Forsaken by Shadows 62: The Festival

~27. The Festival~

Rismyn

Rismyn stood beneath a rain of hot water, thoroughly convinced he was never going to leave it. 

This Festival was a sham. Nothing could be worth all the effort that went into it. His back throbbed and his arms ached as though his muscles had been reduced to ribbons, broken down slowly by the long night of manual labor. 

He’d never worked so hard with so little rest in his life.

Okay, that probably wasn’t true. His early days training under Naydyn had been brutal. Melee-Magthere was worse. But while those trials had been difficult, they were at least productive. Work he found fulfilling as he honed his body into weaponized perfection. 

Dragging Solaurin’s crates of imports from the docks to his warehouse was not what he considered fulfilling work. Neither was hauling buckets of watery silt from the river to Jasper’s temporary Festival booth in the Market, over and over, until he’d filled the trough for the tabaxi to hide his uncut, semi-precious gemstones in. 

That, at least, had the potential to become a labor worth the effort. For a few copper coins, Festival go-ers could pan for the stones and keep whatever they found. For a few more silver coins, Rismyn would be hired out to cut and polish their winnings. All part of his apprenticeship. 

But that was future work, in some distant reality where the felicitous lies of the Festival weren’t the subject that consumed the entire cavern. Right now, his only concern was to smell less like the river, and maybe, if he were lucky, snag an hour or two of trancing before Ti’yana dragged him out to the celebrations.

But as he ought to come to expect by now, he seldom got what he wanted.  No sooner had he considered the bliss of a trance when a raucous pounding echoed from the door.

“Rismyn!” Ti’yana shouted. “What are you doing in there? We’re going to be late!”

Rismyn groaned. Late? How could they be late? Nothing was slated to start until Tangerine Light, and the hue in the window was still buttery yellow. Surely he had more time. His muscles were just starting to forgive him.

“Rismyn!” Ti’yana hollered again. “The plan!”

Mercy, the plan. He was getting tired of hearing about the plan they had made. Or rather, the plan Ti’yana had made, a meticulous schedule and detailed route to savor all the Festival supposedly had to offer. Rismyn had simply been existing in the same room as her when she made it, and only halfway through her monologue did he realize it was intended to be a dialogue. By then it was too late to escape her machinations.

“Rismyn Tear!”

“I’m coming!” he called back, waving a hand to shut off the flow of water. 

Ti’yana pounded on the door one last time, probably for good measure, and then there was silence. 

Rolling his eyes, he stepped over the rim of the claw foot tub and grabbed a drying linen, sponging off as much water as he could before wrapping the cloth around his waist. His clothing lay strewn about the floor, and as he gathered up the pieces, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

They reeked of river and sweat, just as he had before the shower. Now that he was clean, the prospect of dressing in them again for the brief journey between the water room and his bedroom had become… less than appealing. 

Ti’yana probably wasn’t lurking out there, right? She was bossy, but not of the hovering sort. 

Right…? 

He nudged the door open with his foot, studying the hall for any signs of female life. She was the only other person home, since Solaurin had wandered off to attend to his own Festival preparations and Mazira had been summoned to the temple the night before for cleric stuff (which had nothing to do with his bleak mood, thank you very much), but somehow that didn’t make him more comfortable. If there was anyone in the house he didn’t want to run into soaking wet and clad in only a towel, it was definitely Ti’yana. 

Mercifully, she was nowhere to be seen, and her singing voice drifting from beyond her own half-open door confirmed she was safely concealed behind solid walls. Plenty of time to make a run for it. 

He slipped out the door and dashed to his own, breathing a sigh of relief only after the door shut behind him.

Safe. 

Rismyn discarded his soiled laundry into a basket and moved to the bed, in search of the fresh garments Ti’yana had laid out for him before he’d gotten home. She’d hollered something as he passed by her door about a special outfit for the special occasion, but he’d hardly been listening. 

A choice he was coming to regret.

