafein had seemed just as uninterested, standing off to the side as though he wanted to be anywhere but there. He’d offered only the barest minimum acknowledgment to any of them and seemed to avoid Rismyn’s gaze. Rismyn had considered going to him, to ask him whether there was any truth behind Ardyn’s claim that he knew the reason behind Mother Lara’s orders, but one look at his marble expression changed his mind. 

He’d wait for Solaurin’s report before accosting the blade-master. 

Unfortunately, Solaurin’s arrival didn’t herald the answers he had hoped. Instead, when he finally joined them, the priest looked harried and distracted, quite the opposite of his usual self. 

“I must beg your forgiveness,” he had said to Rismyn, Mazira, and Ti’yana, “but the Council has been called to meet after the Evensong. We will have to postpone our family celebration.” 

“Postpone?” Ti’yana had cried, as though she had never been more scandalized in her life. “Why would they call a Council meeting so suddenly?” 

Mazira looked concerned, but Rismyn noted the way Solaurin’s eyes darted to him before he answered. 

“It’s not something I can speak of now,” was all Solaurin said. 

“Does it have to do with me?” Rismyn had asked in an undertone, and though he knew Solaurin had heard him, the priest had pretended not to. It was the first time in their entire acquaintance that Rismyn knew, without a doubt, Solaurin was deliberately withholding something from him.

“I must be going now,” Solaurin said instead. “Do not wait up for me, and give my best regards to others.” 

“You’re not even going to watch?” Rismyn said, much more accusing than he had meant. He couldn’t help it, though. Solaurin was the one who insisted it would be shameful not to be there in support of the others. 

“I…” Solaurin looked between them all, tossed up his hands, and then walked away without another word. 

Ti’yana had gone after him, and after a brief whispered argument, she returned, wearing a mystified expression. 

“He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong,” she’d said, wounded. 

“He was acting strange earlier,” Mazira confessed. 

The rest of the time before the ceremony was spent with the girls comparing whispered notes, trying to solve the mystery of their benefactor’s odd behavior, with Rismyn contributing as little as possible. He had no desire to repeat any of his White Light conversation to them, and he was now far more concerned with what Solaurin might have learned about his patrol commission from Mother Lara. 

He had never been so relieved when the Evensong began, though the ceremony itself was a bittersweet event. The distraction was worth it. 

It started, as always, with announcements; nothing Rismyn hadn’t already figured out. The legendary Fleet was on its way, a proclamation that ignited an eruption of cheering and excited tittering. After that were some words about the Festival preparation that meant little to him, and then the presentation of arms. 

The whole Militia, save for those on patrol, had turned out, assembled in their ceremonial armor and standing at attention before the raised dais where Mother Lara presided. Anders stood on the Reverend Mother’s right, and Belnir on her left. Arrayed behind them was an honor guard of Songblades, wearing sleek black plate armor over moth wing–patterned robes. 

At Ander’s command, Beltel broke rank and stepped forward, and even from a distance, his discomfort was palpable. Still, his performance was flawless as he knelt before the Reverend Mother and recited the officer’s oaths, rising to receive the silver dove insignia from his brother—and former commanding officer—and his new Captain’s name from Mother Lara; Mind Slayer, the perfect play on words for one who’d earned his rank by slaying mind flayers. The name was received with a snicker from those in the ranks and a groan from Beltel himself, before he ascended the dais to take up his role in the rest of the ceremony.

Anders barked another command, and the six new rookies came forward, easily discernible as the only soldiers dressed in their finest civilian clothes. Rismyn did his best to swallow the pangs of jealousy as they knelt in unison and recited their own oaths, swearing life and loyalty to the people of the Sanctuary. 

They rose to receive their own individual blessings from Mother Lara, each as uniquely crafted as the name given to Beltel, before receiving the coveted singing sword from their respective captains. Had Rismyn not known exactly which person was assigned to which twin, he wouldn’t have been able to tell who was who. With matching uniforms, ranks, and solemn expressions, Belnir and Beltel were completely indecipherable from one another. 

Rismyn’s fragile resolve wavered dangerously when Belnir offered the black scabbard and blade to Ardyn, the weapon that should have been his own. The swords were supposed to have been crafted specifically for the wielder, making this insult the worst to his pride. 

But just as his despair had reached its zenith, Sabraena whispered, “Why’re they giving him a sword? I thought  the Fleet already gave him one.” 

