Forsaken by Shadows 50: Aftershocks

~15. Aftershocks~

Mazira and Rismyn

Never in her life had Mazira heard such an awful, heart-harrowing sound as the cry from the midst of the crowd. It was misery manifest, the resonance of a cut soul. Nothing, not the night her parents died nor the recent news of the four Songblades, had sounded quite like this. 

Whispers raged and rippled from the source of the commotion, cat tails twitched and hackles raised. The crowd knit together into an impenetrable wall as everyone, Mazira included, tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on.

Speculation ran as wild as fire. Murmurs of an invasion, of enemy soldiers sieging from the shadows, of monsters devouring souls and leaving behind the flesh. The Mindflayers had organized an attack—no! It was clearly duergar. Who else would be so cruel? Ridiculous! Duergar didn’t come this far east. It had to be the monster, like Mother Lara said. 

On and on the conjecture went, peppered with fearful questions. What did it mean? What were they going to do? How could Eilistraee let such things happen? 

Mazira stood still and confused. She and Vaylan had arrived too late, so she couldn’t see what the spectacle was which caused such resounding sorrow, but her imagination soared with assumptions of the worst. More people were dead, that was certain. But who, and how, and why, she had no idea. She glanced at the throng around her, looking for a familiar face, someone she would feel brave enough to approach and ask what was going on, but everyone around her was a stranger. 

Until a voice called out behind her, firm and strong, and to Mazira’s ears, a welcome relief. 

“Make way for your Songblades.” 

Solaurin’s words boomed with an unnatural cadence, full of command. It sliced through the whispers and sent people scattering, clearing a path as effectively as river water loosed from a dam. Mazira spun around just in time to see him sweep past her, with three moth-wing robed women in his wake, marching toward the sound of the weeping.

Mazira followed. She didn’t even think about it. She just hurried after her benefactor, needing to feel the nearness of someone solid, someone who embodied authority. Someone who kept her safe. Vaylan called her name, but Mazira didn’t stop. Whether he followed her or not, she couldn’t say. Her attention was fixed solely on Solaurin, the Songblades, and the weeping someone just ahead. Behind her, the tides of people stitched back together and the whispers erupted again. 

Solaurin strode right past the edge of the crowd, straight onto the dock where no one else dared stand. Even his Songsisters hesitated to leave the gathering, their mouths falling open and eyes growing wide. When Mazira finally managed to squeeze beside them, she understood the reason for their surprise. 

Mother Lara was the weeper, hunched over a wide, dark canvas spread over the pier. She held herself and rocked back and forth as tears fell free and unhindered. Beside her stood Satara, who looked like she was completely at a loss for what to do. On the other side of the canvas stood a patrol of six warriors, as awkward as Satara. Rismyn would know them, but Rismyn wasn’t here. 

Solaurin didn’t waver. He went right up to the grieving priestess and knelt at her side, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. And though he spoke softly, Mazira was near enough that she caught his words. 

“Get up, Emma. Your city is watching.” 

Emma. His familiarity with the Reverend Mother was as jarring as her broken form, a stark contrast to the sure and soothing woman who, less than an hour ago, had invited Mazira to join the clergy. 

Mother Lara shook him off. “I don’t care. Let them see. This is all my fault.” A fresh wave of tears overcame her, and her words became unintelligible. 

Solaurin’s expression was grim and unmovable. “You cannot afford to give in to your grief now. You are Reverend Mother. There is work to be done. Grieve in the shadows, command in the light.” 

Mother Lara snapped her face up, her tear-stained eyes blazing with fury. “Black-hearted wretch!” she snarled. “No wonder you made such a good Matron’s pet. Do you not care that my children lay dead?” She shot to her feet, gesturing to the canvas. “Or that our people are in danger?” She waved toward the crowd, which fed off her anxiety, murmuring louder and glancing around. 

Solaurin rose to his full height as well, his eyes glinting with carefully controlled anger. A look Mazira hadn’t seen often, but scarcity made it all the more memorable. She winced, almost unable to watch. The Reverend Mother’s words had been aimed to harm, digging into wounds that were always fresh in Solaurin’s heart. 

Yet Solaurin’s tone remained even and neutral. “You know that I care,” he said. “But this…” His gaze drifted over the crowd, roving until he made eye contact with Mazira. His eyes widened ever so slightly, though what that meant, Mazira didn’t know. Was he unhappy to see her? 

She didn’t have time to read his expression before he returned his attention to Mother Lara. “This will incite panic, Emma. Your city needs your strength. Your command. Your control. You are an example for all of us to follow.” 

But Emmalara could not be reached. Her momentary flight of rage melted, and she covered her face, making that inhumanoid broken sound again. “My command is what got them killed. I never should have allowed them to go!” 

The weight of her sorrow seemed too much for her. She started to collapse, and she didn’t fight Solaurin when he caught her, but leaned into him instead, clutching his fine silk doublet and weeping into his shoulder. 

Solaurin looked to Satara, who just stared at him, and something hardened in his eyes. 

“Caloyn!” he barked, and the captain of the patrol straightened. “Bring our fallen back to the temple. Send some of your soldiers to find their families.” 

Caloyn didn’t hesitate. He issued his own orders and two of his warriors separated, the crowd parting to allow them to hurry into the city. The others moved back toward one of the boats, speaking of stretchers and how best to move so many bodies.