The outfit he had been expecting was not an outfit at all. It was a pair of trousers, and only trousers, as if he was supposed to know what to do about the rest. And while he was a full grown elf fully capable of picking out his own outfits, this particular garment was, well, unorthodox. Atypical for his style and culture.

The fine material was somewhere between a deep red and dark purple. Rather than fitted the way he was used to, they were of a loose, flowing cut. The sort of pants that would tuck into his boots but billow loose around his thighs. 

The sort of pants that got you killed in the Underdark, when they snagged on narrow, rough cave walls or tripped you up in a fight. 

Had he been in a charitable mood, he might have considered that neither traversering rough cave terrain nor getting into a lethal fight were realities he would likely be facing in Launa. But he was not feeling charitable, and he had nothing to match these trousers. Not a tunic, shirt, or jerkin in all his wardrobe. 

This was going to require further counsel. 

“Ti’yana!” he called, as he shimmied the trousers up around his waist. “What am I supposed to wear with this?” 

“What?” she called, as if she couldn’t hear him. 

He grumbled under his breath, hating the way the flowing fabric felt as he trudged out into the hall and crossed to her room. Since her door was still ajar, he considered it an open invitation to walk in.

“I said, what am I supposed to—”

Rismyn froze mid sentence, as every coherent thought he had been stringing together vanished at the sight of Ti’yana standing beside her vanity, applying stain to her lips.

She was less dressed than himself, in a bodice of conforming metallic silver and a matching skirt that didn’t fall low enough to be considered decent, exposing long ebony legs and little peeks of skin around her midriff. 

His eyes traced her hemlines before his head registered what he was doing, and lava-like blood burst into his cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, stumbling back and beating the hastiest retreat he had ever hastened. “The door was open so I thought you were—” He swallowed hard, his eyes sweeping her figure again before he could stop himself. “I’m—I’m so sorry.” 

He fled into his room, rubbing his face as if he could rub away what he’d accidentally seen. Mercy, how long had he gaped at her like a dumbstruck fool? Unwanted staring at a woman was a crime punishable by eye-gouging in Menzoberranzan, and she was his sister. 

His. Sister.

Though not his actual sister…

“What is wrong with you?” came Ti’yana’s voice from the doorway, laced with her musical laughter. 

“Gah!” Rismyn whipped around, but that was a mistake. She hadn’t added anything to her covering before invading his room. He buried his eyes in the crook of his elbow to avoid staring. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Put some clothes on!” 

She laughed again, light footsteps bringing her ever closer.  “These are my clothes. My Festival clothes.” Soft hands slid around his wrist, gently tugging his blinder away. “Do you like it? I made them new for this year.” 

Rismyn’s eyes glued to the ceiling to avoid looking down. “I’m not answering that. You can’t be serious. That’s what you’re planning to wear?” 

“Uhm, yeah,” Ti’yana said, suppressing another giggle. “It’s Festival Wear. Hasn’t anyone explained the customs to you?”

“I can’t say it sounds familiar,” he managed, still studiously interested in everything in his room except the girl in front of him. 

“Seriously?” Ti’yana shook her head. “No one has mentioned it to you? Not even Beltel? I’m surprised at that.” 

“Well,” he stammered, feeling more foolish by the second. “We’ve all been… kind of busy.” 

“Huh.” She shrugged. “Then I guess consider yourself informed. Now what were you asking me?” 

Rismyn blinked rapidly, trying to recall what indeed had been his question. What had set his feet on that ill-fated journey across the hall into Ti’yana’s domain? 

Oh, right. 

“Shirt,” he managed, like an absolute buffoon, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I need a shirt.” 

Again, Ti’yana smiled, but something wasn’t right. Her smile was devious, and nothing about Ti’yana was devious. Not usually. “Wow. You really aren’t informed.”

Oh, no. This did not bode well. 

“Rismyn, if the girls are dressing like this, how do you think the boys are dressing?” 

