Chapter Text
Emet sits on the edge of his borrowed bed watching the flicker of candlelight. The lingering strangeness of being a stranger in a place not one’s own keeping him unsettled. It is never easy for him to rest in a place so heavily haunted by another. The scent of this room’s owner lingers over everything. From the floral bedding upon which he sits, to the walls that have held her every memory since childhood. The scent only familiar to him only because he has met her.
This is not like an inn where a hundred souls have found sanctuary—or on sorrier nights, love—atop the same bed. Where the mingled scent of many travelers becomes a familiar musk so deeply entwined it faintly resists the soaps used to desperately wash it away. The scent of temporary reprieve. Of a space that is yours for a night paid for in silver and will hold another when you pack your bag and continue on.
There is no neutral traveler’s limbo while staying in another’s room. Instead, it is a place fully infused with the memory of one. Ireena is everywhere in this room, the ghostly imprint of her presence in everything. From the bed that has cradled her every dream to the faint wear on the floors where her feet have walked familiar patterns into the rug. The hairbrush the atop the vanity where she styled red tresses as she searched her reflection’s eyes for answers to questions she’s never dared to ask. The forgotten sock draped over the bathtub. The pair of boots tucked between the wardrobe and the wall with heels still stained in mud.
Feeling very much the trespassing outsider, Emet leaves his bag packed by the door and steps into the hall. However, hesitation stops him before he can get any further, hand resting familiarly upon the broken haft of the glaive slung at his hip.
He shouldn’t bring his weapons to the dinner table.
He’s been told as much once when the air had been filled with the stinging notes of spicy food and the sizzling of vegetables being fired over hot flames. When the warmth of the kitchen had been filled with secret song of knives atop wooden boards, the hum of some unfamiliar tune broken by the occasional curse.
Emet can still see the dark clothes hiding the tanned skin of Azemir’s toned back facing him. Dark hair shorn short along his neck before it tumbles down in black waves curling lavishly around his sharp ears. His hands work quickly with great skill as he crafts his latest masterpiece to set Emet’s mouth aflame. Thin white apron strings wrap around his slim waist and Emet remembers thinking he’d like to untie them. The sun elf turns around before Emet’s thoughts wander further and he smiles. It is a bright thing. Captivating. The sun could burn to ash in the sky and Emet would see a brighter star every day in his smile.
That is until Azem sees the blades still at Emet’s hips. He chides that while Emet can wield his sword anywhere he pleases, he’ll not do so at their dinner table. The others in the barracks made a few jokes that night about where Emet wields his blade, but he barely heard any of it gazing into those bright amber eyes.
A stinging pain draws Emet from the memory and back into the present where he is a trespasser in a borrowed room. Alone. No spiced food hangs in the air, no warmth anywhere. A sliver of errant wood pierces his thumb from the glaive’s broken haft and he’s reminded again of what broke it. Emet strokes the reddish purple cloth, bloodstained and now wrapped around what remains of the broken haft when it should still be wrapped around his waist. He adds his blood to it and promises again to come home and fix what’s been broken.
The thought of leaving the glaive out of reach sits uncomfortably in Emet’s chest.
He takes the other short sword instead—a simple blade, practical and unadorned in anything as fine as the elven glaive—and untether’s it from his belt. Emet lays it on the bed for his return. Not the politest he could be in new company, but half as polite is better than none at all.
Emet ducks out of the room, nearly swiping his head on the doorframe with his thoughts in the past. He strides down the hall, eager to be somewhere more neutral. Somewhere occupied so he doesn’t sink too deeply into old thoughts.
The door beside his where Ireena and Evie will take their rest is open slightly and Emet catches sight of the rebel laying out an outfit on the bed. The fabric is pitch like most everything she wears, but an unnatural shade darker. He would’ve kept walking without a second thought if the style of the cloth didn’t strike him as bitterly familiar. Vestments. Cloth darker than the night embroidered in fine gold and silver twined thread. He can’t see the symbol through his limited view, but he doesn’t need to. The similarity to the holy cloth of Emet’s old god is enough to sour his mood. The high he’d felt only a moment ago spoils into something rotten.
Emet heads downstairs.
The distant clinking of plates and silverware lead Emet to a hall off the foyer where Ireena crosses from one room to the next in a flash before he can guess at a door to try. Stacks of ceramic and silver sill her arms and Emet doubts she’s seen him at all in the hurried blindness of a host with unexpected guests.
He follows her into the dining room where a long table crafted to seat a household of guests dominates the center. The surface sits mostly covered beneath a drape lightly dusted from months of disuse. Ireena moves quick as a hare around it, narrowly dodging the sharp corner with her hip. A new fire burns in the corner, still young and half formed in the hearth, its belly not yet full of the fresh wood. The flames crackle slowly to life, barely chasing the chill from the room. Ireena skirts past it, setting the heavy stack in her arms atop a serving counter stretching across one wall before folding the table cover aside. She grabs a dusting cloth hanging from her apron and starts vigorously wiping down the polished surface beneath before she spies him at the doorway.
