Ameris Santraeger - Meditations

[kleomenes]

The Fulcrum

“Perhaps backstage?” she offered, standing, leading me up the steps, across the boards and behind the hanging frieze. “I’ve only been there once, you know!” I chuckled, as I moved to follow her. “After the last play put on by the theatre, the one before this one.”

“Ah yes,Thistle.” She smiled a bit. She was perfect. Tired, perhaps. But perfect. Perfect when I saw her in Thistle. And perfect that night, as she smiled and beckoned me through the darkened corridor towards the locked door to the theatre troupe’s private areas. “A good first impression, I hope?”

Of course it was. “What is good? Your acting was a marvel, certainly. I doubt you even remember exchanging words as indeed, we hardly did.”

“I have to admit, it is a bit hazy in my memory. The show nights are always so busy...”

“And you had not had the advantage of spending two hours watching me give a stellar performance on the stage.” She did the decency of granting me a small laugh.

It was early in Nightall, 1349. I’d been on the coast for eight months or so. I had changed much from the wandering priest, running from the wrath of the thieves of Athkatla; and from my own sins in Tethyr. Now I was a sworn brother of the Order of the Radiant Heart, a loyal follower of Prelates Valkarian, White, and Marshall, and comrade to the Paragon Arkaine Halforken. A servant of a greater ideal, of chivalry and honour. Like my brothers, a champion of righteousness. I would have done anything for them.

(Alas, my wounded honour, I did, did I not? To your cost)

Yet the truth was that the man who walked across that stage was an actor, with quiet failure after quiet failure under his belt.

He had defied the laws of men that he had sworn to uphold, to answer the law of his god. He had brewed together his doubt and loneliness with his pure faith, and made a concoction both beautiful and terrible to feed to a wounded deer. He had danced with the shadows who haunted the Order, tainting the purity of the brotherhood, and only revealed his clumsiness. He had faltered in self doubt, and embraced ennui.

He had come that very night from the embrace of perfumed Sharress, the kisses of a woman who deserved better on his cheeks.

One would not know the corruption inside to look at him. To look at me. One would not know how brittle was my resolve, how bloody and bruised my faith.

It still lived though. I visited for concern for the actress, knowing she bore a pain, that the horrors of Triel had wounded her deeply. I would heal it, if i could, I thought. It is what friends do.

“My office.” She said as she turned the key to her room, speaking of how it came with her role as assistant director. I took it all in as I entered, noting the strange paintings and decor, Another woman’s room, I thought, which she confirmed later. The fire already crackled in the hearth to ward against the winter cold. The accoutrements of the stage could be seen all about, a rack of stage weapons being very much in evidence. A four poster bed dominated the room, a desk nestled in the far corner, and nearest to me, a rocking chair.

I took the challenge, and sat. Stable seating was a battle it took some time to win, much to the actress’ amusement as she perched on the edge of the oversized bed. The chair had one advantage though, a proper distance. A safe distance. Where my base nature could be reminded that I was a knight, and a man of honour.

I do not consider that I could have been mistaken for being dashing, to her.

The pleasantries done, her smile faded. When she spoke, her voice was low, and hollow. Putting me in mind of how she was after the horrors of Triel.

“I saw some strange things, Ameris.” We shared talk, of my encounter with the apparition of a soldier who had died besieging the temple of Bhaal, and its dire warnings against bloodshed at the Friendly Arm Inn which stood in its place. Of how it called upon me as a servant of the Broken God. I saw how the words affected her, how her gaze lingered on the flames of the fire. She cleared her throat, and looked at me. “A ghost appeared before me and asked me if I knew you, Ameris. It called you by name though... not merely as Ilmateri.”

I asked when it was. Recently, she said, just before the journey to Triel; just before the White Handed God brought its horror to the place. Just before both the dark and the light lost. She relayed the warning the ghost had given her, fear giving her voice a tremble.

I remember wondering if she had seen the same spirit I had. “What did the apparition look like to you?”

She looked away, her raven hair shielding her expression, her voice barely above a whisper. “ Like something from a wicked nightmare... It was tall and dark and stood well above me... I am certain it would have killed me.”

“Even though it asked you to pass a message?” I was confused. I suppose I still am, on that point.

“There were... things happening.” She relayed the warning in full, the promised coming of a servant of Bhaal. Our troubled minds coming together on the issue. Yet I saw her pale skin, the fear in her eyes, heard the wavering voice. Remembered her catatonic collapse amidst the fire and death we had seen in the north, so recently.

“This has you worried, doesnt it?"

“It tried to kill me.” She breathed.

I tried to reassure. “It must have been terrifying. You are braver than you think though. Given what I saw you do to try and aid with the cure.”

“It was... difficult. Do you need to tell anyone of that ghost...? I imagine your superiors know what you say?”

I confirmed they would, and did. “Can I ask you, to not mention my name...?” Came the appeal.

“Why, lady?”

“I do not want questions about it, I was to forget it...!” A near panic in her voice, and she ran her hands through her hair.

My own words came with softness. “Thankyou for speaking to me about it. I know it must be hard. I don’t fully understand the effect its had on you. It might help you if you talk about that...”

“It was a message for you.” Her tone almost guarded. I knew something was hidden. I knew she did not say all.

“Something affected you. You should know lady, you need not fear telling me anything. A burden shared, as the saying goes, among the Ilmateri.”

The hands in her hair tugged in distress.”Of course it did...! The ghost...has power...and is....dangerous. Just...keep that in mind, Ameris.” A warning. Worry for herself. Worry for me.

But the Ilmatari are not to be denied, and I persevered. “Tell me what troubles you lady. In detail..” The firmness fading with the last appeal. “Please?”

“There were other ghosts...“ I could barely hear her reply and leaned forward, but the Maiden of Pain must have fashioned the rocking chair, as it betrayed me and near spilled me on to the floor.

She should have laughed; but she just stared at the wall.

The Ilmatari are not to be denied. I came to kneel before her, my hands in my lap. Propriety overwhelmed now by compassion, I tried to meet her gaze, but she would not allow it.

