Forsaken by Shadows 48: Useless

~13. Useless ~

Mazira

Nearly a tenday had passed since Mazira lay her head down and marveled at her new amethyst ring, a prelude to the first blissful, dreamless night of sleep she had had in a long, long time. With hope restored and heart raw, she’d finally begun to believe again.

Which should have served as a harsh, glaring, portent of disaster. She’d been far too happy. Of course the feeling wouldn’t last. It didn’t even survive the cycle. When Blue Light dawned on the Sanctuary, the city awoke to lament. 

Four Songblades had been killed in the Wilds. Four women Mazira knew, though admittedly not well. Four priestesses gifted with power, the way she was gifted, but it hadn’t been enough. They were dead, and Torafein had been sent to avenge them. 

So many cycles had passed since then, yet Mazira’s thoughts still swirled with the events, although the rest of Launa seemed to have moved on. She stood in her place in the music room, surrounded by her classmates, her voice blended into the chorus of praise offered to Eilistraee, while deep within her chest, her heart had fossilized. 

The Songblades were dead, supposedly killed by a monster. But they’d had magic, and swords they weren’t afraid to wield, and all of Eilistraee’s blessings. They were strong, and beautiful, and powerful, and everything Mazira aspired to be. 

And yet it wasn’t enough to stave death away. Darkness had still claimed them. 

In the center of the stepped room, Mistress Oholia’s hands closed into a fist, signaling the end of the song. Mazira cut off the note she was holding, her eyes drifting to the powder-blue light filtering through the window for what must have been the hundredth time. 

She’d never wanted to sing less in her life than she had the past few cycles. The music that had once made her feel strong and protected now sat heavy in her lungs. What was the point of all her notes, all her magic, if she couldn’t even defend herself or the ones she loved? 

She was utterly useless. Just like before, only this time, the realization hurt. 

Beside her, Ti’yana’s hands rested on her lyre, and she let out a little contented sigh, completely oblivious to Mazira’s melancholy. 

Or perhaps ignoring it. How long would Ti’yana put up with her? All Mazira did was take. Her time, her room, her rest, even her father’s undivided attention. Did she have to take her pity, too? 

But the priest’s daughter remained ever cheerful, beaming at Mazira. “That sounded lovely,” she said, her voice pitched low so as not to attract the attention of their teacher. “Your voice is really gaining in strength.” 

Which only made Mazira feel worse, filling her with shame. Ti’yana’s compliment couldn’t possibly be genuine. Mazira hadn’t even been paying attention to what she was singing. How could she have sounded lovely? Her wandering thoughts had probably ruined the whole song for everyone, and Ti’yana was just too kind to say so. 

Mazira hung her head, prepared to apologize, when Mistress Oholia wrapt her music stand. “Very good, ladies. That will do for now.” 

Her moment to repent passed as the room erupted into a cacophony of excited tittering and rustling pages. Sighing, Mazira reached for the music on the stand she shared with Ti’yana. At least it was over, and she could go on about her cycle. 

As though thinking similar thoughts, Ti’yana’s delight turned mischievous. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you staring out the window,” she said. “You hoping a certain elf will be waiting for you again?” 

“What?” Mazira cried, starting so hard the sheet music crumpled in her hands. Her cheeks blazed as blood rushed to them and she stammered for something to say. She couldn’t be sure exactly which certain elf Ti’yana was referring to, since she now had two who waited for her, but regardless… the implications… Oh mercy. Were her feelings so obvious? “N-no, I was—”

But again, Mistress Oholia interrupted her attempt to communicate. 

“Hold a moment,” the music teacher said. Mazira sagged as the hubbub died away, all attention returning to the instructor. “I did not say you were dismissed yet. Mother Lara has come to address you.” 

“Mother Lara?” Ti’yana repeated, twisting to gaze up at the door. She wasn’t alone in her confusion. Several eyes turned upward, murmuring their surprise. 

Mazira didn’t have to look. The moment Mistress Oholia mentioned the Reverend Mother’s name, Mazira became aware of her, like a breeze stirring the strands of her hair. Solaurin called it the breath of the Weave, a faint sensation that alerted one caster to another. It was how he had recognized Mazira’s abilities when they first met, without having seen evidence of her casting first. 