Ireena quickly straightens herself with an embarrassed smile, the exertion of her task coloring her cheeks warmly. She quickly pats the errant dust off the apron tied over her breeches, the motes fluttering about her hair and dancing in the light of the fire.
“Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable,” Ireena forces herself not to breathe heavily, though it’s clear she hasn’t caught her breath. “Can I get you some wine or water?”
Emet wanders around to the serving counter and gathers the plates and silverware in his arms instead.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. Please relax, you don’t have to help me.”
She moves as if to take the stoneware from his arms and he shakes his head, offering her a faint smile so she knows she hasn’t offended him somehow.
“I can’t relax while someone else is doing all the work. Allow me.”
“I—Thank you.”
Ireena takes a breath. The tension in her shoulders releases little, but it is a start. He moves about the table and something strangled and coiled within her settles more as he sets the first seat with plate and silver the way Emet has seen in the homes of the lords and wizards who occasionally invited him to their towering homes in Iriaebor.
In time, the anxious air of perfection snapping its jaws at Ireena’s heels eases into something a little more comfortable and the two of them find an easy rhythm. Somehow they do not trip over each other, the tasks splitting with the natural dance born of familiarity that does not exist between them. And yet it seems her dance is similar to an old one he already knows. When Emet isn’t looking, he can almost believe there is another by his side.
Emet wonders how many lordly dinners were served where Ireena was nitpicked about every little imperfection. Tiny jabs that may not have seemed so hurtful at the time. Sit straighter. Don’t hold your fork like that. Stop making a mess. Not that spoon. Serve the guests. Don’t laugh like that. Stop moving your feet. No elbows on the table. Fix your hair. Don’t spill that. Clean up. Be still. Stop talking. Over time they make mountains out of sand hills and bind that which does not fit with words of wire, turning the pain it causes into motivation to conform. Always that promise that it will be easier when you finally give in. Soon you learn to tighten the wires yourself. But nothing changes.
Ireena’s trained bindings slowly uncoil from her ribs and her hold on them loosens with each task Emet takes as his own. Expectation and haste fade with each imaginary demand that passes without consequence or judgement and Ireena finds a pace that does not corset the breath from her lungs.
Emet sets sticks of candles across the table and Ireena coaxes the crackling hearth into a fire that almost carries warmth into this perpetually cold land. He takes a taper to the flames and ignites each waxen pillar in offering to the dark. A prayer to chase it away. Ireena sweeps to a cabinet and uncorks a bottle of wine with a pop and pours it out into a carafe. One for wine, one for water. After a few minutes to let the drink breathe, Ireena offers each to Emet. He takes the wine with thanks, especially after a day like this one.
The table is one setting shy by time they finish and Ireena points Emet to the room across the hall where more dishes can be found.
“Kitchen’s just that way, the door right across from this one.” She fills his wine glass, “There’s a cupboard in the corner with dishes and a drawer just beside it with the silverware.”
Emet takes a grateful swig of the wine—a fine blend of sweet and sour—and leaves to find his charge. He passes Roshan on the way, the holy man peeking his head through the dining room door as Emet disappears into the kitchen.
“Do you have a shovel?” Emet hears him ask.
Ireena sets the wine carafe down slowly, her mind momentarily blank with the odd question.
“Yes,” she answers hesitantly, “I think we do.”
Roshan smiles at her expectantly and waits for the shovel without any kind of explanation.
“One—one moment.”
Emet passes Ireena and Roshan in the hall again upon his return, both disappearing further off into the house. The creak of the steps tells him they go up the stairs. The loud wailing screech of hinges in desperate need of oiling followed by a muffled thump tells him there’s an attic entrance somewhere up there.
Roshan ignites his staff with a little light spell and Ireena clamors up into the attic. He holds it high, unsure if it helps, but a few minutes and a few bumps later Ireena returns with a somewhat rusted shovel. The folding ladder snaps back up into the ceiling with a wail as loud as an alleycat in heat. Evie briefly peeks out her door to see what is happening before going back to whatever she is doing in her room.
Roshan smiles and holds out his hand for the shovel, “And where do you want your father to be buried?”
Ireena doesn’t let go immediately, her hold lingering on the rough sanded handle as though wondering if she should give up the shovel at all.
“Kolyan…he lived and breathed this village. Like all who have died, he must be buried in the church. In the cemetery.”
Roshan hoped to bury the man on the property, perhaps in a garden, but he is undeterred, “Okay. Where is the cemetery?”
“It is on the other side of the village. It may be a bit tricky for us to transport the coffin that far, but hopefully with your help we will bring him over. Tomorrow.” She clarifies.
Roshan’s smile is unyielding, “I will be back in a couple of hours.”