The Ilmatari are not to be denied. I sorted through which keys could be used to unlock this problem. Or which knives I could twist. Even before I harped, I could manipulate. My father taught me without words that is how one rules. “I can only ask you to speak to me. You should understand though that sending someone into danger with incomplete information is like denying them their shield before battle.”

The key started to turn, but then jammed. “It was not important.“

The Ilmatari are not to be denied. “I do not know what holds you back. Pain perhaps, I can understand that. But you should know you can trust me.”

Yet that damned key was still stuck. “Whatever else there was... does not matter...”

The Ilmatari are not to be denied. “Truly?”

Yet the woman only nodded.

So now, it was time for knives, not keys. Ameris Santraeger is not to be denied. “I place my trust in your judgment on that then. I know you would not wish me harm, or indeed harm to others who might be affected.”

The actress’ voice was soft and gentle. “You are right Ameris, so please... do not ask me further.” So was her hand, as it brushed my cheek. Trailing hot fire down my cheek.

Her eyes on mine.

Mine on hers.

I felt it then, well up within me. I was not there as priest or knight. I was not there as friend. I was there with all my heart and soul, and I knew that whatever fears she had that made her plead for silence would burn away when our lips met. Sune’s chosen.

Her lips parted, her eyes widening. She felt it to. I knew it. In that moment I knew it.

I had found the key. And saw she held mine.

But then it all came flooding back, my false promises and unwashed sins and bitter failures and the split wine and heady musk and the angry scribbling of a bitter quill and the laughing shadows pulling my puppet strings and then, and then dark eyes sinking into a dark pit and I remembered that to be loved by Ameris Santraeger is to know pain.

And I stood, the lock to my heart firm; and threw away the key in my hand.

Her hand fell, and she looked back to the fire. I spoke as if nothing had happened. Friendly in tone, yet really, so cold.

“Thankyou for passing this on lady. You were unlucky to be the one to encounter the spirit yet it was perhaps fortuitous in a sense, in that you knew me.”

She nodded. Silent.

Words followed, of course, earnest words, the encouragements and promises of a priest, a comrade. They were not the key though, and I knew it, even as I took her wan smiles at face value, and pretended that the laughter that came later, and the awkward hug, and the talk of future plans and hopes meant something more than the performance had resumed.

If I had turned that key, half of Neraline’s plot would have been foiled.

If I had turned that key, I would not have thrashed wildly in my febrile loss and instead been a priest to the bardess.

If I had turned that key, I would not have had the purity of my faith tainted by a burning drive for purpose. Would I have caused the tragedy of Sisters tormented and slain? Would the beast of shadow have marauded the lands?

If I had turned that key, the light of love might have banished the shadows around us both.

If I had turned that key, she would have ceased her fall into the pit.

If I had turned that key, she would not have lain on a bed of steel so long, a bed of nails, the nails of a tyrant’s duty breaking her innocence.

*the writing here becomes scraggly and rushed*

I threw it away. Broke her with a hammer of loss.

Leaving wounds; wounds that run so deep, I have never seen such, so deep.

My hands are bloody from trying to heal, her blood, mine. Now I add to it.

I made them. I did this. It was my darkness that fractured her beyond that which could be cured.

Not the first I broke. Not the last. With the hammer.

Brother

---

*a neat line, and neat words following it*

Persevere in the face of pain.

I will, my lord. Oaths are given, to you, and before you.

Whatever my sins, I will not add despair to them.

[kleomenes]

Vow of Peace

“You seem to be healing up nicely, sir. I think you will be back to your old self in half a tenday at most. But I will come by to check.”

I began packing the smelling salts and ointments back into my satchel as the shopkeeper laced up his shirt. Senor Goya had a rather nasty rash, consequent of an even nastier infection. He had been too sick to come to the temple, but Brother Alavar's deep community contacts had brought rumour that the old potter had closed his shop, and so I was sent around to see all was well.

This was my second visit, and it seems Senor Goya was on the mend, although he had gone against my advice to rest. Clearly the shop had been swept and tidied to render it fit for opening again, and there were even some fresh bowls and cups for sale, showing he had been at the wheel, not in bed. It was a little concerning. Senor Goya's fastidious attire and well kept beard made him seem healthier than he was he was. Upon closer examination he looked gaunt and tired.

“Thankee, Brother.” Said Goya, his breaths still a little short. “What do I owe?”

“What you can give, when times are better.” I replied. Brother Alavar had been clear that I was to refuse donation this time. “But for now, just concentrate on your rest.”

When I had first visited, the man had been keen to try and press some silver coins into my hand. This time though, he just nodded, dipping his head in dead-eyed shame. My brow furrowed a little.

“Senor Goya...”

The door to the shop opened, interrupting me, and heavy set boots were heard moving across the dusty wooden floor. I saw the fear in Senor Goya's eyes as I picked up my satchel and followed him out from the back room into the shop proper.

Two men had entered. The first, thick set, with greasy, shoulder length hair and messy, salt and pepper stubble. Pockmarked cheeks and a nose like a rotten strawberry showed evidence of a hard life, and one medicated by drink. His comrade was leaner, although taller, his hair shaved but growing out into a short fuzz. His pinched face exuded a casual cruelty, yellowed teeth visible between permanently parted lips. Both wore cheap swords at their sides, and long daggers in their belts. I thought them sailors. Perhaps they were.

“Goya.” Said the first. “You got it yet?” And then, almost as an aside, he looked to me for a brief moment. “And you, get out.” I took a few steps towards the door then stopped, thumb running along the leather of my satchel's strap. Brother Alavar always told me I didn't understand Athkatla yet.

“G-good b-business....N-not all...” Stammered the shopkeeper, wiry hands fumbling under the counter, before producing a pouch. The size of it did not seem to please the new arrivals.

“Are you a kobold? You know we're here to foreclose the debt, how that happens depends on the size of that pouch. Take a look, Galin.” The first one rumbled.

The second one , Galin, leaned forward to inspect the pouch. “Its too small.” He said with barely concealed glee.