“It’s the same sword, darling,” her mother had whispered back. “It’s just for the sake of ceremony.” 

After that, Rismyn breathed a little easier. Somewhere in the temple forges, there was still a blade with his name on it. That had to prove he still had a chance, right? They wouldn’t want to waste all that forging and magic on a blade that would do nothing but collect dust. 

Right?

The ceremony came to an end just as the orange light had burned to red, the enchanted harp ringing out the call to the Evensong. Perfectly timed, perfectly executed. All around him, voices raised in a chorus of song, and as always, Rismyn had stood stiff and silent, unwilling to utter a single sound. 

But at least it was over, and with a nervous twist in his gut, he had turned to ask Mazira if she would walk with him to the Garden Cavern. 

But he hadn’t counted on the throng of people he’d have to fight through to get to her. Between Vaylan clinging to her side (even as he glanced at Ti’yana), the Xarrins, and Vaylan’s friends, his chance never came. They were swept together with the tide of people receding toward their homes or the Sunglow Tavern. 

And that was how Rismyn came to be where he stood now, squashed between patrons at the bar, in a tavern bursting at the seams with laughter and cheer, waiting for his next tankard of frothy black-shroom ale. He was dangerously close to having one too many, and was more than a little confused at how this had come to be. 

“Just one second, hun,” said Shaleena, the pretty moon elf who poured the drinks, as she passed by him yet again. 

Rismyn just waved an acknowledgement, knowing it would be far more than one second before she finally got around to fulfilling his drink request. He’d never seen a tavern so crowded in his life, and how the barmaid managed to keep everything straight was a mystery he’d never unravel. He folded his hands together and leaned over the polished zurhkwood bartop, his right foot tapping irritably as he glanced, again, at the far corner table, where Mazira sat with her back mostly to him, right next to Vaylan Rivertone. 

Where did he go wrong?

Mazira had been right beside him the entire walk here. Her attention had been elsewhere, on a conversation Tsaria and Jezzra were having, but she’d still been by his side. She’d remained there even when they reached the tavern and Zalees had pounced on him, somehow having found the time to change into her new ceremonial armor, and insisted that he sit with the rest of the patrol that should have been his. Zalees was more than happy to invite Mazira along as well, and they had crammed in at the double table both Do’ar patrols had dragged together to better facilitate the friendly rivalry that was already brewing. 

That part of the celebration had gone blissfully well. With thirteen soldiers and a few extra stuffed around tables made for less, Mazira had been nearly forced onto his lap, and she didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t once flinch at the nearness of so many bodies, and though she didn’t contribute to the conversation, she smiled and laughed at the jests of the others. 

She had been in one of the best moods Rismyn had seen her in, and it was just a matter of time before he would pull her away and follow through with his plan. 

And that was it. That was where he messed up. He’d delayed. He’d been enjoying the evening too much,  surrounded by people he cared deeply about, who never once made him feel excluded from their team. He’d liked the feeling of being a part of something bigger, even though he wore no armor and had sworn no oaths. So he’d lingered, until it became his turn to fight through the crowds to order the next round of ale for the table. 

He’d gone dutifully to fulfill his task, yet when he’d come back, Mazira had vanished. 

Rismyn had looked around, but he hadn't seen her through the waves of people, so he’d been forced to ask, as innocently as he could muster. The pitying glances that had rippled around the table made him squirm, before Ardyn finally informed him that Vaylan had come by and said he wanted to introduce Mazira more properly to his friends. 

The table had seemed far too crowded after that, so when Rismyn found himself next in need of a drink, much sooner than his compatriots, he went to go help himself, rather than wait for Ardyn’s turn to order the next round. 

“Here you are, love,” Shaleena finally said, appearing before him and sliding a tankard his way. “Sorry for the wait.” 

“Thank you,” Rismyn said, reaching for his coin purse to pay for his drink.

“Oh, no. You’re with the Militia, so drink’s on the house.” 

“But I’m not—” Rismyn began, but it was too late. Shaleena was already gone, and he sighed, clasping the tankard in both hands. Somehow the barmaid’s kindness only managed to remind in what he didn’t actually have. 

As if he needed another reminder, he found his gaze roving back to the corner table. What was going on over there? Introductions didn’t take that long. 