Bodies. That was what was hidden beneath the canvas. It had been obvious, of course, but Mazira had needed time for her shock to subside long enough for the connection to be made. She inhaled sharply, suddenly unable to look at the cloth which concealed the misshapen forms. One of which, her mind teased malevolently, was probably Torafein. 

Solaurin didn’t spare the patrol a second glance. “Satara,” he ordered next, making the priestess jump. “Find the Council members, tell them we must meet at once—”

“No!” Emmalara said, surfacing from where she had buried her face, her spark of rage rekindled. “No. No more Council meetings. We will do as I said we ought to from the start—summon the mercenaries. I will lose no more of my children!” 

For the first time since arriving, Solaurin looked uncertain. He glanced at Satara, then the other Songblades, as though he actually considered leading a mutiny against the high priestess. 

“Emma…” he murmured, but Mother Lara stiffened in his arms, eyes boring into his. 

“I am Reverend Mother,” she seethed. “You said it yourself. Summon. Bregan. D’Aerthe.” 

Her order was met with astonished whispers, the crowd growing more restless by the minute. Mazira found herself being jostled as some tried to back away, while others tried to move in to hear more, and in the midst of all of it, a hand came down on her shoulder. 

Mazira jumped, gasping. She turned to see her assailant and found herself face to face with Rismyn. Her relief was palpable, even as Vaylan glared at him—and his hand on her shoulder—from her other side. 

“What’s going on,” Rismyn asked, ignoring Vaylan. Behind him stood a Do’ar twin, probably Beltel, if she had to guess. Belnir and the rest of the Riser Patrol were supposed to be in the Market District, on their first patrol with their new recruits. 

Which meant Rismyn shouldn’t have been here. He should’ve been at the Cove, training beginner students as agreed. What was he doing here? 

On second thought, Mazira didn’t care. He was here, and that was all that mattered. 

“I don’t know,” she said, glancing back to the drama unfolding on the dock. “But I think Torafein might be dead…” 

Rismyn looked like he’d been punched, and the twin’s expression morphed into denial. 

“No way,” he said, and his tone gave him away as Beltel. “Nothing kills Torafein Xarrin. He’s as certain as the cavern ceiling.” 

“Very well,” came Solaurin’s voice, interrupting their conversation. He still held Emmalara in his arms, as though if he let her go, she would fall to pieces. “Satara, please, still summon the Council.” Then, softer, just for Mother Lara and those near enough to hear, he added, “I will contact the mercenaries before they gather. But they must gather if you want to remain Reverend Mother.”

Emmalara seemed to accept this, just as she seemed to accept that Solaurin had taken charge. Satara, however, looked to struggle with whether or not to take the order. She glanced between Solaurin, who had already moved on from her, and Mother Lara, before finally striding away, presumably to do as she was bid. 

Solaurin looked the gathering over as though they were inventory he was cataloging. “Chasma, Nia’lyn, help the Starlight Patrol with our fallen.” 

Two of the Songblades who had come with him peeled away from the crowd, needing no second invitation. 

“Captain Do’ar,” Solaurin ordered next. “Go to the Gatehouse. Tell them to issue the All-Back, on my authority.” He pulled a gold ring from his left hand and tossed it to Beltel. “Contain everyone on the docks. Let no one back into the city until their identity has been thoroughly tested. Do not open the gates to anyone without the express command of the Council once all our patrols have returned.” 

“Yes, sir,” Beltel said, so sober Mazira doubted her assumptions about his identity. He was gone in an instant, off to obey his orders. 

“Rismyn—” Solaurin narrowed his eyes. “With me. The rest of you—” he raised his voice, and magic made it boom. “Return to your business, or await more information at the temple. You have all witnessed a terrible tragedy, the breaking of horrible news. I would ask you not to spread rumors, yet I know that will be fruitless. So when you speak of what you have seen, remember this: Your Reverend Mother cares for each of you as her own sons and daughters, and she weeps as any bereft mother would for Launa’s fallen. Do not look upon her tears as weakness, but as molten mithril which, once cooled, forges the strongest mail and sharpest blades. Do not begrudge her this grief. Your Reverend Mother fights for you and defends you as ferociously as the she-wolf cares for her young or the raptor guards her brood. This cycle has drawn from us an excruciating wound, but we are not children cowering in the dark. Look around you, and see the light which bleeds through every shadow. There is no darkness so deep that a candle cannot extinguish it. We do not yet know the full extent of what has become of our warriors, but we will. And by the silver light of Maiden we serve, we will extinguish the evil that dares to assault our doors.” 

The crowd erupted in hearty ascent. Not quite a cheer, but not quite listless, either. A grim acknowledgement of Solaurin’s words, which had quieted their brewing panic and grounded them back in hope. To Mazira’s astonishment, they actually began to disperse, most of them moving down the street in the direction of the temple. 

Rismyn went forward to attend to Solaurin, but Mazira stood rooted to the spot. 

“C’mon, let’s go,” Vaylan said, reaching to take her hand and presumably tug her along. 

Before his skin made contact, Mazira drew back, her own flesh prickling with dread. Again? Why was it just Vaylan whose touch she cringed from? Had she not just been pressed in a crowd? Had Rismyn’s hand not just lingered on her shoulder? 

Whatever, now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. She ignored Vaylan’s request, watching Rismyn go.