“Excuse me.” I said. An officious tone in my voice, a little high pitched.

Galin turned to me with a sneer. "Didn't you hear Senor Friendly? Jog on, priest. Go back to curing colds, this is business.”

The larger man, the first one, had reached to pick up the pouch.

“S-senor Mikez knows....h-he knows I w-will be good for it...I've...j-just been sick...is all...” Senor Goya squirmed in fear. Rightly so. Even I knew of Mikez as a particularly rough moneylender. So these men must be his collectors.

The first thug tossed the coin pouch onto the counter, dismissively. “You're only as good as your last deal, Goya. Senor Mikez said we are gonna have to make an example of you. Come 'ere.”

With that, a gnarled hand reached out to grab Senor Goya's forearm. Goya wailed as his hand was slammed down on the counter top, and the first thug reached to draw his dagger. “Now really, are you gonna pay, or not.”

I did not understand Athkatla, perhaps, but I understood this. I strode forward, towards the captive shopkeeper. “Please, gentlemen, surely there is some way to come to an accommodation...”

The first thug turned, letting go of Senor Goya's hand. Goya darted away, pressing his back against the wall behind the counter, massaging his wrist, his eyes full of pleas.

I smiled politely. “There is no need for violence, it is reasonable that Senor Goy....oooof!” The fist hit my stomach without warning, and the air was knocked out of me.

“No.” I heard the first thug say. I staggered back, clutching my stomach.

“Bloody hell, Rast, a priest?” said Galin as he came to stand before me.

“Yeah well, I'm sick of these southerners, they're everywhere. I mean listen to him. Lah lah lah!”

“Just a...” I gasped out, grimacing, only for the second thug to thump me in the face, hard. I flew back, crashing into a shelf of earthenware bowls, which shattered as they fell. The room spinning, I staggered a few steps before my back thudded into the wall.

During the next moments words came only as if through water. When my vision righted itself, and my senses returned, I flet the pain of busted lips, I heard harsh words and the whimpering of Senor Goya, and I saw the first thug pinning the shopkeeper to the wall by his throat. The second watches on, an amused smirk on his lips.

Ever since the sickness had swept Athkatla, and stretched our shrine beyond its limits, there had been a new element in my prayers. All that anger I had borne at the suffering of those we could not help, and at those wealthy Athkatlans who did not suffer, and just looked on, the Revered Father had bid me pour into a single prayer, to give it up to the Broken God, to be free of its burden.

As I saw Rast slap Senor Goya I remembered those prayers.

My hand gripped my holy symbol where it hung around my neck. My lips began to move silently, a prayer, one from the tradition of my homeland.

“And He looked out over the rods and whips, the screws and racks, the chains and shackles.”

“You've got more hidden away.” I heard Rask snarl, as a fist thudded into ageing flesh.

My voice was a whisper now. “The Maiden's casket; the Wheel. He smelt the fear in the air and saw the blood on the floor.”

“No, nothing! Please! I s-swear!” grovelled Senor Goya.

Near where I had fell, there leaned a broom against a wall, the very one Senor Goya had swept his shop floor with all these years. My hand clasped around it, tight, and I began to stand.

“Looks like we're goin' to be making a mess then, old man!” Sneered Galin. And I heard another thud of a blow, and a pained cry from Senor Goya.

I felt anger settle on me. Not that which I had given up to my god, dark and murderous, but pure and white hot. An anger bound in service to compassion. And with it, came a strength unlike that which I had known before. My years in service to Ilmater, keeping a vow of peace, had wasted my strength in misuse. Yet I felt more power in my arms now than I ever had as a trained warrior.

My voice rose, clearly audible now, the tone not meek, or mild, but resonating with resolve and challenge. “And he said 'I know my enemy'.“

Galin turned from the sadistic spectacle in annoyance. “Shut up, pri...”

The broom handle struck him so hard across the face that it shattered. With a squeal, Galin span away, clutching his face, slipping on the shards of broken pottery as they scraped along the floor under his boots, and landing with a thump. I strode over and, as he lay dazed, drew the sword at his belt and tossed away his dagger.

Rast turned, pushing the sobbing shopkeeper away forcefully. “What are you doing? I'll write your contract in red ink!” The man drew his sword and dagger, advancing out from behind the counter.

“Defend yourself.” I replied, a hard edge to my voice.

I do not know whether he was a poor swordsman, or whether he just did not expect me to be able to fight, or whether it was the Broken God's hand on my shoulder, but Rast's blades were slow. My sword met his, deflecting it, and my knee powered into his gut. He staggered, and I landed a painful, if shallow, cut to his side. He yelped, distracted, but that was the intent, as I darted behind him with a speed I did not know I had any longer, and slashed out at his right leg, cutting his hamstrings. He fell to one knee, keening in surprise.

“Tethyrian dog!” He exclaimed, a shrill of fear in his voice.

I raised the stolen sword in anger, ready to spill blood. But something made me hesitate. Instead, I brought the pommel down, then kicked the man against the counter. Dazed, his head lolling.

I turned to Galin, whose face was a bloody mess, as he stood. Unarmed, he looked at me with wary fear. His eyes drawn to Rast's blood on the blade.

I felt the anger pass, leaving no bitter threads like my own did. My Lord's anger is pure, and weak before his Mercy.

I spoke calmly. “Your comrade cannot walk. Help him. And go.”

Galin stood still, eyes wide. Finally, he spoke. “You will pay for this. You know it!”

“Help him ...” I repeated. “And go.”

The whole shrine nearly paid for it. But Brother Alavar had healed some dangerous people over his years. One of them, Sig, decided now was the time he would aid the Ilmatari as they had aided him as a child. Quiet words were had from the shadows, threats to burn the shrine were taken back, and Senor Goya was given time to pay his debt.

I, however, had no place in Athkatla. That was Senor Mikez's price the price for this peace, and I knew it myself, after what had happened. I had to find my own way to serve.

So north I went, to Baldur's Gate.