Though he senses she does not want to hand him the shovel, he’s learned if he remains relentless he will usually get his way. He keeps his hand outstretched and his smile expectant and Ireena reluctantly gives up the rusted tool. It is a wondrous discovery since he’s found his freedom and one he intends to use as often as possible.
Ireena fusses with her scarf as she leads him to the front doors. She glances furtively out the boarded windows. He can tell she is trying to craft some clever words to dissuade him from his task, but none find her.
“Just be careful outside.” She unlocks the several locks and bars on the door one by one, “Don’t wander too far from the village and…keep an eye out. Night is setting soon.”
Evrrot strolls down the stairs, perhaps drawn by the clinking of locks. That seems like something that would attract his attention.
“You know, I think I’ll join,” the tielfing yawns, sharp teeth glinting in the lamp light. “I need some air.”
Roshan throws a hand up in mock offense, “Why are you following me? You said you did not want to share a room and now you want my company?”
“Alright, now. Get over yourself. I just want air.”
“You get over yourself.”
Roshan grins knowing devil boy will see it as a challenge. It is so very easy to play this little boy’s strings. There’s a glint in Evrrot’s eye and the tension in the air grows to a point of breaking, each wondering who will make the first move. Ireena steps back from the unlocked door, the poor girl not understanding that there is no hostility. Roshan is just having his fun. The moment the door opens, the two of them make a running break for it.
They are forced to a sudden hard stop before either can shoulder through the doorway.
Hand half raised in a knock that never found purchase, Ismark stands just outside. There is a small bag tossed over his shoulder, its drawstring pinched closed on brown fur. A deeper exhaustion fills her face and darkens the young man’s eyes with the weariness of an old man. A somberness eclipsing the seed of his hope and drawing his face into the same darkness of every Barovian they have met so far.
“Where are you going?” Ismark asks sharply.
Roshan shoulders back Evrrot and lifts the shovel, “If we dig a hole now, we do not have to do it in the morning.”
“Dusk is arriving, there won’t be much light soon. Are you sure?”
Light. If it weren’t sad it would be funny. Roshan does not think these people have ever known a true day in their lives. He will have to change that.
“I am use to digging holes, it is no worry. I am quite good at it.”
Ismark’s voice holds no fight, “Alright. I’ll see you later then. And there will be a meal waiting for you when you return. Be back before the night sets.”
Roshan is surprised Evrrot doesn’t abandon his decision to come along at the mention of food, though he does see some hesitation.
“Come on, devil boy. We will be back for dinner.”
Ismark watches them go before shuffling inside. He leans his bow in the corner and slips out of his heavy winter coat in silence. Ireena locks up the doors, keeping quiet in the hopes her brother will fill it with news. But Ismark remains silent outside of a brief greeting to her and a quick nod to Emet in passing. Ismark disappears into the kitchen with his small game bag.
Emet stares at the closed kitchen door and wonders if he should go in and help. The kitchen was their next task, but Ireena shakes her head even though he did not speak. At least the majority of the prep is done, Emet supposes. He holds the dining room door open for Ireena and they take a seat with their wine, the table set and waiting for something to fill it. There is little else to do but smell the scent of cooking dinner in an awkward silence. Emet isn’t sure what happened out in the foyer, but he senses the shift in mood well enough.
Evie finally joins in their silent waiting. The dull clomping of her large platform boots reaching them long before she darkens the open dining room doorway. Without her armor, Evie looks even more like the teenaged rebels in Emet’s city. The dark skirt has clearly been shorn short from a longer one by scissors and left to unravel into thread at the ends. Her darkly dyed tunic looks as though it may have been another color before a home dying session washed it unevenly in black and her large oversized boots threaten to find their place in someone’s ass with every step.
Evie’s many facial piercings glint slightly in the fire and candlelight as she casts a quiet glance around the room, noting the absences and the strange mood. The unspoken question, however, is quickly set aside once offered a glass of wine. Emet briefly wonders if she is old enough to drink, but after a day like today and the news of her friend’s death or capture, he doesn’t much care if she finds some solace in alcohol tonight.
Her nose doesn’t scrunch at the first sip telling him this isn’t her first drink either.
“I’m old enough, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m a half elf, so my twenty-none-of-your-business years is long past the drinking age.”
It takes an hour for Ismark to return, his hands full of a hefty pot steaming with rabbit stew. He serves each with a heavy ladleful of soup that is mostly vegetable and broth. Only a few small bits of rabbit find their way into each bowl. Ismark even fills the empty bowls of Roshan and Evrrot in anticipation.
“I can’t promise it will be too amazing,” Ismark apologizes, finally breaking the silent spell over the room.
Evie stirs the hot stew to let some of the heat dissipate, “Rabbit seems popular around here. You’ve got a shortage of livestock, I’m guessing.”