“With… shirts?” he tried, hopeful despite the dread building in his gut. 

“You may want to sit down,” she teased. “Did you even look in the box?” 

“Box?” 

“Box.” Ti’yana slipped past him, moving to his desk and tapping the lid of a zuhrkwood chest Rismyn had completely failed to notice. “It’s part of the costume. Honestly, weren’t you listening when I explained all this when you got home?” 

Rismyn said nothing, which was all the confession she needed. 

Ti’yana scoffed and pulled out his chair. “Sit,” she ordered. 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re taking too long to get ready. So I’m going to help.”

“What? No—”

“The plan, Rismyn,” Ti’yana interrupted, flipping the lid of the box open. “If you make me miss storytime at the Cove I will not forgive you. It’s the best part!” 

Which she had said about a dozen other events already, but Rismyn chose to keep that observation to himself.

“Here, these are for you.” She reached inside the box and lifted out a clinking sheet of metal. “Father had them commissioned special for your first Festival.” 

Rismyn’s mouth went dry as he took the pauldron set from her, admiring the fine gold-painted scales that made up the mail of the armor. It was elegant yet masculine, set with a red stone at the crosspiece of the chest straps that his trained eye recognized as a garnet. 

A garnet he had cut. For a project Jasper wouldn’t tell him about. 

“It’s just ceremonial,” she said, as though Rismyn actually thought the glamorous piece could be worn into a real battle. Maybe if he was asking to be beheaded on the spot. “It’s how we dress, to honor Eilistraee and the freedom she gives us. Here, there’s more.”

She pulled the other pieces out and laid them on the desk. Matching vambraces, an arm band, and even a ring he distinctly remembered working on not that long ago.

Solaurin probably thought it was funny, secretly commissioning him to make his own ‘gift’. 

“And… how does this honor Eilistraee?” Rismyn finally asked, his throat still dryer than the sandpaper he’d used to file the ring. He kept hoping she’d reveal a scaled breastplate or something to cover his torso, but she never did.

Ti’yana sighed. “Well maybe if you’d come to worship once in a while, you’d know.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t, so enlighten me.”

Again, Ti’yana sighed, taking the pauldrons from him and moving out of his line of sight. A moment later, the icy metal dropped on his shoulders, and every bone in his body went rigid as he realized what she meant by helping.

This was officially a declaration of war on his personal space.

“Ti—” he began, but got no further as her arms reached around him to secure the straps.

“Think about every artistic depiction of Eilistraee you have seen,” she said, oblivious to his discomfort. “What is she wearing?”

Rismyn paled. Trick question, because the answer was nothing.

“Right,” Ti’yana said, as though she read his mind. “Because of all the things she is the goddess of, freedom is the most important. It’s written in our books that Eilistraee’s greatest desire is to see her exiled siblings—that’s us—one day returned to the surface to dance unclad under the moon.”

Rismyn’s throat bobbed as Ti’yana cinched the pauldrons tight, trying to ignore the gentle brush strokes of her fingertips that strayed against his skin. He supposed, as far as worship was concerned, it was better than a goddess who demanded the literal hearts of her followers, freshly ripped from the arteries that gave it life, but did it have to be this? 

Ti’yana moved back around and leaned against his desk, unashamedly scrutinizing his chest as she inspected the placement of the pauldrons. “Now obviously, we don’t take that interpretation literally. But we do choose worship costumes that are… well… freeing.” The slight darkening of her cheeks revealed a blush, finally, as if this moment couldn’t get awkward enough. “To celebrate what she’s given us, of course.” 

“Fantastic,” Rismyn said. “And if you’re just not into this whole religious thing…?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re gonna look really weird if you’re not in costume. Everyone will be.”

“I think I can live with that.” 

“Father and I put a lot of work into getting you your Festival attire. It would be rude not to honor our efforts.”

“Well I didn’t ask you to, so—”

“Just stop!” 