Mazira moved automatically, rising to her feet as etiquette demanded. Fortunately, so did the rest of her class, saving her the embarrassment of standing out. She spun to face the Revered Mother, who stood at the door, draped in a golden gown that looked an awful lot like a bolt of silk Mazira had recently unearthed in Solaurin’s storeroom. 

As though moved by magic, the whole class managed to dip into a curtsey in unison, offering their greetings to the head of their order. 

Emmalara nodded in reply, gliding down the raised steps so smoothly it was as though her feet didn’t actually touch the floor. “Blessings, daughters,” she said, as she took Oholia’s place behind the conductor’s stand. She motioned for them to sit, and Mazira obeyed, with another nervous glance out the window. 

“As you are all well aware,” began Mother Lara, and Mazira snapped her attention back to the center of the room. “When the Fleet returns, so does the Festival.” 

Excitement filled the room like a tangible sensation. Eyes brightened, spines straightened. 

Mazira deflated, her own gaze straying back to the window. This again? The Festival had been all anyone had talked about, after the shock of the deaths had worn away. Everywhere Mazira went, she heard snippets of speculation about it. She wasn’t even safe from the subject at home, where Solaurin grew more anxious every cycle as the date the Fleet was predicted to arrive grew nearer, counting and recounting his stock, making room for new supply he had ordered. 

She was probably the only person in all of Launa who wasn’t excited about the celebration, and Mazira considered it further proof of her brokenness. As though misery had been her constant companion for so long she didn’t know how to function without it. 

“Who can tell me what the pinnacle of the Festival is?” Mother Lara asked.

Several hands shot up, Ti’yana’s included. Mazira glanced around, reassured when she wasn’t the only one who didn’t seem to know the answer. She shifted and folded her hands in her lap, trying not to watch the light for obvious signs of brightening. 

“The Serenade,” someone answered, and if Mazira had thought it was impossible for the eagerness in the room to increase, she was wrong. The class now resembled a pack of hungry wolves circling a rabbit. The last time she’d seen this much gleam of anticipation in one place was…

Her breath caught in her throat, and her vision tilted.

The space was wide and lit with blazing torches. Toloruel had just finished presenting her, displaying her body to the Pyramid students like meat in a butcher's shop, teaching them all the best ways to carve her up. He’d just leaned in close, whispering sweet promises of retribution if she misbehaved and embarrassed him while he ran his errand for Kelafein, House Tear’s grand wizard.

Toloruel was going to leave her here. With all these blood-hungry strangers—and Rismyn. Rismyn, whom she’d once loved. Rismyn, who’d made her heart desolate. 

She would have rather stayed with Toloruel, the kind of frightening she was used to. 

“Take some time to make your own observations,” Rismyn’s teacher said. Not Torafein, but his other teacher. “We’ll discuss them afterward. The one who comes up with the most interesting insight will earn extra rest.”

The boys surged in around her, talking, whispering, accusing her of eating souls or spitting acid. Hands reached for her. Someone grabbed her hair and pulled. Her head hurt from the tension, while a gentle finger traced the acid scar on her chest—

“Mazira!” 

Ti’yana’s voice in her ear made Mazira jump and she gasped, becoming sharply aware of herself. Her body trembled and her skin pebbled. Her breath came in short, swift bursts, but she was back. Grounded. The room around her was full of enchanted cornflower light filtering through the window, not flickering orange torches. It was small and cozy and full of instruments and girls who loved to make music. 

“You already survived this, Mazira,” Ti’yana whispered urgently. “You’re not there anymore…” 

Mazira raised a hand to halt her mantras. ‘It’s okay,’ she signed. ‘I wasn’t gone long. I’m back now. Thank you.’

Ti’yana slumped in her chair, the color returning to her ashen face, and Mazira’s heart twinged with regret. As if night-terrors weren’t enough, she sometimes suffered day-terrors as well, and poor Ti’yana had to suffer through those with her, too. 

Would the nightmare ever let her go? Would her memories ever release their stranglehold on her? Or would she always burden the people she loved with her inability to live correctly? 

Mazira gave up all hope of listening to Mother Lara’s speech. She’d missed the explanation of what the Serenade was, but from context, it sounded like it had something to do with inducting new Songblades into the sacred order. Well, she supposed if she had to have a flashback, at least it happened when the subject wasn’t relevant to her. Her leg bounced nervously as she tried to avoid falling down the pitfall of unpleasant recollections again, but it was difficult, because as horrible as it had been, the memory also fascinated her. 