Ismark’s eyes find the floor. “Yes…most of the farmer either fled or were killed in the siege. We’ve been rationing out the remaining stock of supplies ever since. Everyone has had to become quite frugal with what they have, though there is no scarcity of rabbit,” Ismark smiles mirthlessly.
Emet places a hand over his bowl after the first ladle, politely stopping Ismark from filling it up. If their rations are so low, he has no desire to eat into them. It is bad enough their hosts are now feeding six mouths instead of two, they do not need to fill a giant as well. Besides, Emet is sure Evrrot will eat through everything Emet leaves behind anyways whenever he gets back from whatever they are doing. He has a sinking feeling Roshan’s request for a shovel means they are grave digging alone.
Ireena brings out half a loaf of bread and cuts enough slices for everyone to have one, even those absent. There isn’t any left for leftovers. Some of the shame Emet thought he’d chased away returns to her face, amplified by its mirror in Ismark’s. The crust is dried and the bread somewhat stale, but Emet and Evie accept it with thanks.
Roshan and Evrrot’s bowls sit steaming with no one to eat them.
Ismark catches the elves’ eying the empty place settings.
“The others mentioned they were digging a grave for my father. I assume they are gong to speak to the priest.”
So it is what Emet worried.
“I wish they’d told me,” Evie sighs in exasperation. “I’d have gone and helped.”
Emet nods his agreement.
“We’d probably all be back by now with four of us out there digging,” Evie continues. “I think Roshan knows his stuff though, he seems somewhat knowledgeable in this area.”
“Yes, he was quite amazing,” Ireena nods. “Ismark, he sanctified our father’s remains. We don’t have to worry about his body anymore.”
“He did that?” Surprise fills Ismark’s expression before it shifts, connecting the dots that there is a priest in the group he tasked to guard his sister. Some of the tension bowing his back relaxes knowing now that the hands he will place his sister’s life into can heal.
With everyone served, Ismark finally settles himself into the seat closest to his sister. He scoots in carefully to not knock over a candlestick.
“So tell me about yourselves.” Ismark blows on his hot soup before risking a bite. “How did you arrive in these lands?”
Evie points her spoon at him, “Well isn’t that the big question.”
“We’re not entirely sure what happened,” Emet answers. “There was a storm, then mist, and before we knew it, we were here. Every trace of where we’d been simply gone.”
“None of us actually know each other, we’ve literally only just met a few hours ago.” Evie stuffs a spoonful of soup into her mouth, “The old guy, he was chasing after a feather and we were sort of chasing after him. Next thing we know, we’re here, lost in the woods. Went around in circles for a bit, got drained by some mist, went through some big gates, you know the rest.”
Evie trails off when she realizes how strange this all sounds out loud and promptly stuffs her mouth full of stew. Emet notes she left out the strange visions and their various objects pulling them into the mist. Her brooch, his amber shard. She only mention Roshan’s feather.
“A feather you say?” Ismark scratches the blonde stubble on his chin, “That is definitely a new one. And back at the tavern you said you’re all from Faerûn?”
“Faerûn?” Ireena cuts in excitedly. She slides to the edge of her seat, a spark of excitement and curiosity in her eyes. The kind found in the young seated around campfires, eager to hear tales of adventure and strange new lands. The perfect set of her shoulders and practiced polite expressions that eased back into her at Ismark’s arrival—albeit a little looser around the edges—immediately falls away and before them is no longer a noble woman, but a friend they’ve not seen in ages, excited to hear how the years have been.
Both elves nod, their mouths momentarily full of stew.
“Please, tell me about your homes. What’s it like in your lands?”
Evie quickly stuffs a new spoonful into her mouth before the last is finished, leaving Emet out to dry. But her eyes are locked on Ireena with a new interest.
Emet thinks a moment, trying to sift through the pieces of his story that are worth mention. The pieces that haven’t been torn along the edges and made to fit, the ones that no longer hold their shape after the pages have drunk spilled wine and blood. How different his life looks after the moment that ruined him. Even what came before does not hold the same color. Stained by proximity into a new shade and all the while that glaring hole at its center where a fragment was stolen. He keeps it in his hand, but it no longer fits. Not until he fixes it. Then all will return as it was.
When Emet finds the suitable parts of his life to share, he is glad the somberness of his voice does not take away the wonder in Ireena’s eyes.
“I’m from a city known as Iriaebor. It’s often called the City of a Thousand Spires. The buildings there stretch endlessly to the heavens, reaching impossible heights with feats of magic and engineering that are beyond my knowledge. Every spire tries to outreach the ones around it. Every home built to overshadow the last, and all of them holding the dream of touching the stars. It is a beautiful place at night seeing every building glint and glimmer like they are already part of the heavens. Though when you’re on the ground, it can feel a little claustrophobic.”
Emet remembers the narrow streets, the sun’s light choked away by the shadows of the buildings seeking the stars. His own home sat low to the ground above his small shop. The stone never having drunk the warmth of a morning in all his years spent there. Tucked between the spires like a secret. One forgotten and buried.