Rismyn jumped as Ti’yana’s voice became shrill, her eyes glistening. A new form of dread eclipsed the old, one far more virulent and troubling. 

“Ti’yana, I didn’t mean—” 

“Yes, you did,” she snapped, standing up straight and crossing her arms. “Stars, Rismyn, why do you always have to be so sour about everything? Just wear the outfit.” 

Rismyn opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of the tone he’d been intending to use. He took a measured breath, before trusting himself to speak. “I just don’t understand why I have to.”

“Because it’s what we do here,” Ti’yana said. “And if you haven’t noticed, everything is kind of awful right now. Murders and mercenaries and missing people. And every cycle I wake up wondering if this is the one where we find our city besieged. So I’d really like to pretend for at least one Red Light that maybe everything isn’t falling apart around us. Is that too much to ask of you?” 

He stared at her, completely at a loss for what to say. 

Ti’yana… was afraid? He hadn’t realized it. She was always so bubbly, so full of life and delight. He didn’t think anything could bring her down. 

Yet she wasn’t wrong. Everything was strained and tense. They all sensed it, even if some were apparently better at hiding it than others. To that end, he failed to comprehend how any of this—the Festival, the ridiculous clothing—could make that better. Why did he have to wear it? 

But Ti’yana’s eyes were brimming with tears as she stared at him down, waiting for his answer, and he’d learned long ago he didn’t have to understand. He just had to obey. 

Which was a lot easier to do when he liked the woman who was asking him to obey. 

“Alright,” he said, relenting. “I’m sorry.” He reached for the vambraces laying on the desk. 

Ti’yana brightened immediately, all traces of her fragility vanishing as she scrubbed at her eyes. “Really? Thank you! Now, can I do your hair?” 

“Can you… what?” 

“I want to fix your hair. I think it will look so cute slicked back so we can see both your eyes.” 

Cute? Rismyn smothered a grimace. Cute was not what elite-warriors-in-training wanted to be labeled as. 

Yet she looked so hopeful, and after the glimpse of what was lying just beneath her excitement, Rismyn didn’t dare deny her anything she wanted of him, within reason. And unfortunately, allowing her to mess with his hair wasn’t unreasonable. 

Still… cute…? 

As if sensing his reservation, Ti’yana’s wicked smile made a reappearance, proving her mischief wasn’t just a one time fluke. She leaned in, fluttering her lashes, and said, “I bet Mazira will think so, too.” 

A furious blush crawled up his neck and lodged in his cheeks, refusing to budge. He tried to speak several times before succeeding. “I was already going to agree.” 

Ti’yana jumped up with a little squeal, clapping her hands and scurrying off to presumably collect whatever it was she needed to make him cute. And while Rismyn regretted every moment of what was about to come, he had to admit, her smile was infectious. 

***

They arrived at the Cove exactly when Ti’yana intended, two-shades shy of Tangerine Light, and as usual, she’d been right about being noticeable if he refused the Festival attire. Those who chose not to participate stood out like beacons in the sea of underclad and over-decorated Launites.

He’d been tempted to point them out with an I-told-you-so, to counter Ti’yana’s everyone-is-doing-it argument, but the point was moot now. She’d gotten him into the outfit and had her way with his hair, and if it made her happy, he supposed it was worth suffering through. 

Even if he felt ridiculous. 

At least the stories were more interesting than he expected, as members of the Fleet regaled them with testimonies of their journey. Tales of sea monsters and storms, pirates and the usual prejudices drow faced on the surface. Heartwarming encounters and dangerous turns of events. No wonder Ardyn had chosen the Fleet over the Militia. It sounded exciting, and more importantly, fulfilling. 

Yet the spell of wanderlust broke when the stories ended, and Ti’yana ushered him up so they could get ahead of the crowds, though the effort was futile. Still, she all but dragged him by the hand toward the market, where merchants had lined the roads with temporary booths. Leafy laurels and bright white flowers decorated the limestone city, the air thick with a menagerie of scents as different cultures clashed over spice and seasoning in their preparation of fair food, which according to Ti’yana, was different from regular food. Most of it seemed to be battered and skewered on sticks.