Any minute now, Mazira would take her to leave. She would come back to the table where she’d been spending the celebration, or even just make eye contact with him. Any minute. He could wait. There was still plenty or white pigment in the Red cycle. His plans weren’t completely ruined. 

But as the minutes ticked away, his hope began to dwindle. Mazira wasn’t looking for him. Jezzra had engrossed her in a conversation that Mazira didn’t seem in a hurry to escape. 

Gloom threatened a reprise, but Rismyn adamantly shook it off. So Mazira was enjoying herself. So what? If she wouldn’t come back to him, Rismyn would just have to go to her. 

Which, it turned out, was easier said than done. Try as he might, he just couldn’t quite convince his feet to carry him over there, which was ridiculous. He had any number of valid excuses, and Jezzra and Corith had treated him well enough. It was only Vaylan he didn’t care for, and he’d been meaning to amend that, anyway. What better time than the present? 

Rismyn took a long draft of his ale and pushed away from the bar. But when his feet finally started walking, it wasn’t toward Mazira. He somehow found himself moving to his own distant corner, to stand alone at a high-top table.

He wasn’t stalling. He was strategizing. Vaylan wasn’t going to be as open to second chances as Rismyn was. The situation required delicacy and tact, something Rismyn had never been great at, no matter how many people ooh’d and aww’d over his manners. They were just impressed he wasn’t as uncouth as an average wild-grown drow. That wasn’t exactly something to brag over. 

Yet the longer he stood there nursing his ale, the fuzzier his thoughts became, despite swearing that he would never let himself get carried away with drink again. Once had been enough of an experience, and though Solaurin hadn’t said a word to him about it, his silent judgment and the godsawful headache the next day had been enough to convince Rismyn it wasn’t a habit he wanted to embrace. 

But every warm look that passed between Vaylan and Mazira made him swallow another sip. 

He just needed to walk over there. Then Mazira would turn her smiles on him. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

Rismyn jumped. He’d been so focused on what was happening across the room he’d failed to see Ardyn approaching, the only one of the new recruits to have yet to change out of his civilian clothes and into ceremonial armor. 

Probably because he didn’t have any. Armor was commissioned on demand, and the last-minute switch meant there was none prepared for Ardyn. Which meant that just like his singing sword, there must be a suit of sleek, supple adamantine with Rismyn’s name on it, another wasted resource collecting dust while Rismyn was sequestered in the Cove. 

But that wasn’t Ardyn’s fault. So Rismyn moved aside, gesturing for the gloam-drow to join him. “Be my guest,” he said, only slightly flushed. He’d forgiven Ardyn for taking his place, but that didn’t mean he knew what to say to him. 

Ardyn, it seemed, struggled with a similar sense of awkwardness. He set down his fresh tankard and glanced back at the table they had now both abandoned. “I forgot how rambunctious these events can get,” he said, fidgeting with his drink. “I escaped to order the next round and thought you had the right idea.” 

Rismyn tried to look at ease, but it was difficult with Mazira still in the corner of his eye. “Oh? Have you been to many of these?” 

The question had come automatically, just something to say for the sake of saying something. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, however, he realized it was a stupid question. Ardyn had been raised in Launa. Of course he’d been to something like this before. 

“Yeah,” Ardyn confirmed with a laugh. “Just a few. I actually trained with the reserves, for a while, before I joined the Fleet. Been here for a lot of my friends. You should have seen it when the twins got their first commission. You think Beltel’s wild now…” 

He trailed off, glancing back at the double table where Beltel was currently on his feet, enthralling his audience with some dramatic story or another. Unlike the recruits who had proudly changed into their armor, he’d managed to work his way into shirtsleeves, while seated beside him, Lina toyed with his silver insignia as though it were a common trinket, not a treasure of his rank. 

Rismyn allowed himself a smile. “I can only imagine,” he said, trying to picture a wilder Beltel than the one he knew. “Though from the stories I’ve heard, I’m not sure he’s really changed all that much.” 

Ardyn laughed again. “Probably not. I think the Abyss might freeze over first.” 

They both laughed, this time, a sound that trickled away into an uncomfortable silence. Rismyn had never been good at small talk. 

“So,” he began, at a loss. “Your father must be proud, with you taking the oaths.” 

It had seemed like the right thing to say, just a turn of phrase Rismyn had heard a few times over the last year, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. 