“But if you are ever granted a chance to climb the spires to visit a wealthy merchant’s shop or perhaps are invited to a noble’s home where you get to stand above the world, it is a sight unlike any other.”
Ireena’s eyes fill with a dreamer’s awe and Emet can almost see his city come alive within them. His words becoming pictures behind the candle drunk cognac of her irises.
“The whole city has spires? A whole city?”
“Much of it. The oldest districts remain bound to the earth, but even they have grown. And they took the first steps in seeking the stars.”
“And you were invited to noble’s houses! Are you a nobleman yourself?”
Emet smiles, though it is hollow, “I’m afraid not. But I knew some in my previous line of work. Ones who would occasionally need my services. They rarely visited my shop themselves, but they would send someone to retrieve me and invite me to their homes.”
“Ah, what sort of services do you do?”
“I use to be a bookbinder.”
Evie stares at his hands with a disbelieving look as though she cannot possibly imagine someone with hands his size wielding a needling with any kind of skill.
“That was…hmm” Emet shakes his head, “It feels like such a long time ago. Many wizards, merchants, and nobles prefer that their books and various collections be of the finest quality. Unique. And I’ve had many years of practice.”
Evie listens to Emet’s story without comment, only the occasional scrape of spoon against bowl to remind him that she is part of the conversation. Though the rebel doesn’t need to speak a word for Emet to hear the ‘Poncy elf’ directed his way. He can practically read the accusation in her expression. The fine life isn’t one he’s ever had the privilege to live, but Emet sees no reason to clarify. Whatever he says, he’s sure Evie has already made up her mind about him.
“How does one become a bookbinder?” Ireena asks, the rest of the table content to simply listen.
“My mother is a librarian in the city, she’s the one who got me into books. She always told me to never judge a story by its cover, but the cover of the books are what truly caught my eye. They are a story’s first hello. The first glimpse of what magic could hide within. I never did understand the sentiment. The details, the gold and silver debossing, the filigree corners, and the way leather can be molded into almost anything. The covers hold a story all their own.”
He stirs his stew, letting the steam dissipate a little before continuing.
“So I became an apprentice to a man who was far from the finest of bookbinders, or so he’d say. But I disagree. Humbled perhaps by skills he never stopped seeking to improve. But the only thing he lacked was the pride driving the ones he thought of as the ‘masters’ of the craft. When he passed, he left me everything. His shop, his tools, his home in the city. He told me to remake the business as I would a new cover and make it my own before he went. So I renamed it The Vellum & Fold and moved out of the country into the city. My father never did like my going into the city over continuing the wine business with him, but he understood. He is a vintner and owns his own little winery, you see. Sunbough Vines. His most famous blend is his Memory Wines taken after our surname in elvish and it grew rather popular among the wealthy of Iriaebor. He sent many customers my way, more than I could have brought on my own. His way of saying he supported my path, even if I did not walk his.”
Emet pauses a moment, searching the air, “That must’ve been well over a hundred fifty years ago…”
He briefly wonders if he’ll ever see his parents again. Briefly wonders if he should have visited before he left. If they would have even recognized him as their son if he had. The news of what he did would’ve reached them by now, twisted as it’s likely been by his former order. He hopes it does not break them.
Ireena leans forward with every word, drawn closer to his story as though it pulls her into a dream. She takes in every word with rapt attention, holding every piece he gives like the most precious of gems.
“A hundred fifty years ago,” she says dreamily. “You must have lived through so much.”
“I suppose I did. Though life seems small when you cannot see yourself in history. It was just those books for the longest time.”
“You said you use to be a bookbinder.”
Her curious eyes travel over the scars cutting across his jaw and marring his face, as gentle as a finger tracing them with care.
“What made you change paths?”
Emet feels himself withdraw even as he keeps the faint smile in place. Though now it is hollow and empty. He breathes in her question like arsenic, sobering him and breaking the charm this young woman placed over him. He’s not entirely sure how he opened so easily in her hands. Perhaps it is because he can see a little bit of Azemir when he looks at her. In the way her eyes glint with wonder, the way she listens to intently it is as though you are the only two people in the room. Emet doesn’t like how easily she charmed him, however innocent it might be.
“I’ve always had questions,” he answers, voice a tad colder than before. “And eventually I found people with the answers.”
Ireena’s wistful smile falters as she realizes she has stepped too far. She slides back into her seat, the flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Oh, of course. I—I’m glad you found a new path.”
A pang of guilt nips at Emet. He did not mean to steal her daydreams.
“I want to be a doctor.” Ireena offers her words like an apology. A page for a page.