That flashback had taken her to moments she’d forgotten existed, to fears she never knew she had quelled. Her only recollections of the day Rismyn dragged her, bloody and dying, out of Menzoberranzan came from his retelling of the events and some vague impressions of memory. She rested a hand on her stomach, where beneath the layers of her dark blue tunic, a thick, raised scar marred her skin, the only evidence that Rismyn hadn’t lied about what happened. 

What else was hiding in the recesses of her mind? 

“—And may Eilistraee be with you all.” 

Mazira stiffened. The address was over, and students were rising, curtseying again before they gathered their belongings to move on to their sword dancing class, the class Mazira still adamantly avoided. She reached for her own satchel, flustered that she was falling behind, and determined to pay better attention next time. At least no one had seemed to notice her wandering mind. 

Or so she thought. 

“Mazira, will you stay for a moment?”

Mazira stilled as the voice spoke to her, so clear and close it was as though the speaker whispered right in her ear. 

“I’d like to have a word.” 

Mother Lara’s voice, carried directly to her on the threads of the Weave. Mazira’s blood drained from her face as she remained frozen, sorely tempted to flee. But trying to escape punishment only ever made it worse, so she settled back in her chair, clasping her hands together, awaiting her rebuke.

“Hey, you okay?” Ti’yana asked, pausing in the act of standing. “You still look pale. Do you want to talk about… what just happened?” 

And now she had worried Ti’yana, in addition to angering Mother Lara. Mazira shook her head, not looking at either of them. “No, I’m alright. I just need a minute.” 

Ti’yana hesitated, then nodded, laying a hand on her shoulder and giving her a comforting squeeze. And, despite the flashback, Mazira was relieved to find that the touch was comforting. Her aversion hadn’t been triggered by the memory. 

At least something was going right. 

Ti’yana left, and Mazira remained still, staring at her lap until there was nothing in the room but silence and the breath of the Weave. The faint sensation grew stronger and stronger until Mother Lara settled in Ti’yana’s unoccupied seat, exuding regal majesty. 

It occurred to Mazira then that she probably should have gone to Mother Lara, out of respect and deference. Her cheeks burned as all the blood came rushing back to them. 

“Are you well, child?” Mother Lara asked, her tone kind and gentle. “I noticed your mind seemed to wander away. Is everything okay?” 

How red could Mazira get? She suspected she was about to find out. “I’m so sorry, Mother. I tried to pay attention, I did, but—”

“Peace, child.”

Mazira was so focused on her knees that she failed to notice the Reverend Mother reaching for her, until two ebon fingers adorned with perfectly lacquered nails slid under chin, tilting her face up so that Mazira had no choice but to look into her beautiful, gold-painted crimson eyes. Before she could register how the contact made her feel, Emmalara stroked back the curtain of hair that had fallen into her face. The gesture was so tender, so maternal, that Mazira sucked in a sharp breath, torn between pulling away and leaning into her touch. 

Unable to decide, she ended up doing neither, and the Reverend Mother returned her hands to herself. “You are not in trouble,” she said. “I understand that our past can bite when least expected. I wish only to know that you are well.” 

Mazira’s brows knit together, wary in spite of the kindness in the grand woman’s words. She wasn’t in trouble? No, that couldn’t be true. She had to be in trouble. This must be some sort of trap, some trick to get Mazira to confess her guilt, to—

No. Mazira cut off the stem of her thoughts with a click of her jaw. No, she didn’t want to live this way, believing everything was going to turn out for the worst. True, things usually did, but not always. She twirled the ring adorning her middle finger, finding comfort in its new familiarity. 

Life wasn’t always wrong. Maybe she really wasn’t in trouble. 

“I am well,” Mazira finally said. She’d meant to sound reassuring, but only managed neutral. 

Emmalara searched her expression, then seemed to accept her answer. “Good. Now then, if you’ll indulge me, I have a question I would like to ask you. It is rather personal, so I do hope you will pardon my curiosity.” 

Mazira sat straighter, unsure of how to respond. What could possibly interest Mother Lara about her personal life? She was all but queen around here, and Mazira was just… Mazira. Uncultured. Uninteresting. 

Useless.

And yet the Reverend Mother waited patiently for her to respond, as if she actually cared about receiving Mazira’s permission before asking her question. 

Bewildered, Mazira just nodded. “O-okay.” 