Ardyn’s face darkened, and the veins on the back of his hand stood out as he gripped his tankard tighter. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he said, his tone bitter. “After everything he put me through when I rejected my first commission offer… But no, actually, he spent the better part of the cycle trying to talk me out of this.” 

“I’m sorry,” Rismyn said, trying to beat a hasty retreat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s alright.” He waved Rismyn’s concern away. “I’m sorry. I know the two of you are close.” 

Rismyn blinked. It was the second time the insinuation had been made that cycle. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re not really all that close.” 

“Really? I got the impression from Sabraena you and Mazira visit quite often.” 

“Well, yes,” Rismyn admitted. Tsaria invited them to dine at least once a tenday, and they usually accepted. “But we don’t really… talk to him, directly.” 

At that, Ardyn grinned. “But is he present in the room?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Then he likes you. My father doesn’t talk to anyone willingly, except my mother. But if he didn’t like you, trust me. You’d know, because you’d never see him.” 

Bitterness crept back into his tone, and Rismyn wished he’d never mentioned Torafein. Not trusting himself to say anything else, he covered the silence with another draft of his ale, his blood starting to hum from the effects. 

“I’m being too hard on him,” Ardyn said abruptly, his eyes full of conflict. “It’s just, well, I haven’t seen him since the scandal. I didn’t say a word to him before I left for my first circuit, and by the time I got back, he’d gone to Menzoberranzan for his tour. It’s been nine years for everyone else, but for me, it kind of felt like walking right back into it when I got home last cycle. I thought I had two more years before I had to face him again.” 

“Oh,” Rismyn said, his head so full of ale he couldn’t find anything better to say. He certainly wasn’t about to confess to Ardyn that it was his fault Torafein had returned to Launa early. Their budding friendship was still tenuous. But though he wanted to avoid any potentially unpleasant subjects, he couldn’t help his curiosity, and what tact he usually possessed was suffering under the influence of black-shroom ale. “Was it… bad? When you got home?”

If Ardyn found the personal question uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “Actually… no. It was… Well, have you heard the story? About what happened when I left?” 

Rismyn shook his head. “Belnir mentioned something, but, no. I don’t know the details. This is the first I have heard of any scandal regarding you.”

The gloam-drow flashed a rueful smile. “I suppose that’s good to hear. I couldn’t get away from the whispers back then.” He sighed and sipped his ale. “But anyway, there’s not much to tell. I enlisted with the Fleet, my father told me if I left on that boat I wasn’t welcome to come back, and I politely informed him where he could shove his archaic values. It… wasn’t a quiet discussion. I went to stay with some friends until I shipped out. The Do’ar twins, actually. They’re good at taking in strays.”

Inadvertently, Rismyn thought of a year ago, when those same twins had volunteered their time and money to risk their lives collecting him, who was little better than a stray himself. He was simultaneously gracious and chagrined, but fortunately, Ardyn was too lost in his own tale to notice. 

“Anyway, it was only natural that people wondered why,” he continued. “The neighbors were happy to share what they’d overheard, and it pretty much spread everywhere.” 

“Oh,” Rismyn said again. He thought of his own very colorful shouting match with Solaurin and wondered how far those whispers had gone. At least the priest had welcomed him back. “That’s… rough.”

Ardyn shrugged. “It was inevitable. My father and I… we’ve never really gotten along. It’s as much my fault as his. He was gone a lot, when I was growing up, and I was selfish. I didn’t want to share my Da with the kids in Menzoberranzan. You know, kids like you were, who didn’t have the luxury of a father who loved them, who needed someone to find them and rescue them. I blamed him for a lot of things that weren’t really his fault.” 

Rismyn said nothing, because he had nothing to say. Ardyn’s words weren't an accusation, they were a confession, a sentiment he couldn’t relate to. An entirely alien experience Rismyn had never realized he was missing until Mazira told him stories of her own childhood, and even then, he’d been unable to comprehend what it would have been like to have a father he actually cared about. 

But Ardyn didn’t seem to require him to respond. He stared at a piece of metalwork framed on the wall, his eyes distant as he spoke. “For his part, he’s really set in his ways. Even reformed and softened by my mother, my Da still holds onto a lot of traditional practices. Like how a male of noble birth ought to serve his city.” 

Now this, Rismyn understood. “As a wizard or a soldier?” he guessed, though it surprised him to hear Torafein still believed those things. He’d only been in Launa a year, and he already understood that a male had far more options here than in any city he’d ever heard of. 