“My father had a tutor who taught me medicine. How to treat wounds and diagnose diseases. I read many a book on the subject until all the words started to sound the same. So she taught me with experience too, that way the words would be linked with memory and action. I’d remember the difference between the ulna and radius because I’d set them with my own hands. Or how to stitch an open wound because she’d hand me the thread and needle. And if I messed up, the stitches would come undone or the skin would tear. The patient’s pain meant I learned quickly. She sometimes allowed me to shadow her during surgeries and taught me to treat all manner of injuries. I’ve not learned quite as much as her, and now I’m not sure where she’s gone after all that’s happened. But I hope that perhaps I can be a proper doctor someday.”
She offers him a faint smile, uncertain if she has mended that which she has stepped on and Emet offers one of his own in return. For the briefest moment Azemir sits across from him, his hands covered in oil and herbs, his smile brightening as another wound heals beneath his touch. And then he sees Ireena, but it is the same smile and the scent of herbs simply the stew. The wound between them gone smooth once more.
“Are you also a magical healer?” Evie asks.
Emet notes even Evie seems to soften around Ireena. The sharp edges of her worn like armor to cut any who pry instead curling in whenever Ireena speaks. Her bristles smoothing beneath a gentle hand and warm eyes.
“Oh, I can’t use magic,” Ireena answers. “I’m just a physical healer, I suppose. Though I wish I could do magic. Can you use magic?”
“I can though I don’t really like it. Never really wanted to learn, you know?” Evie blinks, suddenly remembering that Emet and Ismark are present as Ireena’s gentle hand unfolds her innermost secrets. Evie quickly clears her throat before Ireena can open her up any further and pivots the question back into her favor. “But since I’ve been here, my magic’s been doing weird sh*t. Does that happen around here?”
Ireena nods, “We’ve heard that before, yes. Awhile back we had a priest arrive in town and he said something similar.”
Evie’s head lifts.
“He said his magic wasn’t functioning normally,” she continues. “He was an outsider as well, just like yourselves. We also had a ranger. I think that’s what he called himself. A guide of sorts. He had this strange nature magic and used leaves and plants and all sorts of stuff to cast spells. One time he showed me how he could shoot ice out of his hand! He called it a ray of frost. It was amazing.”
Ireena’s smile warms the room hotter than the hearth.
Evie takes a sip of wine, “It’s curious magic works differently here. What kind of things can I expect?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything specific I can point out,” Ireena thinks. “Outsiders who come here with magic just say it behaves differently. From what I’ve heard it didn’t seem to be the same for Carmine and Fiske. Ah sorry, Carmine is the ranger and Fiske the priest.”
Evie swallows her latest spoonful hard, her hand briefly touching her throat as though the stew has lodged itself firmly. Everything about her shifts after that name. Her movement become tense and forced, trying not to draw attention and yet accomplishing the opposite.
Ireena cuts a glance to Emet, but he is studying Evie in quiet curiosity.
So Fiske is the name of this friend Evie seeks.
“They said it seemed unsettling, like their magic was being twisted.” Ireena adds slowly.
Evie stiffly adjusts her seat, reaches for her drink, then spoon, then drink again, before finally taking a large swig of the wine.
Ismark clears his throat, leaning into his sister’s ear and whispering. Ireena’s face blushes brightly and she struggles to find something to say. Stuck between apologizing and trying to move onto another subject.
“So, what did you do, Evie?” Ismark asks smoothly, rescuing his sister before she can bury herself deeper. “Before you came here, of course.”
Ireena sinks into her seat looking like she’s wishing it would swallow her up instead. She offers Evie a very apologetic look.
“Not a lot, really,” Evie mumbles. “I was raised in a temple. My mum didn’t want me, so I was a foundling. Spent most of my years there just…learning the tricks of the trade, I guess. It was a temple of Kelemvor. Don’t know if that means anything to you here.”
Emet’s muscles draw sharply taught, the cold embers of something dark and angry stirring in his gut until the stew loses all taste.
So the vestments were Kelemvorite adornments. He cuts a sideways glance at Evie and studies her face more deeply, but he does not recognize her. Platform boots laced up to the knees and hair gelled to stand on end wouldn’t have gone unnoticed in his barracks, but those are superficial and changeable if they sent someone after him. But those eyes—blue and white and holding something strange behind their judgement. Something he can’t place yet. He would not have forgotten them if he’d seen them. So if he’s lucky—and Emet only ever counted himself lucky once—then she doesn’t know him either.
Evie continues without pause, “I was training to be an undertaker, gravedigger, what have you. Corpses and coffins are a big part of Kelemvorite duties, him being a god of death and all. There’s other stuff of course, but that was the area I was supposed to be studying. I never really fit in with that life. Not the way I was supposed to, at least.”
“An undertaker is a respectable position,” Ismark says, “But we do not have a Kelemvor here.”
Emet’s brow furrows, “There is a gravestone outside of town marked with Kelemvor’s name.”