Her feet twitched to follow after him, to be of some use to Solaurin and the Reverend Mother. She didn’t quite fully understand what was happening, but what were emotionally broken girls good for, if not serving with a clear head in the midst of tragedy? If anything, this was her time to thrive. It couldn’t be much worse than waking up chained to Toloruel’s wall every day. 

But Solaurin hadn’t asked for her. He’d only asked for Rismyn. Mazira had been dismissed with the crowd, as though she were yet another face that didn’t matter. 

Her heart sank, and she told herself to go with Vaylan, who was still trying to get her attention, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her people were hurting, and she desperately wanted to contribute. 

Gritting her teeth, Mazira steeled her courage and started walking. Not with the crowd, but toward her people. It couldn’t hurt to ask, right? There must be something she could do. 

Mother Lara was in the process of finding her own feet, separating herself from Solaurin as she wiped her tears with the sleeve of her golden gown. Solaurin let her go slowly, his hands lingering on her waist, perhaps to be near in case she collapsed again. 

Rismyn and Mazira stood back, to allow them a moment of private conversation, or at least, the illusion of one.

“That was a fine speech,” Mother Lara said, scrubbing at her cheek. “Thank you, Solaurin.” 

She sounded genuinely grateful, yet Solaurin arched an eyebrow, finally letting her go so he could cross his arms over his chest. “I would expect no less from a Matron’s pet.” 

Emmalara blanched, an expression unsuitable for her usually serene composure. “Ah… yes. About that. I am… sorry. I should not have said such things. I was not in my right mind.” Her eyes flicked to the canvas and welled with fresh tears.

“No. You should not have,” Solaurin agreed, but then his stern expression softened. No, more than softened. It became warm and tender, like embers in a hearth beneath the breath of life. “But you said nothing that was untrue. I have already forgiven you.” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed away her leaking tears.

Mazira’s jaw almost hit the deck. Was she… was she seeing what she thought she was seeing? Blinking as though in a daze, she glanced at Rismyn, who caught her eye. 

He looked from her to the clerics, who still stood quite close, though Mother Lara had taken over the task of wiping her own tears, then back to Mazira, before waggling his eyebrows. 

Mazira clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her smile, because right here, right now, was exactly the wrong moment to smile. Not while her heart still pounded with dread and dead bodies lay beneath the canvas, while Emmalara put herself back together and Solaurin relinquished his borrowed command. 

Yet she couldn’t help it. In the midst of this dark and horrible moment, when everything was bleak and uncertain, she’d not only thought she glimpsed something beautiful, but had also shared the conspiracy with Rismyn, who, through his own expression, indicated he’d seen it, too. 

Of all the secrets they carried between them, this was by far the sweetest one, a welcome relief. 

Solaurin seemed to recall himself, stepping back from Mother Lara and beckoning Rismyn to him, brusque and businesslike once more. “Ah, Rismyn. Good. I need you to bring me some things from home. My robes of office, and my seal from the safe, since the Do’ar boy took my signet—was that Belnir? Please tell me it was Belnir.” 

“It was Beltel.” 

Solaurin groaned. “If you cross paths with him, get my signet back. And send my apprentices home. Plan to stay with me for the rest of the Cycle. It’s going to be an arduous White Light. I will need an aid.” 

“Yes, sir,” Rismyn said, as though Solaurin was his captain. He started to go, then paused, glancing at Mazira as though to ask if she were coming.

Mazira took a breath. “S-Solaurin,” she said, hooking her hands behind her back. “M-mother Lara… is there something I can do to help?” 

The priest and priestess exchanged looks, and Mazira read the answer before Solaurin spoke it.

“Nothing for now, dear child,” Solaurin said. “Go home with Rismyn, or wait at the temple with the others. We will announce everything to the city when we know what to say.” 

Mazira’s heart plunged beneath the surface of the river. She nodded, growing numb, and turned to follow Rismyn up the dock, where Vaylan waited for her. The drow and the sun elf barely acknowledged each other, but Mazira hardly noticed. She was too busy fighting the shadows away from her heart. 

She really was useless. She couldn’t even help the dead. Her eyes stung as she wondered who lay beneath that canvas, and considered how helpless she was to do anything. Solaurin had once sung Belnir back from the grave, but even he wasn’t a god. All her magic, all her powers, and all her perfectly skewed inability to feel correctly, and she wasn’t strong enough to serve. 

She let Rismyn turn off toward their home alone, telling him she wanted to wait at the temple. Vaylan walked with her as they joined the herd of people moving through the Market District as word of the tragedy spread throughout the cavern, but it wasn’t long before she slipped away from him as well. She needed to be alone, and he wouldn’t understand. 

So she vanished into anonymity, just another face in a faceless crowd. 

—

Solaurin wasn’t wrong. The White Light was arduous, and so was Orange and Red. By the time Rismyn was released from his service as the priest’s errand boy, he was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained, which combined with physical fatigue to make him all around miserable. 

Between delivering messages and checking the status of the returning patrols being screened at the wall, Rismyn had been sent all over Launa more times than he could count. He’d stood outside the door when Solaurin and Satara delivered the hard news to the families of the fallen, doors that weren’t thick enough to smother the cries of grief. He’d endured the heat of the Council, much of which had been aimed at Solaurin for choosing to obey an order of which they did not approve, and for seizing command out of turn. Satara was supposed to be Mother Lara’s second, not Solaurin, and Rismyn heard about it all in great detail. 

