Amberly Hall's Diary

[Lyrewyn]

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This is a small leather-bound diary. The leather itself is dyed a cheerfully bright yellow with its edges rounded off,
the cracks that surround it acting merely to give texture rather than made from wear. On the inside, bound with a
thin red string lay the pages. The creamy soft papers give a strange sort of beauty, the sheen and finish indicating the
work of a prideful papermaker. Resting upon the surface seems to be the words written by a young woman, the letters
soft and curvy, neither too big nor too small.


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[Lyrewyn]

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It’s been six days to a month since I last saw the gates of Memnon’s Finest Enamelware. I do not even know where to begin. I suppose I should say I made it safely to Baldur’s Gate . . . that’s a start. I’ve moved in with a few beggars in the sewers of the East Gate . . . they worried me at first, but after a week of living with them I’ve found their company to be . . . let’s say amiable? I fear letting them become too comfortable with me though . . . I know Fadil’s gold is good, but how do I even begin to use it? Before I can even begin to think of charity, I need stability. I heard there was an opening for an actress in the White Mask Theatre . . . oh who am I kidding? I’m a nobody here. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to watch.

I still can’t get over what happened. Mama . . . Papa . . . Beth and Jose . . . Dante is either dead, lost, or captured, and it doesn’t help at all to think there’s a two out of three chance he’s alive. Sometimes I wish the stories of priests were true. If only for the chance to talk to my parents and siblings lost already . . . if only to say goodbye. I would love for them to be alive again, but even to be given a chance to say goodbye? To know if they truly have moved on to a better place? I know it’s foolish, but a part of me can’t help but yearn to donate to these ‘fortune tellers,’ always littering the streets with their tents and useless paraphernalia. Very pretty though. But as Fadil would say, that’s why they’re art. They exist for the sake of existing.

I met a strange man today. He was definitely . . . something, and I swear he hisses when he talks. I’d never seen anything like him before, and I asked if he was human. He said kind of . . . and that he was blessed by the Bitch Queen, but all I knew was he had the clammiest looking skin I’ve ever seen. And I have seen clammy skin, let me tell you. I did live with two boys who were coming of age. Strangely enough, he only came to talk to me because of my skin. I have never had the colour my mama and papa had, but even so, have I truly been away from the sun that long? I should make these trips outside the Gate more frequent. Goodness knows, I could use not only the air, but now it seems the sun as well.

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[Lyrewyn]

--

I feel for the first time in months, I finally have time to catch my breath. Not as if the Gate it seems, has its’ fair share of problems. Devils? Vampires? What exactly have I gotten myself into?

I recall the same situation staying with Fadil. We both knew him taking us in would compromise his business . . . yet he took us in regardless. The youngest of us were nowhere near the age of his average workers, yet for months he told investors and people he dealt with that we were essential workers. And we tried our best to produce . . . none of us were proficient metalcrafters and it showed in our work. He was losing money having us there, for enthusiasm does not replace actual skill. He still pretended business was booming though, and for a long time, we were safe. I do not know why the protests happened, or why people hated us so.

I can’t help but consider our name. Reyes. In the old tongue, it meant one who carried himself in a regal manner. How ironic is it that we got cought up in this conflict? I do not even think we resembled royalty . . . other than the fact that we owned land. I think our father made enemies simply because he did well . . . and we made enemies for simply getting lucky. Maybe it is a different world up here in the North. I can only pray respite lasts for more than a breath.

It’s still unbelievable how I got here though . . . I know I’d been watching the place hopefully for days. And someone told me they were auditioning for a new actress . . . but I still just wandered into a closed audition! And got accepted! Literally my only qualification was being female . . . Why more women didn’t take the chance at this opportunity I’ll never know. I was probably the only person there who’d never set foot in the theatre, too. It was surprising. The director told me about how the theatre had experienced a dearth in relevance within the past couple of months. I am hoping this little troupe can turn it around. I cannot see how they would fail, I thought myself clever in the ways of magicians yet I could not figure out how they were able to perform their tricks. I dared not touch the man they called Dom out of fear I might spoil the trick, but I could not spot what made him appear as if a hin. Their generosity however is more admirable than their stage abilities. I did not think I would be rid of this loneliness so readily, and yet here I am, with family.

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[Lyrewyn]

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Passing by the Ilmatari temple today, I couldn’t help but be reminded of this girl I once travelled with. Her name was Alice. The most memorable thing I remembered was when we’d traveled with each other for a while through the Small Teeth, and we’d unfortunately had to bury a man felled by giants recently. At the time, it was hard to imagine the name on what looked like a small stick-thin boy with a bad haircut and had a difficult time holding a shovel . . . who had a habit of standing just slightly too close to you and stared just slightly to the left of your face when she talked to you. But she was a believer . . . a true believer. That made her . . . difficult to talk to, if you weren’t.