[kleomenes]

A Burden Shared

I held the sword tight in my hand, its light blazing before me as I descended down the stairs, into the pit beneath Castle Santraeger. Into that hellish place I had consigned Reena to, that place where we put captive rebels to question. Where, now, the great evil that had used Lohtrik Sarneh to inflict such suffering on the people of Suldaskar awaited us for final conflict. Lady Iftar, Knight Kuldar, followed behind me, and behind her, her squire, Juros.

It was black down below, impossibly dark, only the holy blade in my hand offering any respite at first. Our boots sloshed through liquid past our ankles. Red liquid, warm; blood. Impossible for there to be so much blood not draining away. Impossible. The heat burned, sweat rolling down the side of my nose as I gasped behind the visor. I tasted gore in my mouth.

“Such profanity.” Growled Lady Iftar, her Calish accent thick. Juros assented, his courage by no means failing despite his inexperience. “Aye, m'lady.”

“Whats that?” I asked, pointing. Ahead, impossibly far ahead for how large the room should have been, there was a circle of red light. And within it, a rack, empty.

Its then that the voice whispered in the darkness. “For you, Lord Santraeger; your noble chair.”

And then it was upon us, a charging mass of red scales, bat wings, a vile, ichor drooling mouth, an outstretched claw and a cruel looking, barbed weapon halfway between a blade and a metal club in the other hand.

I swung up the sword to meet the first blow; ever since Mealir gave me that eastern ring, my reactions have been fast. An oath on my lips, a fury on me. The energy running through the blade sparked with the foulness of the fiendish hatchet, and the beast's raw strength send me flying back onto one knee.

Lady Iftar's blade darted out, channelling the power of the True, her stern features set with resolve, a grunt the only sound as she thrust it deep into the beast. It roared in pain, recoiling, disappearing once more into the darkness.

“Brother Santraeger, are you wounded?” the Lady asked.

“No.” I replied, standing, gore rolling down my shins. I clasped my holy symbol, invoking the Broken God. “Smile on me, my Lord Ilmater, as we are here to bring an end.” Touching his power to bolster that of my own battered body. The battle outside had been taxing.

“What was that?” The squire asked as we advanced towards the red light, wary glances cast about.

“A fiend of great power.” replied Lady Iftar. “We will destroy it or die in the attempt.”

A malignant chuckle echoed out. “The second.”

This time it rushed Lady Iftar, not keen to taste her blade again yet recognising her as the greatest threat. She deflected its first blow and slashed her sword across the beast's midriff with a cry of anger. My own weapon lashed out, cutting through its side like butter; proof against even fiendish tyranny. The beast roared in pain, and the squire joined the assault with his own war cry as he lashed at the common foe. “Inhuman monstrosity!”

But the beast had only been playing before. Its wings spread wide, with great power, bashing both Juros and I back. Lady Iftar's blade locked against its cruel hatchet, but it was childsplay to tear her shield from her arm – painfully, from the cry she gave out, before its tail lashed round to constrict round the noble paladin with bone crunching force.

“No!” I yelled, and charged once more; so did Juros, but the beast hurled the shield at him, striking him head on; he flew back against something hard with a clang and a crack.

“I am undone.” Gurgled Lady Iftar, still struggling, still fighting, as the beast's jaws descended to end her life.

My blade lashed out again, the light burning the beast's hide, slashing through its forearm to see the monstrous hatchet fall into the gore at our feat. Yet the fiend's triumphant rage overwhelmed the pain it felt as it discarded Lady Iftar's broken, dead body just as quickly, and pumelled a fist into me.

I was down. My head span. I swang out the blade again as I saw a shadow loom above. It caught my forearm, crushing bones. The blade fell from my hand, its light fading as soon as It left my grip, plunging us into darkness. I smelt the carrion breath of the beast as it leaned close, laughing. And then, a crushing impact, and I knew reason no more.

I swam on a sea of agony. I do not know how long. It must have been a minute or so, in reality. It felt like a lifetime.

I awoke on my knees. Every nerve hurt. Everything was bathed in a red light. A man stood before me, in Amnian finery, black and gold. A handsome man, the sort of dark stranger to make women swoon; although his eyes burned with hellfire. His was a diabolic beauty.

The man's tone was dismissive. “You've cost me some good servants, weeping one. To think I nearly had what I wanted from this cesspool you once called a home.”

He leaned down to look me in the eye. “I'd torture you for eternity, but your kind don't care about pain.”

His hand reached to cradle the holy symbol around my neck. But he let it go, quickly.

“No, a better punishment for you. You've come here looking for atonement, undoing the pain you once caused. If I'd never sent my servants here, you'd never have had that chance. How quaint, to think of that, no?”

I squirmed. Some magic controlled me. I wanted to lash out at him. I wanted to break him.

“A shame you aren't more like this all the time, you'd be a good servant then. I will have to break your mind though, to break that faith. You will be made into a puppet, and I will send you out to undo all those bonds that this little conflict has forged between that gaggle of mortals assembled upon above. You will become the Lord you were always meant to be; then you'll be killed.”

He smiled. “And inside, you'll be watching while I make you do it.”

I could hear a sound, footsteps sloshing through the blood. The man looked towards it, and stood, smirking. “Ah, a visitor. This should be good.”

Dismissively he waved a hand towards me. And I was on a rack, then, chained, immobile, paralysed. Unable to speak, but able to watch, and listen. The man stepped back into the shadows, with one final, triumphant smirk in my direction.

Telia appeared out of the darkness. She held my sword in both her hands, point wavering. It was dull in her grip, inert, the silver blade stained red in the light. She was afraid, it was written on her face. But so was her resolve. My eyes were drawn to the white flower in her hair, the one she'd worn since our wedding what seemed like a lifetime ago, but was in fact only a tenday old.

The man – the beast - appeared out of the shadows, and his voice purred with promise. "I smell the taint of my servant on you....And the taint of many sins, committed when you were true to your heart."

There is a power in his voice as he continues, gaze focused on my wife. "Don't you miss when you could define yourself? Don't you miss when you knew, at least, your power made you safe. Not this weak thing, this fragile flower that the fool here so easily discards for duty."