“You got it.” Ardyn  tipped his head back and drained his tankard. “And even though there are no Houses in Launa, he still considers himself a member of House Xarrin. Probably because that’s the cover he relies on in the field. So, naturally, that means his children are held to… certain expectations.” 

Rismyn supposed he could see the logic, but it seemed flawed, somehow. Wasn’t the point of the Sanctuary the freedom to make your own choices? He kept his questions to himself, though, as Ardyn still had more to say. 

“Since there’s no school for wizards in Launa,” he continued, “that really only gave me one option; the Militia. But”–he tossed up his hands–“What can I say? I’m my mother’s son, too. I have a love for the open sky and fields of grain. We visit my Grandda’s farm for a season or two everytime Da goes on one of his tours. I’ve had the Fleet in my heart for as long as I can remember, a way to embrace both my heritages.” 

“I don’t understand why that would be a problem,” Rismyn finally confessed. “The way everyone speaks about the Fleet, they seem highly respected.” 

“They are, in general,” Ardyn agreed. “But don’t forget, my father’s a traditionalist. And even if my chief responsibility on the ships is security, at the end of the day–cycle, sorry–the Fleet is one thing: a caravan of merchants.” 

“Ahh,” Rismyn said, as he finally understood. If there was one thing a drow noble hated–and there were many things they hated–it was filthy, greedy, double-crossing merchants. They were commoners with power they didn’t deserve, absolutely essential to society, but seen as leeches who exploited the wealth of the chosen Houses. Rismyn hadn’t cared enough about it to form his own prejudices, which in hindsight worked well in his favor, or it would have been a rough adjustment to life in the weaver’s house. 

But if Torafein really did hold to traditional drow values, then he’d probably rather be dead than allow one of his blood to ‘sink’ to the level of the merchant class. 

“I see you understand,” Ardyn said, grimly. “Well, I did try. I wanted my Da to be proud of me. But at the end of it all, when the offer for the commission came I just… I couldn’t do it. The Fleet was in and I’d been talking with the Captain. So, I turned it down, and, well”–he gave a mirthless laugh–“here I am. Nine years later, three complete circuits to my name, finally taking the Militia oaths, and my Da has had a change of heart. You asked if it was bad when I got home last cycle, but it wasn’t. It was really, really good to see him. Until the Reverend Mother came to call.” 

They fell silent, while Rismyn racked his brain for something wise and comforting to say, the way Solaurin always had something to offer him, but he came up with nothing. He didn’t know Ardyn past a few brief encounters and the testimony of his family, and he didn’t know why he was being trusted with such a personal story. He was hardly worthy of the responsibility. 

But whether he wanted it or not, he found himself in the position of listener, and that came with its own set of requirements. In lieu of the wisdom of his elders, Rismyn opted for the tactic his younger friends adopted, when he dared to share his darker feelings with them. 

He clapped Ardyn on the shoulder and said, “Let me buy you another drink.” 

Even though drinks were apparently on the house for Militia members. But it was the thought that counted.  

Ardyn smiled, but shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ve had a bit too much already. If I don’t switch directions soon I’ll be hating rounds in the Blue Light. Belnir’s promised to run me ragged, seems to think surface life has made me soft.” He glanced down at himself with raised eyebrows, his broad shoulders and barrel chest anything but soft. “And here I thought he and I were friends.” 

“You think being his friend is hard,” came a sudden, loud voice from behind them. Beltel materialized from seemingly nowhere, throwing his arms around their shoulders. He reeked of ale, and there was a glassy quality to his eyes that Rismyn had come to know too well. “Try being his brother!” 

Though Rismyn was taller by several inches, he staggered under the sudden weight thrust upon him. “Maybe you should sit down,” he suggested, ducking out from under his arm. “Before you fall down.” 

“Nonsense,” Beltel said, waving his hands. “I am in complete control of my faculties.” He slid around the table and leaned heavily on the surface. “I’m a captain, now. Gotta be responsible.” 

“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” Ardyn said with a smirk. 

“How dare you,” Beltel said, in mock anger. “I know exactly what it means.” He raised a hand, ticking off the list as he went. “It means I’m stuffy, boring, and devoid of fun.” By the time he finished, his hand was positioned in a rude gesture, and he blinked at it, as though surprised at what he was seeing. “Oh, would you look at that?” Then he grinned and shook it away. 