“Ah, yes,” Ismark pales. “Forgive me for mentioning your friend again, Evie. But it was Fiske who carved that one. He seemed to…what was it, Ireena? He spent a lot of time out there and he called the task something. A vigil?”
Ireena sets her wineglass down, voice soft and bereft of the wonder that filled it when they first began speaking of home. “Fiske lost someone there. He said he needed to keep watch on the house that lured him and the other outsiders into these lands.”
Evie nods somberly as though she knows what that means. “But you said he also joined this revolt thing, didn’t you, Ismark? If he were performing a vigil, he should’ve been at that grave for a year. He should still be there.”
Ismark blots a drip of soup from his beard. “He did and he was, though not for a year. Him and the other outsiders who came, they were close with Doru, the rebellion’s leader. Doru wanted to defeat Strahd and made a whole big speech at the center of town, right in front of our great grandfather’s statue. He tried to rally everyone to storm the castle. Fiske and the others tried to convince him not to go, but his mind was set. I remember the outsiders were so worried that they’d all be killed…the fools.”
Evie’s eyes squeeze shut, “He should still be here…it seems really out of character that he wouldn’t have stayed the full year. He isn’t the kind of person to abandon his duty to the dead.”
“He said he wanted to stay and finish,” Ireena says softly. “He’d usually spend the entire day beside that grave and only stay here in the village at night. But he said the house that brought them disappeared and that seemed to change something, though I’m not sure what.”
Evie falls back into her seat, “You know what, nothing surprises me anymore. Disappearing houses? Sure. Already dealt with drug fog and plane shifting mist, so why not vanishing houses.”
“I can’t blame you for the sentiment. Though a vanishing house is rather strange for us as well.”
Emet’s mind wanders to all the strange events since their arrival. So much has happened this day—days?—and he feels almost as defeated and drained as Evie looks. They are exhausted and worn thin and the answers they’ve received barely feel real.
“What was this place like before Strahd awoke?” Emet finally asks. “Was it always like this? Sun swallowing skies, visions in the mist, disappearing homes?”
“Visions?”
Emet hates how genuinely confused Ireena looks. It only confirms that they have been dragged into something strange even for this land. Something bigger. Which inevitably means something far worse than any news they’ve yet heard. It’s only a matter of when enough pieces fall into place for them to understand exactly what that is.
“The fog was always here, even before Strahd awoke. But things were better. Tough, but better than now. We had been dealing with dire wolf problems for awhile and the outsiders helped drive it away. It was some kind of undead beast plaguing the village, coming and going as it pleased. It treated out villagers like prey. But the outsiders managed to slay it and things were better. I suppose we’ve always had problems…but it wasn’t on this scale.”
“Did anyone even know Strahd was in that castle, slumbering above you all? How long was he there?”
“We don’t know how long he was asleep, but we’ve always known,” Ireena says grimly. “The legends of a vampire gone into hibernation have been passed down from our ancestors for generations. So we knew of him, but his grasp was never on our land or in our lives. Or at least, not in the way it is now. Doru heard these same stories growing up and I suppose with the outsiders here—Carmine, Fiske, Kelsey, and Mastaba—he thought now was the time to put an end to it.”
“Did you have vampire problems in the past?” Emet continues as Evie finishes her stew, happy to no longer be under scrutiny. “We noticed the statue in the square mentioned ‘Bane of Vampires’, I believe it said.”
“That is our great grandfather. Ismark Antonavich,” Ireena answers. “He was said to be a great hero. Kolyan always spoke highly of him. In life he was known as Ismark the Great.” Ismark looks down at his soup. Ireena continues, “He was a warrior and he fought scores of vampires in his prime, all the undead left behind when Strahd vanished from public view. Eventually he died defending a group of trappers from a dire wolf attack at the age of forty-four.”
“You say he knew Strahd?” Evie asks.
“No, just Strahd’s servants. The vampires and undead left behind when Strahd went into hibernation.”
“How long has Strahd been in hibernation? Do you know?”
“Generations? Hundreds of years? I’m not sure. All through my father’s life and his father’s life. I suppose that’s why him reawakening is such a big deal.”
“Well, I guess I’d be pretty grumpy after being woken up from a nap like that too,” Evie jests.
Ireena laughs lightly, “Not this grumpy I hope.”
“Some people need their beauty sleep. Sounds like this guy is a total dick, so he probably needs a lot of it.”
Conversation grows a bit lighter after Evie’s joke. Bowls become empty, the breadcrumbs littering dishes the only sign a loaf was ever present, and little pools of wine sit like tiny red windows at the bottoms of glasses.
As the night settles in like a cat stretching itself over the land, darkening the room in its creeping shadow, anxiety slowly invites itself in. An unwelcome guest that lingers in every conversation, turning heads to the boarded windows at every shadow and noise. The more time that passes without sign of Roshan and Evrrot’s return, the more unwelcome the guest makes itself. It drinks the wine and dampens the fire, rustles the old bones of the house and whispers reminders of the one who does not need an invitation into the night.