But at last it was done. Over. Settled. Bregan D’Aerthe had been summoned, all of the patrols had returned safely, with no imposters found among them, and no one was allowed to leave the city until this nightmare was over. 

At least everyone now knew what Rismyn knew. The warriors and Songblades had been murdered by drow. The secret was no longer kept. The burden of his eavesdropping had been released. 

Rismyn trudged home alone, the light burning toward Deep Crimson, an eerie silence haunting his steps. It was the first cycle in all his cycles in Launa that there hadn’t been an Evensong. The Council had been too busy screaming at each other for Mother Lara to get away. Though Rismyn loathed the ceremony on principle of loathing all religious ceremonies, he had to admit it didn’t feel right, not having one. 

Ti’yana was outside when he finally reached the weaver’s street, pacing the courtyard. She didn’t wait for him to get to the house, but hurried to meet him on the road.

“Finally! I’ve been worried sick about you. Is father alright? What about Mazira?”

Rismyn blinked slowly, his tired mind struggling to keep up with the flow of her words. “Depends on how you define alright,” he said, with a note of bitterness in his tone. If Rismyn had learned anything about the day, it was that he would never get involved in politics. “But he is physically well and planning to stay the whole Red Light at the temple just in case he is needed. Sent me home to… Wait…” Rismyn froze. “What do you mean Mazira? Isn’t she here with you?” 

Ti’yana looked startled, glancing around the empty street as if Mazira would materialize out of thin air. “What? No. I haven’t seen her since our music class. I thought she was with you.” 

“I thought she’d gone to the temple to wait for information,” Rismyn said. He was suddenly wide awake and looking around as well, but the street was empty. “That’s what she said she was going to do.”

“No… I mean, she might have been there? The courtyard was pretty full, but…” Ti’yana shook her head. “Me and the other students were helping the Songblades quiet fears and give counsel. I never saw her.” 

Concern turned to fear as adrenaline flooded his veins, which, after the cycle he’d had, was impressive. He didn’t think he could muster any more adrenaline. Yet it was like he’d fallen from a high cavern and forgotten how to levitate.

“It’s probably nothing,” Ti’yana said, a little too cheerfully. “She’s probably just with Vaylan.” 

If Ti’yana had meant to comfort him, her words had the opposite effect. Now, in addition to the liquid fear pumping through his heart, Rimsyn had to contend with the sharp, eviscerating slice of raw, primal jealousy. He tried not to react, tried not to bare his teeth or glare, but it was difficult. He managed to avoid the former by clenching his jaw, but a muscle spasm gave him away. 

“Sorry,” Ti’yana said quickly. “I know you don’t like him. It’s just that, well, we were both busy, and you know how she hates to be home alone.” 

“I don’t dislike Vaylan,” Rismyn said, in a tone so neutral he might as well have shouted and raged for all the convincing it did. 

Ti’yana just looked at him, skepticism written all over her features. 

“I don’t,” Rismyn insisted. “He’s a fine… er… elf…”

An elf who grated on him like sand against stone, who managed to find every crack in Rismyn’s patience and worm his way inside. He’d never met a more vexing individual in his life, and the only interaction Rismyn wanted was to duel him again, to teach him what it really meant to be an artist of the sword…

No, no. Those were drow thoughts. He didn’t think like that anymore. The sun elf was important to Mazira, so Rismyn was going to be nice to him, gods help him. 

He shook his head to banish the dark thoughts, and realized then that Ti’yana was staring at him. Oh no… How much of his hate had played out on his face? 

Apparently enough. “You know you don’t have to like him,” Ti’yana said, in a soothing voice generally reserved for cats and small children. 

Rismyn did glower this time. Easy for her to say. She wasn't hopelessly in love with Mazira. “Look, it’s late,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m going to go look for Mazira. Just in case.” 

Thankfully, Ti’yana didn’t press him. “I’ll help,” she said. “Oh! Wait here.” She dashed back to the house and vanished inside. A moment later, she returned, handing Rismyn a pebble with an old elvish rune carved on it, the symbol for harmony. “It’s a sending stone. But it only works once a cycle, so only use it to let me know if you find her. I’ll check with Vaylan and you check the temple, and we’ll go from there.” 

Rismyn marveled at the little stone, a magic item he had heard of but never seen. They were uncommon items, and expensive. But then, Solaurin owned all manner of expensive things. Why shouldn’t he have sending stones? 

“Thanks,” Rismyn said, and he meant it. Ti’yana was saving him the trouble of having to deal with Vaylan twice in one cycle. After the Blue Light they’d had at the Cove… 

Again, Rismyn shook his head. Far more important things had happened since Vaylan’s tantrum earlier, the one that resulted in him storming off the sand, quitting the Militia after only a tenday’s worth of bare minimum effort. The fact that he left on the same cycle that Rismyn was introduced as a temporary instructor in his class was hardly lost on Rismyn, and only infuriated him more, and not just because he knew it meant the golden elf would be slinking off to find Mazira. 

And there he went again, ruminating on the least important part of the cycle, while Mazira was missing and evil drow stalked their borders. Rismyn ground his teeth and bade Ti’yana farewell, veering off toward the temple while Ti’yana went back to the river, where the boarding house for visitors was. 