A slight smile tugged at the corners of Emmalara’s lips, and she leaned in, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Have you made a decision yet, what you will do when the Fleet leaves?”

Mazira blinked. What? She hadn’t even thought past what she would do when the Fleet arrived. Or even what she would do when she left here and went home. Was she supposed to have been thinking about life after the Fleet and the Festival? The question made absolutely no sense, and felt an awful lot like a test she didn’t know she was supposed to study for. 

Her skin tingled with that awful, sweeping sensation, as though she were teetering on the edge of the cliff. But without knowing what Mother Lara wanted, she could only shake her head and try to play along. “I… I have not. I’m sorry…” 

That wasn’t the right answer. Mother Lara regarded her with a slight tilt of the head, and Mazira got the unnerving sensation that she was being read like sheet music, all her thoughts and feelings a melody the priestess intended to play. She didn’t dare look away, though, not when Emmalara had raised her eyes personally. 

“Do you understand what it is that I am asking you?” Mother Lara asked. 

She was doomed. Whatever it was Mother Lara expected her to know, Mazira didn’t know it, and she hadn’t been able to hide it. Biting her lip, she shook her head, hoping her ineptitude wouldn’t somehow reflect back on Solaurin, who was supposed to be responsible for her. 

And yet, the woman laughed. Not a scathing sound, but a warm friendly chortle. She took one of Mazira’s hands and clasped it between hers, and once more, the touch was soothing. It made her seem less… otherworldly, somehow. Not the ethereal leader of Launa, but some one who was real and near and not frightening. 

“I’m so sorry, my dear child,” Emmalara said. “I should have been more direct, though I admit I am somewhat embarrassed to be asking. It should not be my business, and yet… I cannot help my curiosity. You told me once that you desired to return to the surface. Your best and safest opportunity to return is with the Fleet. Has Solaurin not spoken to you of this?” 

Oh. Oh. That was what she meant. Mazira had nearly forgotten that detail, between Vaylan’s arrival, the death of the Songblades, and the extra work Solaurin was putting everyone—including Rismyn—through in preparation for the Festival. She simply hadn’t had the energy to consider it. 

But now that she was reminded of it, she recalled the fight Solaurin and Ti’yana had had over the very same subject. She stiffened, as though the shouting match was happening all over again, and pulled her hand back, running her fingers through the end of her hair. 

“Oh—yes, that is, I did know about that. I just… I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t really thought… Yes, I suppose maybe… We’ll go if Rismyn wants too…”

Again, Emmalara was quiet, reading between her discordant notes, and this time, Mazira couldn’t bear to keep looking at her. Her gaze shifted downward, and she prayed she would be released soon. 

“Do you want to go?” Mother Lara finally asked, and the question, strangely, caught Mazira off guard. For a moment, she thought the Reverend Mother had read her mind right then and there, and recognized Mazira’s desire to flee.

But the way she emphasized the you in her statement struck Mazira. Mother Lara wasn’t asking if she wanted to go now. She was asking if she wanted to go then. In the future. To the surface. 

As though her opinion mattered. 

And why shouldn’t it? She was free now. A regular person, with pathways stretching ahead of her and a future she could decide for herself. Hadn’t that been what Rismyn’s ring symbolized to her? A future bright and merry, one unwritten by the cruel hands of fate. 

But even as she thought it, the names of the dead Songblades drifted through her mind. Freedom, power, and magic, were not guarantees of a happily ever after.

And neither was life under the sun. 

Just as before, when Ti’yana squealed over the thought of traveling above ground, Mazira found she wasn’t filled with longing or hope. She was smothered in dread. Her eyes stung with it, as though preferring to stay underground was somehow a betrayal of everything her parents had wanted for her, but she couldn’t deny the feelings of her heart. 

Her heart, which was broken, and warped, and apparently loved darkness and feared the light. What was wrong with her? 

“I don’t know,” she finally confessed. Her raw honesty surprised her. She usually only bestowed it on Rismyn, or Ti’yana, and in rare, rare cases, Tsaria and Solaurin. Not even Vaylan had earned the right from her yet, not since that first cycle, though she had spent every subsequent cycle in his company. He was still somewhat of a stranger to her, but not nearly so unknown as Mother Lara, whom Mazira had only spoken to one-on-one twice before now. 