Ardyn laughed, and despite his best efforts, Rismyn couldn’t conceal a smile of his own, shaking his head. 

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Ardyn said.

“And I don’t plan to. Now, my fine friends. Have you met?” He glanced between them as if they weren’t sharing childhood secrets over ale. “Rismyn, this is my old friend, Ardyn. He was my friend before you were my friend. Oh! Maybe even before you were born.” 

“Yes, we’ve—” Ardyn began, but Beltel wasn’t listening.

“And this is Rismyn, my new friend. He’s still an elflet, but that’s okay. I’m working on corrupting him, but don’t tell him I said so.” 

Rismyn just rolled his eyes. “We’ve met,” he finished for Ardyn. “As you can see.” He gestured between them for emphasis. 

“Good! Saves me the trouble of introducing you.” 

Rismyn exchanged an amused look with Ardyn. “The sad part is,” he muttered to the gloam-drow, “I can’t tell if he’s sober.” 

They both laughed, and Beltel glowered. 

“That’s not very nice. I’ve worked very hard to get this drunk.” 

They were still laughing, and Beltel waited, with arms crossed and a stern expression on his face that Rismyn failed to take seriously as Beltel swayed back and forth.

When their amusement finally ran its course, Beltel spread his palms on the table, seeming satisfied he’d regained their attention. “I’m not just here for your entertainment, you know,” he said. “I have a very important question.” 

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Rismyn said. 

Beltel acted as though he hadn’t heard him, inhaling dramatically. He looked back and forth between them, then said, “Why are you two sulking on a Light of celebration?” 

Rismyn’s mirth evaporated. “I’m not sulking,” he scoffed, at the exact same moment Ardyn asked a scandalized, “What?”

“You’re definitely sulking,” Beltel said, unfazed by their denial. “This corner couldn’t be gloomier if you cast a darkness spell.”

Rismyn traded mystified looks with Ardyn. Of course, Beltel was right, and if he had noticed in his current state of inebriation, who else had? 

“We’re fine,” Rismyn said, because he wasn’t about to get into it here, now, in this setting, and he didn’t really want to bear any more of Ardyn’s burdens.  

“Lying is a sin,” Beltel pressed, wagging his finger sternly. “Lucky for you, it was a trick question. I know exactly why you’re so glum.” He straightened suddenly, a wicked gleam coming into his eye. 

Too late, Rismyn sensed the danger. He stiffened, glaring at Beltel. “It’s just the commission,” he said pointedly, while avoiding Ardyn’s gaze. It wasn’t a complete lie, but he hadn’t wanted to guilt Ardyn over it. “It’s hard celebrating what I don’t have, that’s all.”

“Is that all?” Beltel asked, with a wily grin. He slid around the table and clasped Rismyn’s shoulders. “I suspect that’s not the case. Rather, I think you’re sulking because of that.” 

Beltel spun him around, and Rismyn found himself facing the dreaded corner where Mazira sat. His stomach dropped and his shoulders sagged. 

She was beautiful, and smiling, and talking and making eye contact in ways that he still marveled at, considering what she’d had to overcome to get this to this point. But though he’d normally bask in joy of watching Mazira thrive, he couldn’t bring himself to do so this time. 

Not when the subject of her smiles was Vaylan Rivertone. 

Beltel still gripped him, and he leaned forward and said in a too-loud whisper, “So who’s Blondie,  and why’s he chatting up your girl?” 

Ardyn coughed, lifting his mug of ale for a sip only to awkwardly remember he had nothing left to drink. 

“She’s not my girl,” Rismyn seethed, brushing Beltel away. 

“Not at this rate, she’s not,” Beltel said. “But just say the word, Rismyn, and I will happily go start a bar fight with him.” 

“What? No!” Rismyn snatched Beltel’s arm as his friend took a step in that direction. “Don’t start a fight, what is wrong with you? Do you want to lose your promotion?” 

“Actually, yes, I’d love to.” 

“No, you don’t,” Rismyn reminded him. “Because if you lose it over a bar fight you’ll be in disgrace, and then you’ll have even less of a chance of success with women than usual.” 

Beltel’s jaw dropped, and he stood straight, stroking his chin as he considered. “But what if it’s for a good cause? A champion of true love! Ladies love a soppy romantic.” 