He gestured to me dismissively at that point.

She screwed her eyes shut, as if to block out his voice. It was no good, and she gasped, breaths heavy, eyes opening to look at him. Rapt, unable to look away. The sword wavering, dipping a little.

"My investment here has not paid off...but I am patient. I will have what is hidden under Mount Thargill in time. And those who aid me will be well rewarded."

He walked towards me, brushing a hand across me possessively. "I will use this priest to sow dissent among the rabble out there and retrieve what I can from this setback. I can discard him then."

He smiled at Telia then. Warmly, warm like the Hells. She was beholden to his sibillant voice, not looking away.

"You are not like these crude men and women of faith. You have power. You have worth, which you do not borrow. I do not need to offer you magic; a pact is not of use to you. What I can offer you is something greater.”

His voice filled with promise. “Serve me, and you will never want for coin or servants again. You will be safe. You will be pampered. And you will not be bored. I do not need to use one like you for crude games like this. Refuse and I will destroy you now."

The man's power passed. She had to choose herself. I saw her lower the blade. I felt fear.

"You speak truth." She said, and I felt pain.

"But how do you expect someone like me... to serve you, without knowing anything of you...?" She looked around. "You said I was not without power, surely my service would be an appreciated thing... one which we both would mutually benefit from."

Her green eyes were thoughtful when she looked back to the man, "I would like to know who I am dealing with... and what the terms are. So, who are you... and what are the terms...?"

I tried to speak. I tried to say anything. I couldn't.

He purred his response. "A contract of service, of course." And then, from nowhere, a bound document appeared, and he held it up. "Bound to loyalty to me with your life, not your soul as guarantee."

My mind moved to the oaths of our wedding; that contract between us.

He smiled again. "Information has power. Knowing what pressure to apply where, has power. This is what I would use you for, beyond the study of precious things." Here he revealed what he meant by something greater. Something that would speak to the darkness within her.

The smile widened. "I am a foreigner. Very foreign. I take my debts seriously and keep my word. You may call me Xeer." Clearly, not his actual name.

Telia looked doubtful, dismissive. "My life, you say...? That is not the usual deal indeed. But you are right, information has power... knowledge is everything.”

I thought further back, to the promise I had given before she left Darkhold, the promise I honoured. And the promises from her in that first month, to support me, stand with me, that promise she didn't know the weight of at the time, that had led her here, to this place of blood and suffering, a woman dominated by fear braving such horrors. For what? For me.

Such is the life I've given her. Such is the burden she's shouldered. Such is what it is, to love Ameris Santraeger. At least I can with an honest heart say now, I do not choose to cause such pains; I do not intend them. They are a side effect.

She nodded at the document. “I cannot really inform myself properly, how could I prove my value of knowledge if I cannot even read this document? May I call forth light, so I may do so..? Or do you have it in... larger print...?"

"Now is not really the time for complex negotiations," the man replied almost tersely. The contract shrank to a single page, instantly. He showed it to Telia. She spent her time reading it.

Absently, she asked. Without feeling, she asked. "And what will happen to the man here...?"

I knew, I knew that false. Always she'd hidden her thoughts so well. I knew the pain that would be within her.

She stepped closer to look at me. The blade was still in her hand, hanging seemingly forgotten, inert.

The beast crowed. "Used by a creature with more sense than his god. He will be dominated, and sent to cause division above. He will die in the process. A step in freeing you from weakness."

"Freeing me..." my wife repeated, casting a thoughtful glance back to the beast in man's form. She was a good actress. She was a good actress.

She looked at me. Then she looked back at the man "Freedom is given... “

She swung the blade around, over head, a clumsier blow I have never seen. “...by breaking chains..!"

And yet still, it struck true, hitting the shackles around my wrists. I swear I saw the sword flare for a moment. The illusory bindings disappeared, the rack dissolved to ash, and there I was, on my knees. Yet my heart, it soared. And I was free.

“Foolish.” said the man, anger on his features, yet his anger was as that against errant, annoying flies. He disappeared into the darkness.

I stood, despite the agony. My hand reached out. “The sword” I said, voice haorse. She gave it; her words filled with reproach for having dropped the blade in the first place. "He is still around here somewhere... be careful!" I loved her sharp tongue, in that moment.

As the sword blazed to life in my hands my lips formed a prayer, defying the beast's laughter from the shadows. "Merciful Ilmater, shine your light in the darkness.”

And so we stood together, in battle against the evil that had cast its shadow over Suldaskar, and I made good my oaths to Helm, and her, once again, her oaths to me.

If I get through this coming trial, I must return such favour.

((written IC on 26th Eleasis, before the events with the Barber on 27th))

[kleomenes]

*the handwriting is a little messy, the speech is a final draft*

Speech at High Hall, Elturel, 21 Hammer 1353

Lord Dhelt, Lord Piergeiron, Lord Arunsun and other dignitaries of the Elturel and the Sword Coast, I am grateful to be allowed to speak. I apologise in advance if my words are lengthy.

I have been absent in the city of Baldur's Gate for some months now, and am soon to be away, perhaps permanently, and so I can only offer words of advice, as my own conduct towards any goal will be limited in the extreme.

I spent three and a half years calling Baldur's Gate my home. In that time I served first among the Adorned and as a knight of the Radiant Heart, holding fealty to the Dukes of Baldur's Gate by my oaths.

It was there that I first fought the Zhentarim, not in blades, but with the traitor that nestled within the Order, my direct superior Eliphas Valkarian, although I did not know him false at the time, even as his machinations had him controlling both sides of every conflict.

When I learned that there was as traitor in the Radiant Heart, that is when I accepted the offer of the Harpers to stand with them so I might have aid to root him out. I was fighting a poisonous snake, but I was a mouse, not a mongoose. For there was a traitor amidst the Harp too, and so when the Zhentarim came to disrupt the attempts to heal cursed Triel I was captured not just as a member of the Order, rather a servant of freedom. And then tortured and worse for the same reason.