Yet there was something about Emmalara’s presence that drew her in, that quelled her unease, and she found herself struggling to articulate her thoughts. Perhaps there was more reason for the Reverend Mother title than just a nod toward broken drow culture.

“I know that I should want to go,” Mazira said. “And Rismyn wants to go. He promised to take me… but… but…” Her throat tightened, constricting her words. 

“But you are afraid.” 

Mazira nodded, relieved she didn’t have to say it in order to be understood. She pressed her palms into her eyes, feeling weak and ashamed, but the dam had been broken. “What if the sun isn’t as bright as I remember?” she continued, voicing for the first time the dark thoughts that had haunted her ever since she’d begun weaving stories of her old life for Rismyn all those years ago, doubting the authenticity of her memory. “What if the summer is not as warm? What if the ocean is not as blue? Or the meadows not so green?” She took a shuddering breath, wishing she had worn a dress or a skirt, because the leggings she’d paired with her tunic didn’t give her enough fabric to twist. 

“What is there for me up there,” she said, “besides memories of death and strangers who would hate Rismyn if he comes with me?” And maybe even her, for loving him so deeply. Not that it mattered, since his love didn’t tilt her way anymore, but still. How could she hide how dear he was to her, and what would the folk of the surface think? She couldn’t bear it if he got hurt on her account. 

Trembling, Mazira shook her head. “Everyone I know and care for is here,” she concluded. “And yet… shouldn’t I want to go home?” 

Mother Lara said nothing for a long time. So much so, that Mazira began to regret opening her heart to her. What had she been thinking, burdening the Reverend Mother with her own internal agonies? The leader of Launa had far more important things to concern herself with than Mazira’s petty fears. 

She had to back out, to change the subject or lighten the mood. Emmalara couldn’t possibly care, even if she had asked. She’d probably just wanted a simple yes or no, and Mazira had cracked like a river thawing. 

But before she could backtrack, Mother Lara spoke. “The place we are from is not always the same as the place we call home,” she said, and not even Mazira’s melancholy could cloud the genuine warmth in her tone. “More often, it is people that make a home. It is not a shameful thing to love people more than places. You do well to treasure such things.” 

The words struck Mazira like a harpsichord’s hammer, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, as the Reverend Mother’s wisdom tugged at deeply ingrained memory. 

She’d already known this. Hadn’t she once told Rismyn the same thing, while trying to explain the lyrics to the song her father had penned to her mother? The song she had sung to him over and over, the one he always requested even after she introduced him to new songs, despite his youthful claim that he hated the words.  

Yet the song had stuck with him as well, as he had sung to her in that lonely cave outside of Menzoberranzan, when she demanded he take her back. The one and only time she had ever heard him sing, his voice wavering and unsure, but pleasant beneath his trembling. The music which had calmed her fears, for that one, precious moment. 

Home is the heart of my love…

Mother Lara was right. When had Mazira lost sight of such things? She took another breath, this time steady, cool, and refreshing, and her shame, for now, receded to whatever dark place it had crawled out of.

“Thank you,” Mazira said. The words were practiced and delivered easily, one of Mazira’s prepared responses when she wasn’t sure what else to say, though this time she meant it. “I will keep that in mind.” 

Mother Lara nodded. “I hope that you will. And consider carefully what it means. The Fleet comes and goes every two to three years. I know that seems like a long time now, young as you are, but in the grand scheme of our lives, it is not so. You will have other opportunities to travel as you wish. In the meantime… may I offer you an alternative?” 

Mazira tensed. She had thought the conversation over. “Of course,” she said, barely above a whisper. Who would refuse Emmalara anything? 

“Participate in the Serenade.” 

“What?” Mazira gasped, unable to conceal her shock. She wasn’t entirely sure what the Serenade was, but she had thought it was a ritual involving new Songblades. 

She must have misunderstood. Surely Mother Lara wasn’t saying that Mazira could enter the sacred order. Not when others, who had been studying their whole lives like Ti’yana, were around. There must have been some support role she’d missed while she was putting her thoughts back together. 

“Indeed,” said the Reverend Mother. “It is a bit unconventional to ask a novice so new to enter the order, but then, nothing about your calling has been conventional. You are much like your Conductor in that regard.” At that, Emmalara pursed her lips, as if the thought of Solaurin troubled her. Then she shook it off and smiled endearingly. “When Eilistraee makes her will known, we try not to stand in her way.” 