Time wore away, marked by the deepening red hues. Rismyn searched the temple inside and out, to absolutely no avail. Mazira hadn’t been in the practice rooms or the crystalline courtyard surrounding the building. In a moment of desperation, Rismyn tried asking the felines lounging about for help. They’d just looked at him with unnerving eyes, completely uninterested in his words. So much for Ardyn’s claim that the cats were intelligent. 

His anxiety grew by the minute as he left the temple grounds and headed to the Garden Cavern. He spent the better part of an hour wandering the winding paths betwixt exotic flora, completely uninterested in the beauty blossoming around him as he once again failed to find the person he sought. 

Where could she be? By now, Ti’yana should have made it to the boarding house and reported if she’d found Mazira with Vaylan, but the sending stone remained silent. He was beginning to fear something was dreadfully wrong, having to repeat to himself over and over that Launa was safe to keep from panicking. 

Leaving the Garden Caverns, Rismyn made for the market, prepared to make his way systematically through every single alley, when he rounded a corner and nearly walked right into Belnir and Kilia, dressed for patrolling and armed with singing swords. 

“Rismyn?” Belnir said, looking mildly surprised. His hand had gone to the hilt of his sword, an unusual display of paranoia, especially within city walls. “What are you doing here? It’s nearly Deep Crimson.” 

“Ah—sorry,” Rismyn said. “I’m just… out walking.” The lie was chosen at the last moment. Silly, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being overly paranoid. Mazira was probably fine, and he didn’t want to alarm his friends unnecessarily. “How’s Ardyn?” he asked instead. 

Kilia and Belnir exchanged grim looks. 

“Beltel’s keeping an eye on him,” Benir said. “In case he gets any ideas.” 

Rismyn hesitated, considering who it was who had suggested the eavesdropping escapade, and had been advocating for bar fights before that. “Is Beltel… the best option for that?” 

Belnir smiled, though it was tinged with weariness. “My brother is reckless, but not stupid. He’ll make sure Ardyn doesn’t follow through on his threats. Besides, Lina is with him. He has to behave.” 

“That,” said the sea elf, “and after the amount of liquor we poured down his throat at the Overdark, I don’t think Ardyn will be conscious for three more cycles. He’ll need a whole tenday to recover from the hangover. Plenty of time for his fire to cool.”

“We practice healthy coping mechanisms here in Launa,” Belnir added, completely deadpan. 

Rismyn’s lips twitched in a smile, though he was somewhat distracted. He’d been there when Ardyn released his outrage on the Council, virulent enough that the gloam-drow had needed to be forcibly removed from the hall. A sight Rismyn hoped to never see again. Ardyn had all of his father’s prowess with none of his self-control. He’d wanted to take that storm out into the Wilds, and the Council had adamantly refused him.

But Ardyn wasn’t his problem at the moment. Rismyn moved to sidestep his comrades, already considering his next steps. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your patrol,” he said. “Remember, if you need me—” 

“Rismyn,” Belnir said, holding out an arm to bar his path. He regarded Rismyn with a look that implied he knew more than he let on. “You should consider taking your walk by Eilistraee’s Sacred Pools.” 

Rismyn raised his brows, not sure at first what Belnir meant. It was an odd, out of the blue (or red, at this hour) suggestion. But as Belnir continued to stare at him, his intensity suggesting Rismyn ought to understand, it finally clicked. Belnir was his captain, but he was also his friend. He knew exactly why Rismyn was out walking so late.

“You’ve seen her, then?” Rismyn asked, both relieved and ashamed. He should have trusted his friends with the truth. 

“Seen who?” Belnir asked, the picture of innocence. “I’ve seen lots of people today, though only one in particular swore me to secrecy and scurried off toward the pools. That was several hours ago, though. Who’s to say what became of her since?”

It wasn’t much, but it was more of a lead than Rismyn had, though why she would have sworn Belnir secrecy, he didn’t understand. It wouldn’t do any good to ask, though, if she had. Not even Beltel would break such an oath. So instead, he asked a question just as important, one Belnir might be free to answer. “Was she alone?” 

Belnir tried to cover a smirk, but he didn’t do it well. “Last time I saw her, yes.” 

Was it wrong that that tidbit gave him more relief than the initial lead? Probably. For Mazira’s sake, it would have been better if she’d had the company Rismyn despised. But if she’d chosen to forgo it, well, he couldn’t help but feel a little glee at the sun elf’s expense. “Thank you,” Rismyn said, before bidding them farewell. 

Though Rismyn was intellectually aware of where the sacred pools of Eilistraee lay, he’d never actually been to the cavern itself. Remote and dark, it was the only non-illuminated cavern in all of Launa. He didn’t know of any rule that forbade him from going there, but it was a space reserved for Songblade business, whatever that was. More than enough reason to keep him away. 

But if Mazira was there, alone, at this time of light, there wasn’t a rule strong enough to keep Rismyn from going to her. 

At last he reached the edge of the light, the black cavern of the pools looming ominously over him, a steep uphill climb. Rismyn hesitated, as an unexpected weight settled over his shoulders. 

Maybe he should think twice before charging into this sacred space. He might not care for goddesses in general, but one didn’t have to like a goddess to be smote. He glanced around, unable to shake the feeling that in the last dregs of crimson light, someone was watching him. 