“No, they don’t,” Rismyn said, glancing at Ardyn for his support, but the gloam-drow just watched, looking vaguely horrified. “I’m not sulking over Mazira. That elf is her friend from childhood.” 

He quickly recounted the events of the White Light, emphasizing how wonderful it was for Mazira and Vaylan to have found each other, and grateful that Ardyn didn’t fill in the part about how un-wonderful Rismyn had found it at first. 

Beltel narrowed his eyes as he listened, looking skeptical. “I don’t like it,” he said, when Rismyn finally finished. “But you’re right. I can’t start a bar fight over it. That’s your job.” He gave Rismyn a little shove, as if to encourage him to march over there and start throwing punches.

“No one is starting any fights,” Rismyn said, exasperated, though a small part of him was eager for a rematch after his last embarrassing bout with the sun elf. He wouldn’t lose again now that he knew his dirty tricks, but he could wait for his chance at Cove. “It’s alright, I promise.” 

Beltel continued to scrutinize him, before suddenly turning his attention to Ardyn. “Alright, fine. Now it’s your turn.” 

“Me?” Ardyn said, the picture of innocence. “I’m not looking for a bar fight.”

“No, no, I suspect you’ve already had your fight,” Beltel said, waving his hand flippantly. “I notice your father’s not here.” 

At that, Ardyn’s expression hardened. 

“I see your mama,” Beltel continued, pointing her out, “and your sister, who should probably be in bed soon, isn’t she like six?” 

“Eleven.” 

“Same difference.” He scanned the room with a frown. “And yet, I don’t see the Legend himself. You’d think, after you finally do the thing he wanted you to do, he could at least show up for you for once.”

The sourness in Beltel’s voice surprised Rismyn, as he had never expressed such disdain for the master swordsman before, and though Rismyn had come to understand the expectations of parents in relation to children was very different in Launa than it was in typical dark elven culture, it still seemed a bit unjustified. 

His face must have shown his confusion, because Beltel shrugged. “What? I respect Torafein, but Ardyn’s my friend first.” 

Ardyn’s stone expression softened. “It’s not like that, this time,” he assured Beltel. “He was here, or rather, at the ceremony, which matters more. He would have come to this, but the Council is meeting and asked him to attend.” 

Rismyn stiffened. “Really? Why?” 

“What?” Beltel frowned. “He’s not on the Council, and who schedules a council meeting on a commissioning cycle?” 

Ardyn glanced between them as if trying to decide who to answer first. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a planned meeting. I’m not sure what it’s about or why he’s there. He just told me that’s where he’d be after the ceremony.” 

“Do you think it has something to do with… what he knows?” Rismyn asked cautiously, hoping Ardyn would catch his meaning. 

Ardyn’s brows furrowed, considering. “It’s possible. But I’m not sure. I think he’s leaving the city. I found him going through his travel gear. When I asked him why, he wouldn’t say.” 

Beltel blinked, his eyes bouncing back and forth as they traded information. “Hold on. I think I am missing the subtext. What does Torafein know, and why is that sending him away? Doesn’t he have a few more years before his next tour?” 

Rismyn hesitated, unsure of how much information he wanted to share. He liked Beltel immensely and trusted him with his life, but all he and Ardyn had were speculations and theories. Even to his own ears, they sounded silly. 

Ardyn, on the other hand, had no such qualms. “I suspect my father knows the reason that Rismyn and I have… switched places,” he said. “I thought maybe that had to do with why he was invited to the meeting. But I don’t know why that would send him away.” 

“Right,” Rismyn said, with a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking, whatever this”–he gestured between himself and Ardyn–“is about, the Council wouldn’t be meeting over it.” 

Though even as he denied it, he couldn’t shake the way Solaurin had been unable to look at him when he confessed to remaining at the temple for a council meeting. He tried to tell himself it was just guilt over being unable to keep to his promise of a family celebration, but if it were, it seemed an overreaction.

“I don’t know,” Beltel said, thoughtfully. “Belnir told me the orders came from Mother Lara. If the Queen Mother directly interfered, you might not be below the Council’s notice, after all.” 

“I agree, it’s strange,” Ardyn said. “Something’s going on, and I can’t believe this series of events are all unrelated.” 

“Well we’ll just have to wait and see,” Rismyn said, finishing the last of his ale to cover his bitterness. “It’s not like we can go ask the Council what they’re meeting about.” 