Mazira just gaped at her, her mouth working like a fish out of water. She couldn’t be hearing this right. There must be some sort of mistake. Her? A Songblade? She barely knew how to read, and still struggled through basic equations when balancing Solaurin’s books. How could they expect her to bear the weight of the responsibility of an acolyte of Eilistraee? She wasn’t capable. She wasn’t even remotely worthy. She couldn’t even hold a sword without feeling sick. The only thing she had that might possibly make her wanted was—

Oh. Right. That was it, wasn’t it? Magic. She had been gifted with Eilistraee’s most coveted gift, a prize she had never wanted but couldn’t fathom being parted from. 

The only thing that made her special. 

Emmalara didn’t want her, she wanted her magic. Whether or not that was really true, Mazira didn’t know, but there was enough doubt to dampen her spirits.

“Thank you,” Mazira said again, in her mechanical way. “I will consider it.” Though even that probably wasn’t true. Wielding magic wasn’t the only thing a Songblade did. Sooner or later, they’d expect her to handle a sword, and that, she could never do.

And what would Rismyn think? He kept his snide comments to himself, but his stony expressions said enough. He hated religion. She didn’t think he hated Eilistraee, but he wasn’t keen on giving any part of himself over to a deity. Lolth’s followers had hurt him too deeply for him to recover from. Would he abandon her if she sought this future? 

Her fingers found their way back to her amethyst ring as she struggled to imagine how she could possibly even broach the subject without making him moody and surly. That in itself seemed an insurmountable task. 

Mother Lara’s keen attention dipped to the ring, then returned to Mazira’s face. “Do consider it,” she said, with a tone of finality. “The Order of Songblades has many roles. It is not only incense and temple worship. We are warriors of justice, vanquishers of evil, but not all battles are fought with blades. Sometimes a war is won with quiet, gentle service. We have many sister churches on the surface, if you change your mind about going there, missionaries whose work is to spread the message of Eilistraee’s liberation far and wide. And should you find yourself there with dark elven companions—” Her eyes flickered again to Mazira’s ring and she smiled, as though she knew exactly where it had come from, but misinterpreted the meaning—“all the better.” 

It couldn’t possibly be possible to blush as much as Mazira had in the last few minutes, yet here she was again, turning as red as the night in Launa. She whipped her hand away from the ring, trying to stammer something along the lines of, I don’t know what you mean, but all that came out was a garbled, unintelligible sound. 

Emmalara laughed, but somehow made it sound like she laughed with Mazira, not at her, though Mazira wasn’t laughing. “Speak with Solaurin if you decide to take part in the Serenade. He can help you take the next steps, and prepare for your Ordeal.” 

“Ordeal?” Mazira squeaked. That must have been spoken about while she was reliving her past torments. She was suddenly nervous, which was ridiculous, because she had already decided she wasn’t going to do it. What did an ordeal matter? 

“Yes, child. The Ordeal. It is—”

But whatever it was, Mazira didn’t find out. The door burst open to reveal a pale, out of breath Satara. 

“Reverend Mother, you’re needed at once,” she said.

All of Mother Lara’s serenity vanished as she leapt to her feet. “What is it?”

Satara’s eyes flicked to Mazira. “Just… Please come and see.”

Mother Lara nodded. “If you will excuse me,” she said to Mazira, before gliding smoothly to the door. 

And so Mazira was left alone, utterly confused, suffering a tumult of emotions. The dismissal shouldn’t have bothered her—who was she to know Launa’s secrets? She just lived here, she didn’t actually contribute to society, no matter what Mother Lara had implied about her unconventional calling. Satara had every right not to speak of whatever required the urgent attention of the Reverend Mother in front of her. 

And yet it did bother her. Further proof of her unworthiness, her weakness. She had already ruled becoming a true Songblade as an absurd possibility, but watching Satara and Emmalara go filled her with an unexplainable ache to want to be capable of more.

Resigned, Mazira gathered her things and looped her satchel over her shoulder. Nothing would be resolved by sulking here, and she had no desire to practice her spells. She would go wait in the courtyard for Rismyn to come walk home. 

Or Vaylan. 

Or both, though she cringed at the thought. 

Hopefully not both. She didn’t think she could handle the weight of their mutual animosity, the disdain they pretended didn’t exist, but lay like hidden asps in their overly polite conversation. It seemed the more she wanted them to be friends, the less they liked each other. 