I asked her how old she was. “N-nineteen,” she stammered.

“Why did you run away from home?”

“Ilmater told me to.”

That was why people didn’t talk to Alice much.

“Alice,” I continued. “You do know that wearing a man’s armor and wielding their sword does not turn you into a soldier?”

“Thank you for reminding me, Amberly,” she replied without a hint of irony. “But Ilmater told me that I would become His champion at the conclusion of my quest.”

I tried to sound jovial, “A quest huh? And what kind of quest is that?”

“I am to take command of the Companions of the Noble Heart.”

I remember the distinct feeling of the hairs on the back of my neck rising. “Err, yes?”

“Yes. Ilmater appeared to me from the doorway when I’d fallen asleep, and He told me to go at once to Cormyr. The Broken God spoke to me, Amber. He commanded me. He guides my steps! How could I fail?”

She had a sword, and a shovel. It required careful handling. “That’s nice,” is what I settled with.

“And . . . I must tell you that . . . I . . . never in my life have I felt such love and camaraderie,” Alice went on earnestly.” These few days have been the happiest of my life. You’ve all shown me such kindness, such gentleness. The Broken God guides me. He guides us all, Amberly. You believe that too, don’t you?”

It was dark out, yet the moisture on her cheeks stood out hauntingly as they outlined the moon’s light. They eroded a path through the grimy valleys of her cheeks.

“Um,” I said, trying to find a way to not lie. “Uhh, you do know I am looking for my brother, Dante?”

“Yes, and that does you credit, Ilmater knows,” she replied to me quickly.

“Yes . . . well, yes. I am also doing it for Ilmater’s sake,” I continued, feeling wretched. “I think about the Triad all the time, I admit.” I was telling the truth . . . but also being very dishonest.

“I am so very glad to hear that, Amberly, because I had thought you were a backslider. But you said that with such conviction. Perhaps this would be the time for us to get down on our knees and –“

“Alice, you’re standing in another man’s grave,” I interrupted. “There’s a time and a place, you know? Let’s get back to the others, hmm?”

The happiest days of her life had been spent trampling through mountains, digging graves, and trying to dodge giants and ogres? I think my problem was . . . is, I keep asking questions even when I know I’ll really, really hate the answer.

“So . . . Ilmater talks to you, does He?” I asked.

“Oh yes. When we were in Murann sleeping in the hay, waiting for the day to break. He said it was all working.”

Don’t, DON’T ask another question, I kept telling myself. For some reason I ignored me, out of sheer, horrible curiosity. Alice was nice . . . well, sort of nice, in a slightly scary way – but talking to her was like picking a scab; you knew what was likely under the crust, but you picked anyway.

“So . . . what did you do back in Murann?” I asked.

She gave me her haunting smile. “I used to be beaten.”

--

We did eventually make it past the Sharp Teeth, and we travelled with the same group through Amn where we split up. She made her way East through the Uldoon Trail, and I continued my way North. I wonder if she’ll ever make to her destination? People had a difficult time understanding her, I know I still don’t. But she had a certainty about her that you could bend steel on. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wished it worked. Whenever she prayed . . . you knew nothing was going to happen and yet she said her prayers with such conviction that, for a few minutes, you really felt like the world was a better place. And then the moment passes, and it is still the same unflinching, uncaring world despite her efforts. It’s tragic . . . and for that, perhaps this one exception, I shall pray for her tonight.

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[Lyrewyn]

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I am unsure what to make of Mr. Silverscale. He is charming enough, in his own way. With the same charisma Fadil once presented himself with to my family. I think that was why I was so readily able to pay the price of a single date. I fool myself into thinking I am familiar with his type, though even now, despite everything he has done for me, I still do not understand Mr. Nejem’s motives or mind. Perhaps I overthink the minds of men. Why can’t people merely offer aid at the goodness of their hearts? It feels that I live completely on charity and goodwill, and why not? When you make a meal, is it not one of the greater joys to see it emptied out? To hear your families and friends asking for more? To feel needed, I think, is one of the true pleasures in life.

I suppose the only reason I remain suspicious is because both these men are businessmen. It is a terrible practice to run your business on altruism . . . I talked to Fadil’s accountant. We were quite certain that if he kept running production the way he did for all those months with us, he would have gone broke within another month or two. Even now I wonder if he truly keeps my siblings safe. It is not that I think he would willingly abandon them, but because he would be left without a choice. Steph, Elrich and I can look after ourselves, but Tilda, Art and little Sam . . . Well, Memnon is a rich place. Hopefully they can lead successful lives there.

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