My sister in Faith, Cecilia Lafayette, suffered much as I. Worse, in fact, for she was left alone in the Order of the Radiant Heart to fight that snake Eliphas, and did what others could not, exposing him and ending his corruption of that virtuous order. It has never recovered.

Both my sister and I have fought the Zhentarim openly and in the shadows, and bear the marks of that, and of the betrayal of false friends wearing masks over their wicked intentions. A lesson several of the Dukes of Baldur's Gate have seemingly yet to learn.

I fought on as a Harper, and Ilmatari. Many know how I have reacted in the end to the most bitter of the betrayals I met. My wife once served the Zhentarim, and knows them and their ways well. There is nothing good about them. There is nothing true about them. I suspect there are none here that need to be told that, or what a threat they are.

I speak of the former Lord Magus Telia Navra because of the lessons her defection has taught me. I am an idealist. I freely admit that, although I struggle to remain so at times. I do not look away from the lesson that the only success I have ever had of note against the Zhentarim was based on that idealism and a belief that I need not become hard and violent in order to fight evil. I need not become iron or steel.

We oppose the Zhentarim because they believe the world is a cold, cruel, bitter place and they hold themselves the most cold, the most cruel, the most bitter. The most pragmatic. We oppose them because we see a better world and would fight for it.

I am not going to say anything about this plan regarding Triel, or any other plans, as I cannot be here to help with them, as I said. I am instead going to make an appeal to all of us here who attend on the invitation of these great dignitaries.

In the past when many here have come together, our common goals have been shrouded in disagreements, mistrust, pride and judgement. I include myself in those sins, and speak not with rebuke, just with sad memory.

Clearly, we are all mortal and all individuals, and disagreement is normal. But I urge all to think on the need for unity and harmony in such a time as this. We are faced with a Zhentarim victory, happened upon with barely any warning. We might question if we had all stood together, worked together, that we might have prevented it.

It is hard to work together. One has to actively work for harmony, forgive slights, agree to disagree. Trust and cooperate.

I ask the impossible, perhaps, but we can but try. I thank you for your patience to my words.

[kleomenes]

The Dark before the Night

We were seated when they entered. My father on his high backed chair, and myself on his right, my face a mask of duty and iron willed certainty. Jalamir stood to my father's left. Stoic as always. Only a pair of trusted guards stood behind us, Inaver and Mulmar. This was to be a small, short audience.

The doors at the back of the great hall opened and in walked our three guests, each one different to the next.

The woman on the left was well dressed, as peasants go, with a smart dress and an engraved clasp on her leather belt. A lady of some means compared to most Suldaskar residents, she even had a paunch, and the beginning of jowls. Her name was Kessar Springleaf, a merchant hailing from Willowdell Village. Her wagon was a common sight in the southern part of the county, much beloved for the treats she often gave children out of her own pocket. Like her father and grandfather she made her coin importing neccesities and luxuries from Ithmong which she traded for any left over bounty from Suldaskar's harvests other peasants had to sell. While Kessar had evidently not gone hungry, Suldaskar's recent harsh winters had left their mark on her, too. Gone was that gold ring she had been so proud of.

The man in the centre was quite different. Bhalam Gas walked with military precision, one that echoed that of the Santraeger guardsmen. No accident, given in his youth he had spent half a decade in our service, before he retired to marry and work his ailing father's tenancy in the village of Rock Creek. Now in his fifties, his coal black ringlets had long since turned grey, but while youthful vitality had faded, fervent discipline had not. Bhalam had been appointed Sherrif in Rock Creek, whose militia were reputed to be the best drilled in the County. Unlike many sherrifs his courage was well known, and when threats arose he did not wait for Santraeger horsemen to ride to his rescue.

The man on the right was of average height, average looks, of inderminate age. Yalas Pren was his name. A non-entity, my grandfather might have called him. Forgettable. Clad as a peasant of middling means, a brown smock completing his unremarkable appearance. Yet, looking closely, his clothing showed no signs of repair, well maintained, his shoes well kept, brand new. Of the three, he rode to the castle on the finest horse. Of the three, he had the most reliable source of coin, these days.

All three knew, of course, that a band of bandits had formed in the County. They knew that these bandits had stolen grain meant as taxes to our family from more than one warehouse, only to give much of it secretly to the people. They knew that then, in Tressing village, the bandits had overpowered the Sherrif and his militia when they had been caught in the act. They knew that the bandits had then had stolen gold from one of our tax collectors to fund their exploits.

They knew that when we tried to hunt the bandits down they would ambush overconfident or sloppy patrols then melt away into hiding. They knew that when the bandits hid, we hunters could only take increasingly harsh measures upon those thought to be working with them – and on those accepting their charity.

They even knew that many in the county called these bandits by another, more truthful, name: Rebels.

They did not know that the lost grain and coin meant that my father was going to be unable to meet his obligations to the Crown this year. They did not know that the only answer was heavy debt, or a swift end to the rebellion.

Yalas spoke first, after all three had bowed to the Count, Ardepan Santraeger, their sovereign lord.

“Your excellency. My Lord. I present to you Kessar Springleaf and Sir Bhalam Gas, as promised.” Yalas began. His voice had an offputting quality to it, like sour milk.

Jalamir looked ahead. He was here to listen, but I knew he did not like Yalas, or what he represented.

My father inclined his head, inviting the first to speak. It was Kessar who stood forward. “Your excellency. I was travelling south of Rock Creek, heading back towards Willowdell. I met a pair of peasants on the road, carrying heavy sacks. They said they hailed from Giltwell but were leaving Suldaskar for the city. They were taking the road to Willowdell for the ferry, the way I had come. They asked about any hazards. I got suspicious, your Excellency.” And she gave her account, of how Rock Creek's citizens seemed to have a little more demand for goods, even in these hard times, how some peasants had managed to scrape together surprising amounts of coin to buy from her.

Her words, of course, laying a path that would lead to arrests and torture of those villagers from Rock Creek. Those same villagers whose children loved her for the treats she gave.