Mazira huffed and moved to the door, finding her thoughts growing bleaker and bleaker. No sooner had she opened it, however, than a shadow fell over her. 

“There you are,” said Vaylan, and before Mazira could respond, he engulfed her in a tight embrace. “You can’t do that to me, I thought something had happened.” 

Mazira’s muscles locked and her skin tingled as though a bucket of spiders had been dumped over her, a sensation she was unfortunately well acquainted with. Her lungs seized the way they did right before panic took over, and when Vaylan stroked a hand over her hair—as Rismyn often did—she’d had too much. She pushed him away and stumbled back, clutching her chest.

Vaylan looked startled. “Mazira…? Was I wrong? Did something happen?” 

“Yes,” Mazira said, then shook her head. “I mean, no. Sorry. The Reverend Mother was just here, and I…” 

Vaylan took a step toward her, reaching for her hand.

Mazira pulled back, raising her satchel to her bosom. “S-sorry… Can we maybe… Not touch? Sometimes… sometimes my body doesn’t like it.”

Yet Mother Lara had just touched her. Stroked her hair, held her hands. She hadn’t reacted like this at all. Had her cycle turned grey that fast? 

Vaylan’s surprise morphed into concern. “I’m a little confused. Let’s start over. Are you okay? All your other classmates left but you never came out.”

Mazira took a steadying breath. Was she okay? Where did she even begin with that question? Technically, she was fine. Nothing was wrong with her, at least, nothing new. She was as depressing and useless as ever, and she had already grown tired of her own company. 

Vaylan would be tired of it, too. So she forced a reassuring smile and said, “Yes, thank you. I’m fine. I was delayed leaving because Mother Lara wanted to speak to me. I didn’t know you were waiting.” Which, come to think of it, was actually rather odd. The light wasn’t bright enough for those training at the Cove to be released yet. What was he doing here? 

“And the touching…?” Vaylan asked, still as cautious as a stalking cat.

Mazira grimaced, looking away. Why did he have to ask about that? She swallowed hard and willed her muscles to relax, trying not to appear as helpless as she felt. “Oh… that. It’s part of my recovery. I got so used to only being touched by those who hurt me that I guess my body just doesn’t know the difference anymore. It’s not all the time, and Solaurin says it will get better.” 

Vaylan narrowed his eyes, his skepticism evident. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d questioned something Solaurin had told her. “And how exactly does something like that get better?” 

Mazira shifted, not brave enough to admit she wasn’t sure. It had just been what she was told, but she suspected that answer wouldn’t be good enough for him. 

“I guess with time,” she said, glancing wistfully down the hall. She was more than ready to be moving on. “They said it would fade as I learned to trust again.” 

Vaylan scoffed, seeming in no hurry to walk back to the vestibule. “Time doesn’t heal anything,” he said, thrusting his hand at her. “Effort does. Here. Take my hand. I’ll help you re-learn how to feel.” 

Mazira stiffened, staring wide eyed at his linen-wrapped palm. “N-no, thank you.” She inched backward. “I told you, it’s not always like this. Really, I’m fine.” 

But Vaylan didn’t drop his hand. Instead, he took a step closer, brushing his knuckles down her arm. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said in a low, gentle voice. “I would never hurt you. See? This doesn’t hurt.” 

Someone pulled her hair, tracing a delicate finger around the scar on her chest.

Vaylan reversed the motion, his fingertips skimming the edge of her skin back to the sleeve of her tunic, and while he was absolutely right, it didn’t hurt, she staggered until her back hit a wall, triggering yet another memory. 

Rismyn pressed her against the wall of the ritual room, his lips trailing soft kisses down her throat. Kisses she didn’t want. Touches she hadn’t initiated. 

Mazira gasped, shaking the images away. Vaylan didn’t understand—and she was glad he didn’t understand—that gentleness could be violent. 

“Stop,” she demanded, though he hadn’t moved to pursue her the way Rismyn had all those years ago. Oh gods, why did that memory have to resurface now? She’d forgiven Rismyn, forgiven him. She’d even wondered what it might be like to relive those moments under sweeter, more consensual circumstances. Now her heart raced for all the wrong reasons, her gut churning with nausea. “Please. I’m not ready for that. I… I don’t want to be touched right now.” 