Now that true night has found its way, Emet wonders how they ever mistook it for the day. Beyond the boarded windows, the dark is pervasive and tangible. Deep and endless without a breath of light.
The elves do their best to distract from the change with small talk, avoiding more conversation about themselves by asking about the lives of these Barovian siblings. It isn’t long before brother and sister forget the deeper shadows hanging over the room and reminisce in stories of their youth. The tales of their family spill into smiles and even some soft laughter. A welcome sight in a place that has seen none since their arrival.
They speak of their father Kolyan, and their mother Korina, the tale softening into the worn smooth pain of an old loss. Their memory a stone set in the pocket of your heart when the pain is still raw and new, occupying the place they once nestled in perfectly. The space now filled with edges too jagged and sharp, the stone ill-fitting in their absence. Over time the memories soften into something smooth, wearing away at the sharpness that reopened the wounds with every visit. The weight never leaves, its heavy surface forever ill-suited to the void it now fills, but no longer a bleeding instrument turned against you at a thought.
“Our mother died fourteen years ago.” Ismark says. “Sickness took her. Our father, Kolyan, did his best to raise us alone. But that is not an easy thing to care for children who do not understand a wound that cannot be mended while trying to tend to his own broken heart.”
“This scarf was hers.” Ireena strokes the hem of the scarlet cloth wrapped lovingly around her neck. Her touch does not anxiously fuss with its placement or try to hide the scars they all know must rest beneath this time. This time the touch is gentle, as though it sits around another’s neck.
“Father was the one who found me when I was a young girl,” Ireena continues, staring off into the flames. “By the edge of the Svalich Wood, near the pillar stones of Ravenloft. I don’t remember anything of my past before then. It’s strange…it’s as if I’ve only lived half a life.” Her brows furrow slightly, the gentle stroking of the scarf growing a little more worried before stopping with a determined release. Whatever emotion she feels shoved down to step above it. “But Kolyan and Korina took me in. I owe everything to them.”
Something in Evie’s eyes shift, softening, “I didn’t realize you were a foundling as well.”
“Yes, I didn’t want to press when you’d told me of your past. It didn’t look like a story you wanted to tell.”
“Sounds like you got a pretty sweet deal,” Evie delicately skirts around Ireena’s opening to say more on her past. “They really seem to dote on you…”
“Yes, she is quite the handful,” Ismark grins.
Ireena elbows him in the ribs playfully before smiling tightly in that way siblings do when they want the other to shut up. The atmosphere lightens with the act, their smiles chasing away the melancholy that settled over the room like wool. Soft and consuming, nestled close with none who wish to leave. The type of sorrow made for burrowing into and wrapping around one’s shoulders that you might dwell in its twisted comfort.
“They’ve always been good to me. I’m quite lucky, I know.” Ireena continues, voice soft. “Anything could have happened to me in those woods. I could have been killed by wolves or stolen away by those I’d rather not think about. But I ended up the daughter of the burgomaster. I have to be grateful for the good things in my life. Even this loaf of stale bread.”
Ireena nudges Ismark’s shoulder with her own and briefly lays her head on his shoulder.
“Might I ask how old you were when you were found?” Emet asks. “How many years of your memory are missing?”
Ireena glances up at Ismark and he scrubs a hand across the scruff of his jaw.
“She was rather young. Seven, I think. Time is a bit harder to pin down when you were a child yourself.”
“Are you older, Ismark?” Evie asks.
“Yes, by two years. I am twenty-five and she is twenty-three.”
A wistful smile finds Evie’s tinted lips, but her eyes are tired with a weight sleep cannot mend. “I bet you were over the moon when you learned you were getting a little sister.”
He laughs deep and hearty and full.
“I was ruined I could no longer be the favorite!”
Ireena punches him swiftly, and not at all gently, in the arm and he laughs again, filling the room with its sound, rubbing the sore spot she left. Emet can’t help but grin to himself seeing the fire in her. She reminds him all the more of Azem.
“I jest, I jest. I was overjoyed. I had a few friends back in those days, but many of them moved to Vallaki. Getting a sister was the best thing that happened to me.” He smiles at Ireena and the warmth of his words bloom within her, spreading out into a smile all her own.
Emet leans back with his wine and watches the two with a hint of his own smile, listening with hunger and satisfaction as the siblings’ conversation turns back to tales of their youth and the mischief they got themselves into. Hunger for the life that still beats so strongly within their hearts and satisfaction for the memory of its taste he nearly forgot.
The moment is stolen away too soon as the sharp rap of knuckles on the front door jars them all back into the coldness of the room, the dimness of the hearth, and all the shadows awaiting them. It seems only their stories—and perhaps the wine—brought the illusion of warmth and life into this place, for it vanishes as quickly as a dream.
It is a shame they must wake up so soon.