“I’m just going to check on my friend,” Rismyn said, though his voice was barely a whisper. 

What was wrong with him? There was no one here, and goddesses didn’t just hang around waiting to punish people who tread where they ought not tread.

Yet still the unease lingered, like cold hands running down his spine. 

“You know, Mazira,” he continued, in the same hushed tone. “You saved her, remember? You must care about what happens to her.” 

Silence. After a year of being bathed in music, it was unsettling. 

This was ridiculous. Steeling his nerves, Rismyn trudged up the hill and into the cavern. 

The first thing he noticed was that he had been wrong. The cavern wasn’t dark at all. It sloped as sharply downward on the inside as it had sloped upward outside, and at the bottom was the pool. More like a lake, really, though not as vast as Lake Donigarten on the edge of Menzoberranzan. And though it was true that no enchanted light of Launa’s design illuminated the shadows, the lake itself shimmered with a pale, silvery glow. The light made his soul ache, like the vision he had seen the first time he met Solaurin and had been healed by Eilistraee’s song. 

Rismyn shuddered, and then saw her. Silhouetted against the glimmering scenery was Mazira’s unmistakable form, perched on a boulder. 

The weight, the longing, the mysterious ache the silver light evoked, all vanished as Rismyn’s heart leapt into his throat. He started downward, making no attempt at stealth. “Mazira!” he called, then cringed, because it felt like some sort of sin to break the peace. 

Mazira tensed so violently he could see it, even from a distance. She was on her feet, spinning around, her eyes glinting as her infrared vision flared. Her hand went to her chest and her shoulders sagged. “Oh… Rismyn…” 

She’d spoken softly, perhaps feeling the solemnity of the cavern the way he did. 

Rismyn hurried, almost tripping over his feet as the rock beneath him turned to loose gravel. He somehow managed to keep himself up right, coming to a graceless halt before accidentally knocking into her. Her pale skin seemed to shine as bright as the sacred waters, and there was no mistaking it; she had been crying. Her cosmetics gave her away, deep rivulets of dark charcoal streaking from her lashes to her chin. 

“Mazira…” he said, for lack of anything better to say. He held out his arms to her, and to his great regret, she just looked at him, then shook her head. He dropped his arms helplessly to his side. “It’s late, Zira. We were worried.” 

Oh, right. We. Rismyn fished the sending stone from his pocket and put it to his lips, whispering the command words before murmuring, “I’ve got her.” The stone warmed in his hand, then cooled rapidly. He dropped it back in his pocket. 

Mazira rubbed at her cheek, smearing the line of charcoal into her rouge. “I’m sorry. I know I s-should have come home. I just…” 

Oh, no. Why had he started with we-were-so-worried? Of course she would feel that like a knife. What was he thinking? “Hey, it’s alright,” he said. “You’re safe, that’s what matters.” 

Mazira sniffled, making a valiant effort to hold back tears. “What about everyone else? I didn’t hear the news. Is Torafein really…?” 

Rismyn held his breath. Now that he was here, he didn’t want to tell her. What would the information do to her fragile happiness? But he couldn’t keep it from her, either. Everyone else in Launa knew. He couldn’t protect her from this. 

So he released his breath and told her. “Seven of the soldiers who went with Torafein on his Hunt were found in the Lirdvin by the Starlight Patrol,” he began. “Torafein and a Songblade name Crysla were not among them. We don’t know if they just…” 

Rismyn hesitated. The bodies, he had learned, had been tied to funguswood to keep them afloat, guaranteeing they would be found. A gruesome message. Mazira didn’t really need to know all the details. “We don’t know if they just weren’t found, or if they are still out there, or if they are… prisoners.” 

Mazira’s face remained stoic. “I see,” she said. 

“The city is on lockdown,” Rismyn continued. “No one in or out, well, I guess except for the mercenaries. They’ll be here in two cycles. I’m not entirely sure what all they’ll be doing, but it sounds like anything that needs to happen outside the wall, Bregan D’Aerthe will be seeing to it.” 

And oh, how Commander Anders had fumed. Apparently the only thing more insulting than the Council implying that it was the Militia’s job to die for Launa’s greater good was robbing them of the opportunity of doing so. Rismyn cringed at the memory of the dwarf’s sharp words, while Mazira listened impassively. 

Now was the moment where he needed to say something comforting, especially since he couldn’t comfort her in the only way he knew how. Since their childhood, hugs had been the language of commiseration, but now her healing had robbed them of that. Somehow, the process of getting better had made so many other things worse. 

“It’s drow, isn’t it?” Mazira asked, before he could think of anything to say. “Our people are being killed by drow.” 

Rismyn exhaled slowly, watching for signs of her imminent crumbling, the way Mother Lara had crumbled on the docks. But it was no use lying. The whole city knew. “Yes. Or, so we believe.” 

Mazira nodded, her expression stalwart in solemnity. “Thank you for telling me.” She moved around the boulder and leaned against it, staring out at the lake. It was only as she moved that Rismyn noticed Mazira wasn’t actually alone out here, after all. Luminous silver eyes stared at him as Silverpaw twitched her tail, previously hidden behind Mazira’s form. 

Great. Rismyn wrinkled his nose at the beast, and the tiny monstrosity had the audacity to chirp at him, gazing with an unblinking stare that felt an awful lot like judgment.  