Vaylan’s eyes went wide, as though she had slapped him. Just like Rismyn’s had, when she rejected his unwanted touches. Mazira braced herself for the blow to come, wincing, but the pain never came.

Vaylan just clenched his jaw and looked away, crossing his arms. “Sorry. I only wanted to help.” 

His expression raked through her like a knife, more casualties of her inability to function properly. Mazira closed her eyes, imagining a spool of thread unwinding and willing her muscles to do the same. 

Relax.

Breathe. 

He hadn’t hit her. Of course he hadn’t hit her. No one hit her, not any more. She was safe now. Safe in Launa with people who cared about her. 

Several long, arduous seconds passed before the bulk of her trembling subsided. When she finally trusted her legs to hold her without the wall’s support, Mazira stepped toward him. “It’s not your fault,” she said, trying to ease his suffering. “It’s me… I’m the one who’s… broken. Weak.” 

Useless. 

Vaylan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tilting his head back to glare at the ceiling. For a moment, Mazira feared he was angry with her, which frightened her almost as much as the thought of being hit. 

Finally, he looked at her, his eyes blazing like molten gold. “You’re right. It’s not my fault. It’s his.” 

There was no need to ask who he was referring to. The demon of their mutual torment. The once unknown orchestrator of Vaylan’s sorrows, now given presence with the knowledge of his name. And though mentions of her former master usually made Mazira flinch, she was too relieved that his hate was directed elsewhere to care. 

As if trying to lighten the mood, Vaylan rubbed his shoulder and flashed her an easy smile. “And you’re not weak. Who told you that?” 

Mazira blinked, returning his smile with an uncertain one of her own. She brushed a hand through her curls, staring at the floor. “Well, no one.” At least, no one since she left Menzoberranzan. “But it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean…” she trailed off, looking from his hand to her own, then shaking her head. “I don’t… function… right.” 

Vaylan made a scoffing sound, then turned as though he was going to start walking down the hall. Mazira hurried to keep pace with him. “You function just fine,” he said, as they set off. “Just because you don’t always want to be touched doesn’t make you broken.” 

Mazira cast him a sideways glance, eyebrows raised. Hadn’t he just tried to tell her he was going to help her get over her touch aversion? And now he insisted she was fine? 

“Besides,” he added, “You’ve got magic. That’s more than most people around here can say, right? Last I checked, deities don’t hand out magic to weaklings, especially the drow ones.” 

Mazira’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked away. He hadn’t said anything she hadn’t already heard before, and up until a tenday ago, she would have taken comfort in the reminder of her magical abilities. Yet his words, so well meaning, left her feeling wretched.

She was a fraud. 

Magic didn’t make her strong. Whatever reasons Eilistraee had for giving her the abilities, it had nothing to do with her strength. She was a liar, a girl masquerading as an aspiring priestess, pretending to live out a calling that wasn’t really for her. 

Eilistraee couldn’t want her. Mazira didn’t even want herself. 

“Hey, I have an idea,” Vaylan said. “Why don’t I treat you to lunch at the Sunglow Tavern. To make up for being an ass.” 

“What?” Mazira blinked, startled from her reverie. “Oh, no, that’s okay. You weren’t an… ” she trailed off, clearing her throat. 

“Yeah I was,” Vaylan insisted, as they reached the temple entrance and passed from the vestibule to the colonnade. “And I won’t take no for an answer. If we hurry we’ll get there before the Bright White crowds.” 

Mazira tried to protest, glancing around for any sign of Rismyn waiting in the courtyard, but of course, he wasn’t there. It was still too early, which reminded her to ask what Vaylan was doing at the temple already. 

But Vaylan wouldn’t give her a straight answer. Not until she agreed to go with him to the Sunglow. In the end, they compromised. Mazira would go to an early lunch with Vaylan, he would finally answer her questions, and they would be sure to leave in time to meet Rismyn at the Cove right at Bright White. Everyone would win. 

Except her plans, as always, never manifested. When they reached the riverfront, where the Sunglow enjoyed prime placing as the first tavern weary sailors would see upon disembarking, they found a large crowd gathered around one of the docks. Not just people, either. Every cat in Launa seemed to be in attendance, though for what reason, Mazira couldn’t say. 

Yet she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. The ever-thrumming song of the city was rent by a shrill, soul-shredding shriek. 

Torafein’s hunting party had returned, but vengeance had not been met.

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.