As the words left Rismyn’s mouth, Ardyn and Beltel stilled, and a knowing look passed between them.

“No,” Ardyn said firmly, but Beltel was grinning. 

“Come on, you’re curious, aren’t you?” 

“Do you know how much trouble we’ll be in if we get caught?” 

“Get caught what?” Rismyn asked, frowning, but the others ignored him.

“Who says we’re getting caught?” Beltel retorted. “Only amateurs get caught.” 

“And the arrogant,” Ardyn shot back. 

“Get caught what?” Rismyn repeated, a little louder this time. 

“Eavesdropping,” they said together, though with markedly different tones. 

Now it was Rismyn’s turn to stiffen. “Eavesdropping?” he repeated, lowering his voice. “On the Council?” The thought had never crossed his mind, and though his gut reaction was to side with Ardyn, his curiosity was piqued. “Is that possible?”

“Oh yes,” Beltel said. “But not easy. We’d have to sneak into the temple and get behind the statue of Eilistraee.”

“Which is always surrounded by Songblades,” Ardyn protested. “We’d all get court-martialed, and just because I don’t want to be in the Militia doesn’t mean I want to get kicked out of it on my first day.” 

“Why behind the statue?” Rismyn asked, finding himself more and more drawn to this option, despite Ardyn’s protests. 

“There’s a spy hole,” Beltel said. “Directly opening into the council chamber.” 

“What?” Rismyn cried, which earned him a few curious glances from nearby patrons. He lowered his voice again as he leaned in. “Why is there a spy hole in the council chamber? That seems a poor place for one.” 

This time it was Ardyn who proffered the answer. “Because this city was built by drow. Not the trusting kind,” he added, when Rismyn looked more confused. 

And then, Rismyn remembered. It was one of the facts Solaurin had shared with him on his first tour of Launa. The Sanctuary citizens didn’t build the city, but repurposed it from the ruins of a fallen dark elven colony. The outer parts of the cavern, where he lived now, were added on as the population grew, but the inner sections, where the more extravagant architecture like the temple lay, were all salvaged for Eilistraee’s purposes. 

“So wait,” he said, “you’re saying if we can just get into the temple and get behind the statue, we can hear what the Council is saying?” 

Beltel nodded, his face glowing with anticipation. Ardyn looked uneasy. 

Rismyn just stood there, letting it all sink in. Though a small voice in the back of his head whispered that it would be wrong to do so, he found the idea of taking action and getting answers hypnotic. And really, would it be so wrong, if the information concerned him? One could argue he deserved to know. They’d only get in trouble if they got caught, and as three Militia elves–well, two and half–they should have no problem sneaking past a few Songblades. The longer he thought about it, the more appealing the idea became. 

“It’s not a good idea,” Ardyn said, evidentially reading Rismyn’s face like a book. “Trust me. Every kid who grew up around the temple has been dared to try and get into it. It’s like, a Launite rite of passage. The punishment is…” he shuddered, not finishing his thought. “All I’m saying is, it will be tenfold if we’re caught. We’re supposed to enforce the law, not break it.” 

“But don’t you want answers?” Rismyn pressed, catching Beltel’s enthusiasm. “C’mon, it can’t be that hard to get in. Stealth and sneaking are what we do best. It’s not like anyone will get hurt.” 

“And aren’t you tired of your Da holding out on you?” Beltel added, which Rismyn thought was a particularly low blow. 

But it had its desired effect. Ardyn tensed as he glanced between them, but then his gaze moved beyond them, to where his mother and sister sat with a drow Rismyn knew by face but not name, and a muscle spasmed in his jaw. 

Rismyn was certain that was going to give in, but then he shook his head, resolute. “No. It’s not right.”

“Suit yourself,” Beltel said with a shrug. “Not going to slow me down, though. Coming, Rismyn?” 

Rismyn hesitated, then nodded. The temptation for answers was too great to deny. 

They left Ardyn at the table, stopping just long enough for Beltel to collect his belongings from the double table, before heading for the door. 

They’d barely made it to the next block before Ardyn caught up to them. “Wait,” the gloam drow called, looking for all the world like a criminal on the run. He glanced around nervously, before saying, “I am getting awfully tired of secrets.” 

It was all Beltel needed to hear. “Then let’s get to it,” he said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away before he could protest.

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.