Laughter overshadowed the ever-present music as people shopped, ate, and partook in the clever games designed by the merchants. Coins flowed freely from hand to hand, and Rismyn was pleased to see Jasper’s gem-panning attraction turned out to be quite popular. Children swarmed around the tabaxi, especially excited for the opportunity to try their luck, while Jasper’s furry face split in a toothy grin. 

An effort well worth the pain, after all. Another chip in the resentment Rismyn had been feeling toward this whole affair. 

He’d tried to offer to stay and help as Ti’yana took her turn panning for gems, but Jasper waved him off, insisting he enjoy the Festival while he could and promising him a mountain of work when life returned to normal. 

If it returned to normal. 

“Let’s go see Father next,” Ti’yana said as they left, admiring the clear crystal topaz she had uncovered from the silt. She’d already paid Jasper to have Rismyn cut it for her, even though Rismyn would’ve done it without her having to ask, or even pay. “I want to see how it’s progressing.”

“How what’s progressing?” Rismyn asked. 

“You’ll see,” she said, slipping the topaz into her pouch. 

Rismyn rolled his eyes, wondering why he even bothered asking. “You’ll see” had been her standard answer for everything from, “where are we going?” to “When are we going to get our places to see the Serenade?” 

That last was a question of highest priority. No offense to Ti’yana’s plan, but if he had gotten his way, he’d have lurked in the temple courtyard until the Red Light, ensuring he didn’t miss a moment of Mazira’s dance. 

But Ti’yana kept him bouncing along from stall to stall, and he had resigned himself to just having to wait and see. 

“What’s your father doing in the market, anyway?” Rismyn asked, as they took a shortcut through an alley to avoid a crowd that had gathered around a woman juggling torches. “I thought he’d be at the temple. Isn’t this Serenade thing a big deal?” 

“It is,” Ti’yana said. “But he always gets out of it, since none of the initiates are ever boys. From what I understand, the raising rituals can be pretty emotionally involved, not really something for him to be a part of with the female initiates. But truthfully, I think he prefers it this way. He really likes the Festival.”

Rismyn nodded, though her words, warmly spoken, left him chilled. Emotionally involved? How was Mazira taking that? Was she doing okay? It had been the first time since their reunion at Melee-Magthere that Rismyn had fallen asleep without her just mere feet away, even if doors and walls separated them, and he wasn’t overly fond of the experience. Ti’yana might have been using this Festival to treat her anxiety, but the deeper red the shades of light became, the more anxious he was becoming to be returned to Mazira. 

“And what about you?” he asked, to distract himself from the hollow ache gnawing on his gut. “Weren’t you going to ascend this year? I thought I remembered you talking about it.” 

Ti’yana’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the only evidence that his question may have been a bit too personal, but she masked whatever emotion she was feeling behind a blithe smile. “Ah—yes. I had been meaning too… but…” 

“Sorry,” Rismyn said quickly. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Just a passing curiosity.” 

“No, no, it’s okay.” Her hands folded together behind her back. “In order to ascend, a candidate has to come up with an Ordeal to pass. And, I dunno, I just couldn’t think of one.”

Rismyn wrinkled his nose. “An Ordeal?” he repeated. “What kind of Ordeal? Like a gauntlet? Or a sparring tournament?” 

“Not everything is about sword fighting, Rismyn.” 

Rismyn arched an eyebrow. “Your priestesses are literally called Songblades.” 

Ti’yana flushed. “Yeah but, there’s more to it than that,” she said. “The Ordeal is a test of our mettle, pitting us against our deepest flaws and darkest fears.” 

“And you had trouble with that?” Rismyn snickered. “I can think of a few flaws for you.” 