Kessar's wide eyed, enthusiastic delivery begged for our approval. Both my father and I knew why. She wanted to be seen as loyal, she wanted to be trusted and valued. She wanted to be apart from these rebels, and beloved by us. Of course, her grandfather had been a frequent attendee at my great grandfather and grandfather's court. Quite the man he was, much wealther and more promient than Kessar was now. That was, until evidence of his corruption became clear, and of the murder he had undertaken to cover it up.

My Grandfather had hanged Kessar's grandfather, confiscating much of his property. Kessar's father had raised his daughter in poverty and in disgrace, spending years trying to restore the family business and its good standing. Kessar's shining eyes had her Grandfather's hanging body in their reflection. The poverty of her youth was there, the life as an outcast. She knew what her fate would be if she was found to have hidden her suspicions. She knew that for all her hard work and success, her kindness to children, she would be nothing before the anger of the Count of Suldaskar. Yet in speaking as she did, would come reward, both a pouch of coin and, more importantly, words of approval.

“Welcome counsel, Kessar Springleaf. You grow in different soil to your grandfather.” Spoke my father. Kessar took a breath, stepping back, her thanks from that part of her soul that could overlook the children whose parents she had condemned.

Next, Bhalam. “Your excellency, I spoke with Kessar and I have identified those who should be under suspicion. I have a list of names.” Bhalam's report was matter of fact. Some of the men and women were known to him. Some had grumbled about taxes before. Some had sounded less enthusiastic than they should about the Santrager, or the King. Bhalam's words were fiery with outrage. He only faltered when speaking of how one man had recited a poem about a lion chasing and then mauling a gazelle, an allegory for my rumoured affair with Reena. I did not react, however. I sat as a statue.

My father and I knew Bhalam's fire was forged deep within. He was a soldier, our soldier, he always had been. He had given his youth to us, and we had moulded him to believe that service to us was service to what was best for the County; in my grandfather's time, admittedly. Even when he had settled down he remained vocally and openly loyal. He had taken pride in our vigilance over the County before the hard times set in; for him, supporting us was supporting every man, woman and child in Suldaskar. It needed to be done for the greater good.

When Bhalam rose from simply being a member of the Rock Creek militia to being the Sherrif, the most important man in the village, it was a vindication of his faith in the Santraeger. My father trusted him in return, trusted him so much that he had given Bhalam responsibility. The task the Santraeger had to safeguard Suldaskar was now his task as well. He would do it to the best of his ability. He would keep order, and he would see criminals brought to justice. For the greater good. He was zealous in this.

He had to be.

Because if he questioned us at all, he would be questioning all his own achievements, all that he had taken pride in. All that he was, in truth.

And, deep down, he knew what the penalty for treason was. After all, it was the penalty the names on his list would be getting, most likely. Depending on how quickly they broke when put to question.

Names to us. To him fellow villagers. Men he had known all his life. He offered them to us like fresh roasted suckling pigs.

Count Ardepan thanked his sherrif for his loyalty. “You have done good work, Sir Bhalam. I will write you a writ so they might be legally detained. But we shall ride with you ourselves.”

Bhalam's chest puffed out like a pigeon.

“Leave us and get some refreshment.” My father continued. Khessar and Bhalam turned to leave. Yalas did not. It caused some hesitation from Bhalam, at least. “I would speak to Yalas alone.” My father clarified. Not meaning for anyone but the two informants, Khessar and Bhalam, to depart.

Yalas smiled like a snake when they were alone. There was no warmth in it. A few more words were shared. It was Yalas, of course, that had bridged the gap between Kessar's suspicions, and Bhalam's action. He could be very persuasive at times. My father removed a pouch of gold, tossing it to him. “Good work.” he said.

Yalas bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve, your excellency.” And then he slithered out. Jalamir's eyes fixed on him in distaste.

It was Yalas who was, in truth, the professional informer, a peasant who made his coin by spying on friends and comrades, and giving voice to accusations against those he could catch out. It had been known that he sometimes used violent, unsavory methods to get his information. Of course, there was always a reward.

My father leaned over to me, speaking in low tones, although no doubt it carried to the others in the room, Jalamir, Inaver, Mulmar. “That man cares nothing for loyalty or order. He turns on his own not out of duty or a desire for redemption. No, he wants the coin he squirrels away wherever he hides it, no matter how bloody that is. He is a necessary evil.” Count Ardepan's voice was laced with distaste as he spoke. “When we have broken these bandits and lawbreakers, we will be done with the likes of that reptile. Mark my words, son. This is a dark time but it is soon behind us.”

As if it was not our adherence to the letter of Alemander's laws that had caused the people such hardship. As if it was not the unfeeling hammer of our misplaced justice that had so battered down the people, until some chose to resist. As if it was not a truth that those who did not resist instead lived in fear, like Kessar, or in blind obedience, like Bhalam. As if the cruelty that permeated the County was not our fault. As if it was not the Santraeger who released a man like Yalas to prey on his victims, so we could preserve our power.

As if the only ones to blame were the rebels. Correction, the bandits. As if there were just a few ungrateful and rapacious villains in the wilds, who needed to be rooted out, burned away, and then the world would be right again.

My father had great power to rationalise away sin, I come to think. A flaw I have inherited and must guard against.

Of course, we were not the only ones who knew these truths. Inaver listened well to what was said, and he made his choice in the coming days, as we rode to Rock Creek, interrogated the supposed traitors and learned of the rebel camp.

So it was that he warned the rebels, knowing it would mean his own death.

So it was that he met that death at my hands, my rage fuelled equally by betrayal and shame.

So it was, that I rode after our fleeing quarry, and met my own deserved fate, crushed under my beloved steed.

Yet, unlike those crushed by this unbridled power, I still live. A gift to be used against fear.

[kleomenes]

Ruin

“Are you wearing it or did you return it to Cyrithe...?”

I pointed to the pouch she held in her hand. Telia looked at it, then back to my gaze. “I... no. It is yours.” She held it out to me.

I did not move. “...You were wearing it.”

She kept it held out. “I returned it.”

I did not move. “You stole it. Now I give it.”