Rismyn stared right back, defiant. 

“Rismyn,” Mazira began, startling him from his doomed staring contest. “How did you find me?”

“Ahhh…” he said, moving to stand beside the boulder, feeling only slightly foolish for letting the cat get to him. “Belnir dropped a hint.” When Mazira shot him a wide-eyed look, Rismyn quickly went on. “He didn’t tell me anything, though. Not really. Didn’t even tell me you were the person who swore him to secrecy… I mean… maybe that wasn’t you at all, I don’t know. He didn’t betray anyone’s confidence.” 

Mazira shook her head, stemming the flow of his babbling. “N-no, it was me. I met him in the market earlier. I asked him for help because… because…” she broke off with a shuddering breath, then took another, steadier breath, before pivoting to look Rismyn in the eye. “Rismyn, I want to be a Songblade.” 

Rismyn blinked. Whatever he had been expecting Mazira to say, it wasn’t that. She’d said it so emphatically, like he’d been arguing with her about it when the thought had never once entered his mind. 

He shifted, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” 

“Will you… will you help me?” She turned away, reaching behind her to retrieve an item her body had been shielding. Straightening, she held it out with trembling hands. “Will you teach me to use this?” 

It was a sword. Sleek and gleaming, with an ivory-inlaid hilt and a white sheathe trimmed in rose gold, completely impractical coloring for Underdark purposes, but stunning nonetheless. Yet it wasn’t the intricate design of the guard or the metalwork on the scabbard that Rismyn marveled at. 

It was a sword. And she clearly hated it. But she held it out to him nonetheless. 

“Mazi…” he began, but got no further. 

“Songblades are called Songblades because they sing and they wield swords,” Mazira said, and something about her words sounded rehearsed. “I can already song. But I can’t blade.” Her trembling became quaking. “I know Mother Lara said they make exceptions but… I’m tired of being afraid, Rismyn. I’m tired of being weak and helpless and useless and having everyone cater to my needs. I just want…” her voice broke. “I just want to be strong, for once. To give back. To do what you do.” 

Rismyn didn’t move. Mazira shook like turbulent river rapids, pale and tearstained and utterly wretched, but the last word he would have ever used to describe her was weak. And yet… had he himself not feared to tell her the truth about what lurked outside their walls? Had he not feared what would happen to her if she knew evil drow were coming close? He’d known long before the rest of Launa, and had kept it from her. She, whom he loved, and wanted nothing kept back from. 

Of course Mazira thought she was weak, because people like him treated her like she was. 

Shame engulfed him. How could he have fed into that false narrative? Well, no more. Never again. Rismyn reached out his hands and clasped the sword, steadying her grip. “I would be honored to teach you,” he said. 

Mazira opened her mouth, then paused, her look of determination becoming wonder. “Wait… really?” In complete contrast to her previous declaration, she sounded small. 

Rismyn’s lips cracked into a smile. “Of course. Honestly, there’s nothing I’d love more.” Sharing his passion with the woman he was most passionate about? Maybe the Songblades were onto something. This radiant lake was special. 

Mazira stared at him a beat longer, and then her expression crumpled as fresh tears welled in her eyes. She let go of the sword and covered her face, curling in on herself, and all the excitement that had started to build in Rismyn evaporated. 

“Mazi, what’s wrong? What did I say?” He set the sword aside on the boulder and moved to put his hands on her shoulders, before thinking better of it. With nowhere to anchor his palms, he waved them in little frantic circles instead. 

“N-nothing,” said Mazira, surfacing from her deluge and smearing more of her cosmetics with her sleeve. “It’s just… I thought you were going to be mad. I thought you were going to try and talk me out of it, or t-tell me that I’m not weak and I should just be happy with my magic and not bother with swords.” 

“What? Why would I say that?” Mercy, how was he supposed to comfort her without touching her? “If this is what you want, of course I’m going to help you get it.” 

“But you hate Eilistraee,” she said between sobs, and Rismyn flinched. Something just didn’t feel right about her uttering that phrase in this particular cavern. 

“I do not,” he said, and at least it was more convincing than when he’d declared he didn’t hate Vaylan. “She saved our lives.” Allegedly. “I just… I don’t know. It’s complicated. But just because I don’t feel like singing songs or petting cats—no offense”—he glanced at Silverpaw, who was purring contentedly as she watched the drama unfold—“Doesn’t mean I’m against you doing it. Solaurin’s a Songblade and I don’t hold that against him.” 

Mazira was now full-on hiccuping, but her tears had ceased flowing. For now. “That’s not what Songblades do…”

“I know,” Rismyn said, waving away her complaint. “I was being… nevermind. The point is, I want to help you. And not just with this. With anything, everything you want. I’m always going to support you. Can I… can I please hug you? I literally don’t know how else to make things better.”

At least that got Mazira to laugh, though her breaths were still shuddering. “I don’t know,” she said. She straightened and closed her eyes, and he could tell she was focusing on her breathing. “I thought I was fine but when Vaylan touched me earlier…” 

Vaylan did what? 

“I reacted.” She shook her head. “But other people have touched me today and I haven’t reacted.”

Okay, that was better.

“Belnir helped me pick out my sword, and he measured me, and I was fine.” 

And now he had two elves to be jealous of. 