She punched his arm. “Ha, ha. I know I have flaws, you jerk. But it’s supposed to be about something real. And raw. And let’s be honest, compared to someone like Mazira, what struggles do I have to overcome? It’s not like I’ve ever experienced anything hard in my life. Or even interesting.” 

The hollow ache he’d been trying to ignore became a cavernous maw, and Rismyn nearly missed a step as Mazira’s name came out of Ti’yana’s mouth. 

Deepest flaws. Darkest fears. A test of their mettle.

“Wait—” he said, his mind needing a moment to revive. He should have made the connection earlier and asked sooner. “What did Mazira do for her Ordeal?” 

Something like pain flashed across Ti’yana’s expression, but this time, she didn’t hide it with a smile. She let it fall behind a stone expression, completely shutting down. “Seriously?” 

“What?” he asked, taken aback by her offense. She’d been less upset when he called her flawed. 

“We were—I was just—ugh, never mind.” She shook her head as though disgusted. “Mazira’s Ordeal. You’ll see.” 

“Ti…” he said, dragging out the syllable with exasperation. “What’d I say? Why’re you mad at me now?” 

“I’m not mad at you,” she said, in a tone that suggested otherwise. “Ah, we’re here.” 

They’d arrived outside a canvas tent with a line of people stretching from within to the street outside. Whatever it was Solaurin was doing, he seemed to be a popular attraction. Rismyn tried to catch hold of Ti’yana to finish their argument—though he still couldn’t fathom why they’d begun arguing—but she slid nimbly out of his reach and moved to the side of the tent, creating her own entrance as she lifted the canvas and ducked underneath.

He had no choice but to follow. They popped up right behind Learsin, Solaurin’s senior apprentice.

“How’s it going?” Ti’yana asked, stepping up beside him. 

The younger drow nearly jumped out of his skin, a hand clutching his heart. “Geez, Ti’yana! Don’t do that!” 

“Do what?” she asked innocently, all traces of her annoyance with Rismyn gone. 

How did she transition emotions so smoothly? 

“Looks like there’s a long line, as usual,” she said, before the apprentice could answer. 

Learsin sighed, shaking his head in defeat. “Yeah, been that way since Tangerine. It looks good, though.” He nodded to where Solaurin knelt beside a small girl and her mother, showing the child how to hold a shuttle. “This season’s tapestry is going to be a real work of art.” 

The master weaver guided the girl through the motions of the loom, her small face lighting up as little rows of thread appeared. The length of fabric below was a whirlwind of color and texture, looking nothing like anything Solaurin would normally allow to grace his looms, yet he smiled broadly as the girl traded places with her mother. 

“What’re they doing?” Rismyn asked, surveying the displays around the main attraction. He’d expected to find Solaurin selling some of his finer works, but nothing appeared to be for sale at all. Instead, different types of looms with half-finished tapestries were set out as though displayed like art. People drifted among them, freely grasping the textiles while another apprentice stood by, babbling on with what sounded like explanations of texture and technique. 

“Recruiting,” Learsin said, casting Ti’yana a sideways look as though they shared a private joke. “But actually, working on the Community Tapestry. We make one every Festival. Whoever wants to participate can add a few rows. They pick which color they want to weave and yet somehow it always turns out spectacular. It’ll be displayed in the temple.” 

“We’ll add our rows later,” Ti’yana said. “When everything’s over. It’s a family tradition.” 

She smiled at him, and Rismyn’s heart dropped like a stone. 

Had she… had she actually just said that? Had she called him family, thirty seconds after he had just said something offensive that she never bothered to clarify? Her comment had been casual, almost offhanded. Yet it warmed him in ways he would never admit to, and made him regret upsetting her, even if he still didn’t know how he’d done it.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to respond by the arrival of Solaurin, who had noticed them between guests.

He’d changed his clothes since Rismyn last saw him, now clad in rich blue Festival garments much like his own, adorned with a silver broad collar and matching finery. Even his braid was different, woven deep against his skull and hanging down his spine, as opposed to long and loosely plaited over one shoulder. 

“I wondered if you would stop by,” he said, pulling his daughter into an embrace as Learsin traded places with him. “And I see your armorment fits you well, Rismyn. Suits you, too.”

Rismyn covered his distaste with a forced smile, lest he appear ungrateful and offend the elf who let him live in his house. “Yeah. Ti’yana said you commissioned it. Thank you. I’m grateful.”

Solaurin’s eyes danced with amusement, as though seeing through his feeble act. “You get used to it after a while. I promise.” 

Rismyn’s own smile became more genuine, albeit more rueful, but he relaxed under the honesty of his guardian. “Define a while. Like an hour? Two? Because we’re going on that long and I still would really like a cloak.” 

Ti’yana scoffed. “You should have been there, father. Trying to get him ready was like trying to dress a toddler.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault no one warned me I wasn’t allowed to wear a shirt,” Rismyn protested.

Ti’yana gestured to him with see-what-I-mean written all over her face, before walking away to investigate the displays. 

Solaurin laughed, in far better spirits than Rismyn could remember him being in. At least, not since the first four priestesses were discovered dead, but maybe even before that, too. 

“And how are you liking your first Festival?” he asked.

Rismyn frowned. “It’s loud. And crowded. And busy.” 

“Dear me,” Solaurin chuckled. “Nothing ever pleases you does it?” 

Rismyn opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated, as Solaurin’s kindly spoken jab mingled with Ti’yana’s earlier question. 

Why do you always have to be so sour about everything? 

Guilt wrapped his heart like barbed wire, and he folded his arms across his chest. “But I like it,” he said, though it came out petulant. 

“Really?” Solaurin asked, arching an eyebrow. 

Rismyn nodded, his gaze wandering to where Ti’yana stood laughing with another of Solaurin’s apprentices. Carefree and happy, the way he always expected to find her. Yet twice now she’d shown signs of something else. Some deeper fear or struggle he’d been unaware of, despite living in the same house as her. 

“I wasn’t really in a celebrating mood,” he confessed. “Tired, I guess. And with everything going on…” he trailed off, but the solemnity in Solaurin’s gaze told him his meaning had been understood. “It just felt in bad taste to be celebrating when our people are missing.”

“You are not alone in that feeling,” Solaurin said, and somehow the simple statement brought genuine comfort. “The discourse regarding whether or not to hold the Festival was… heated, to say the least. But in the end, we agreed it would be best for the city.” 

“Well I think you were right,” Rismyn said.

“Oh?” Solaurin looked surprised. 

Rismyn nodded. “It’s exhausting being miserable and afraid all the time,” he said, watching Ti’yana laugh and thinking of the merriment of the children at Jasper’s booth. “The distraction is… nice.” 

Solaurin’s face lit with a rare, true smile, and he clasped a hand to Rismyn’s shoulder, making the metallic scalemail clink. “Eilistraee be praised! He can be taught.” 

Rismyn made a face, but the feeling didn’t reach his core. “I changed my mind. Terrible experience. Would not recommend it to anyone.” 

“Hah. We’ll see how your tune changes again after the Serenade. Come, it’s a little early but I believe we could make our way there. We’ll go together.”

“I don’t know,” Rismyn said, with mock solemnity, “that might not be Ti’yana’s plan…” 

“She’ll concede for me,” Solaurin assured him. “Ti!”

Ti’yana broke off her conversation mid sentence, bounding back to them. “Yes, father?”

“Shall we show Rismyn where the Zovarr family spends the Serenade?” 

“Oh, yes!” Ti’yana said, so enthusiastic Rismyn suspected this must have been part of her plan the whole time. She looped her arm through Rismyn’s, beaming, as though whatever harsh feelings she had held for him before entering the tent were already forgotten. “You’re going to love this.”