But he supposed he couldn’t truly fault Mazira for seeking Belnir’s advice. Like everyone in Launa, the patrol captain also worked a trade, and his trade happened to be blacksmithing. Which meant Mazira’s sword was probably more than just flashy. 

“Well how about this,” Rismyn said, sternly reminding himself that he liked Belnir immensely. “I’ll give you a hug, and you punch me if you’re still in grey-mode.” 

Again, Mazira laughed, and she nodded her ascent. 

Rismyn folded her in his arms, and when after a moment she returned his embrace, he relaxed completely. Everything in the world just felt right when he held her, despite how not-right it all really was. 

He waited until her breathing returned to normal before letting her go. Mazira’s face had become a patchwork of streaks and blotches, a tapestry of her raw emotion, and Rismyn couldn’t help himself. He smiled and brushed her hair from her eyes. “You know you’re beautiful, right?” 

The words escaped his heart before his brain had a chance to vet them, and he blanched as soon as he realized what he said. With everything going on, he’d decided not to tell Mazira his feelings. The phrase you’re beautiful and I love you were synonymous to him, and for one, horrible moment, he feared Mazira knew it. 

To make matters worse, her eyes sparkled once more. Could he be any more awful at this? Her hands went to her face, and then she looked at them, tinted by her running charcoal. 

Mazira turned the most lovely shade of pink dashed to the water's edge. “Liar!” she cried as she went. “Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my stars, I bet I look like a raccoon.” 

Rismyn had no idea what a raccoon was, but if it looked anything like Mazira, it must be adorable. He laughed as he followed her to the shore, where she furiously splashed water on her face. He dropped down beside her and caught her wrist, placing a handkerchief in her hand, fully appreciating Solaurin’s insistence that all gentlemen carried a spare handkerchief. 

Mazira snatched the cloth and rubbed at her eyes. Rismyn almost asked if it was a crime to use Eilistraee’s sacred waters for face cleansing, but caught himself at the very last moment. That would definitely send Mazira back into a panic. 

For the next few minutes, he forgot about the terrible cycle they’d endured, the heavy weight of sorrow and the fear for Torafein’s life. He forgot about Ardyn raging that he would find his father and the mercenaries scheduled to arrive in two cycles. He just sat beside Mazira, advising the scouring of her skin until she was completely devoid of paints—the way he preferred her.

After he finally convinced her she looked fine, Mazira fell silent. The companionable kind, and Rismyn didn’t have the heart to break it, though it must have been well past Deep Crimson by now. They sat together for a while longer, eventually joined by the wretched feline, before Mazira spoke.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, gazing out over the lake. “Mistress Oholia says the light of the moon shines through these waters, ebbing and flowing with the cycle above. That’s how the priestesses keep track of time. It must be a full moon tonight, up there.” 

Rismyn stared at the water with new fascination. “I didn’t know that.” 

“She also said that sometimes, Eilistraee visits her people here.” Mazira lay her head on his shoulder, and Rismyn stiffened, his heartbeat quickening. “That’s why I came here. I was hoping she would meet me. I wanted to ask her… ah, nevermind. It’s not important.” 

Should he put his arm around her? Or lean his head against hers? 

“I’m sorry she didn’t come,” Rismyn said, doing nothing at all. 

Mazira breathed deeply. “I don’t know. I think… maybe she did come. Just not the way I expected. And that’s okay.” The cat, which had curled on her lap, rumbled appreciatively. “Rismyn?” Mazira sat up straighter, and Rismyn lost his chance to do anything, cursing his hesitation inwardly. “Do you really think I’m weak?” 

Rismyn glanced at her, surprised by the question. He was certain he had never said as much, even if his behavior had reinforced the notion. “What makes you ask?” 

“Well it’s just… you didn’t deny it. Everyone else tells me it’s not true, but I know it is. You’re the first person not to, and I just… Well, I am glad. I didn’t want to be lied to. But I guess… I was also hoping you’d deny it, too.” 

He couldn’t win. He spoke when he shouldn’t and he stayed silent when it was wrong. Unbelievable. 

Throwing all caution to the shadows, Rismyn swiveled to face her, gently cupping her cheeks in both of his hands. She tensed, but didn’t flinch. 

“Listen to me, Mazira Zylvaris,” Rismyn said, gazing into her eyes. “No one else in this world knows you better than I do. No one else has seen the hell you’ve walked through. No one else knows the demon you survived. So when I tell you that you are the most resilient person I have ever met, know that I don’t say such things flippantly. But it doesn’t matter what I think. If you think you’re weak, then nothing I say will change your mind. I don’t want to convince you. I want to show you what I see when I look at you. I want you to believe it.” 

“Rismyn…” she gasped, her eyes wide. Her lip quivered dangerously, an aftershock warning of incoming tears. “Rismyn I… I…” 

“C’mon,” Rismyn said, hopping up, because if he didn’t, two inevitable things were going to occur. She was going to cry, and he was going to kiss her, and then all of these beautiful sacred moments would be destroyed. 

“Let’s go,” he said, offering her his hand. “You want to get stronger, yes? Well that doesn’t happen by sitting around.” 

Mazira looked startled, but at least her face stayed dry. “What—now?” 

“Yes, now,” Rismyn said, arching an eyebrow at her. “The Light’s only getting bluer. I assume. C’mon, get up. Get your sword, Songblade-to-be. We have work to do. Your first lesson starts now.”

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.