***

The temple grounds were swarming with people, all gathered in the pocket of rose quartz light as the deepening red of the greater cavern met the twinkling white light of the courtyard lamps. A stage had been erected over the colonnade stairs, extending the platform out several dozen yards, while musicians lined up at the edge of it.

And Rismyn stood above it all, marveling at how he had gotten here. 

The terrace was Mother Lara’s private balcony, part of her apartments in the temple. The voices murmuring around him belonged to council members, high ranking soldiers, and first echelon clerics, the highest of the order; in other words, important people, of which Rismyn was not. 

But Solaurin was. And somehow, that granted Rismyn entrance to this exclusive party by association. A connection he was still trying to justify, when Ti’yana joined him at the railing overlooking the courtyard.

“So, surprised?” she asked, grinning. “I bet you’re glad you wore your Festival Best now.” 

Rismyn’s answering smile was weak. “Definitely surprised,” he said, choosing to ignore her jab about his ridiculous clothing. “And you’re… sure it’s alright for me to be here?” 

He glanced surreptitiously as the Reverend Mother, who was difficult to miss in her deep blue gown and diamond-rich ceremonial armor, somehow classy and dignified despite the vast swaths of her skin displayed.

She had only looked his way once, that he was aware of, when they’d first arrived, and Rismyn swore she had disapproval in her fathomless crimson stare. Like he was polluting her elite gathering with his presence. 

“Of course it is,” Ti’yana said, not remotely fazed. “Mother Lara’s guests are always expected to bring their families.” 

There was that word again, and all the wrappings of inclusivity it brought. Rismyn bit the inside of his cheek, a strange swelling feeling rising in his chest. 

“But I’m not…not really…” he began, but Ti’yana’s light touch on his arm cut him off. 

“Of course you are,” she said. “Blood isn’t the only thing that makes a family. Surely you’ve felt that by now?” 

Her words filled him with shame, highlighting every moment he had failed to do right by these people who had taken him in. Every heated clash with Solaurin, his disdain for Ti’yana’s magnificently executed Festival plan, even his dislike of the clothing they had provided for him. All the ways he had been ungrateful, unruly, and, as Ti’yana had put it, sour. 

He grimaced. “Hey. Earlier, outside the weaver tent, I said something that upset you. I… I don’t really know what, and I know that probably makes it worse, but, can you explain it, so I can apologize properly?” 

Ti’yana’s eyes widened, and in the lightened celebratory light, her dark flush was more pronounced. “Oh—it’s really okay. I was just—” 

But whatever she was, he would have to wait to find out. Music swelled from below them, the orchestra tuning their notes, and a hush fell over the entire cavern. Those mingling on the terrace moved to the railing, delighted whispers of “It’s starting” permeating the silence. 

Rismyn forgot his question as he leaned forward, straining to catch his first sight of Mazira as the tuning became a sweet melody and dancers took the stage. 

Yet none of them were Mazira. In fact, none of them were new Songblades. He’d seen each of them at the temple before, and there were sixteen of them. Mazira had told him that, including herself, there were only eight new initiates ascending this Serenade. 

“What is—” he began, but cut off when the music abruptly changed, and more dancers joined the first.

And there, finally, was Mazira, utterly impossible to miss. 

She was a vision in wine red, wearing a gown that didn’t bother with a neckline, but plunged all the way to her navel. The fabric that covered her was tied in a knot around the back of her neck, and from the knot came a cloak of lace, which hooked around her fingers and gave the impression of sheer wings as she spun in perfect synchrony with her new sisters. 

Rismyn’s breath was nonexistent, and his jaw would have fallen all the way to the courtyard below if it wasn’t hinged to his cheeks. Somehow, despite all the evidence to the contrary, it hadn’t actually occurred to him that Mazira would be clad in Festival attire, her bare skin on display for the world to see.

It was her skin he stared at now, as Mazira’s spin came to a halt, the entirety of her back exposed as the dancers dipped in a graceful arc, blades extended.

It was a wonder the marble didn’t crush under his grip. 

Her scars were gone.

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.