“Ameris... It is... yours.” There was a stubborness there, her gaze intent on mine.

It was then I reached to take the pouch. She resisted, despite her words, reluctant to hand it over. Sighing as I took it back.

I knew what I had to do.

I opened the little pouch up, and took out what was within.

A red cord, worn and faded. My own cord, that I had worn since I first swore oaths on the Seminary of Saint Ostus years ago, that that had travelled with me from there back to my father's house, where I was beaten and exiled. From there to Athkatla in Amn, where I learned what it was to be a priest of the Broken God, and learned my limits. From there, to Baldur's Gate, where I broke vows and found new ones, atoned for sins and made mistakes. And from there to Triel, where we stood now, amidst the rot and decay of the orcish curse, where I had been captured with my sisters by Zhentarim agents and whisked away to Darkhold.

And there Telia Navra had taken this cord from me, from the man she loved, the man who was her enemy, the man she watched hang from Darkhold's walls, and had worn it secretly for months. A keepsake, or a mark that there was still light within her. Yet, but a tenday ago, she had given it back, denouncing me as a lover of drow, a traitor to Baldur's Gate, inviting my exile and death. A cruel response to my own words, when I had made so clear to all those there that the Harpers and Zhentarim were not friends.

The pouch was discarded, meaningless now. My breaths were light under my mask, my gaze intent on hers. Willing her to look up on me as I reached for her hand, still extended as it was. I slipped the cord around her wrist as she froze in indecision, giving her no time to pull away.

In my faith I had found forgiveness, and through my faith I would offer it. And what is forgiveness but the purest expression of love? So it was, that my faith freed me from anger, and let me look deeper in myself, and let me speak holy words, holy to Ilmater, and holy to Sune. Although I would deny the truth of the latter for many months more.

“Remember me. Remember what I hope for you. Remember that if you ever decide to choose again, I will answer your call.”

“I will...remember.” She mumbled.

“Perhaps I am not the man you thought.” Not a chivalrous knight, or a perfect priest. “But I am someone.” For it was Ameris Santraeger, son of Tethyr, who forgave Telia Navra that night, and yet stood firm in his own ideals, no matter how painful. In doing so, he learned to understand his faith.

“Aye... that you are.” I saw her smile, just a little. A small victory.

“One kisses it, and says words asking for the burden of doubt to be shared, when one wishes to pray upon a problem. Such as, for example, when one is wondering how harsh to be.”

“I have never been much for... prayer.” Telia said, doubtfully, a perfect eyebrow raised.

“I was never much for actresses. Times change.” I teased, as I stepped back.

The witch looked down at her wrist. I did not hear what swirled in her mind, though. She kept her silence.

“And now we will be enemies again; for now.” Pure love in the gift, a pure forgiveness. But I had to wait for her to come to me.

“Yes, we will.” Her green eyes rested on me with a sigh. So I bowed.

“Still sticking to manners then?”

“When the mood takes me.” This got a smirk, another victory.

“Farewell, Lord Santraeger.”

“Blessings of the Broken God on you.” And I turned to leave.

I've left again. This time, I leave her in Mystra's grace, with three children we had both vowed to care for, that she guards as fiercely as a lioness.

I leave her, and them, because I cannot cease the fight.

I can pretend to myself it is her who is the one who heads north. I can pretend that it is forced by Mother Night's threats. I can pretend that it will not be forever, and cling to the fact she says she still loves me, and will wait for me.

But you cannot hide, Ameris Santraeger. You are breaking your promise, now you know she is strong enough to stand alone in the light.

The fact you are in agony does not change that.

[kleomenes]

Still Learning

The Shrine in Ithmong is small, smaller than the temple in Baldur's Gate. However, the narrow building that houses it has two floors packed with meagre beds which act as a small hostelry to support the clergy. I'd been put in the communal male dorm and I was perched on the end of the little cot that had been set aside for me when I heard footsteps approching the door. A knock came immediately after.

"Come in." I said, thumbs brushing the back of the holy symbol that lay cradled in my hands. There, two locks of hair were twisted and bound, one white as snow, one black as night. The door opened to reveal a tanned woman with a face lined from work outdoors, a striking look to her despite her age. Her hair, almost fully grey by now, was bound into a bun, and she wore the grey robes and red cord of the Ilmatari. Her skull cap was absent though, this was personal business.

"Sister Dethliss." I said with a smile, although I did not stand despite my formality. "Lord Santraeger." Dethliss responded, a flicker of mocking amusement in her eyes. My smile widened as she padded over to sit next to me on the cot. "Busy?" The woman asked suspiciously, her eyes resting on the holy symbol, on the gentle movement of my thumbs.

"Trying to compose my vows." I said, looking down at my hands, my smile growing whistful. Dethliss chuckled. "Well you had better hurry, Ameris. We're ready for you downstairs. Although from the looks of your bride, she might take a little longer. No grey robes and plain face for her."

I looked back to Dethliss, grinning at her. "She is not so Ilmatari in many things."

Dethliss' chuckle became a laugh. "I can see that, and I've only known her a day. But Telia loves you, this I can tell."

"She does." I agreed, a sudden certainty coming over me.

"She's got Chondathan blood, too. Good. Someone sensible to keep you from dreaming too much, Lord Santraeger." Said Dethliss, ever a forthright Sembian.

I was aggrieved. "What does that mean?"

"You're navel gazing even now, boy." The admonishment was laced with affection.

"Its...my holy symbol!" I protested.

"I thought Santraeger's spoke the truth." Dethliss countered,.

"Yes, yes." I replied, my tone that of a surly teen, even if I was in my twenties. I pulled the symbol around my neck once more and then, upon a whim, hid it beneath the tunic of my robes. I answered Dethliss' questioning eye. "I remain a priest, but I marry Telia out of love, not faith."

The priestess' smile was warm. "I thought you'd love again, Lord Santraeger. I knew it would be a long time coming, but eventually some woman was going to swoon for all your angst, and finally you'd love someone more than you hated yourself."

I stared at her.

"You do love her, I know that. The way you told me her story left me in no doubt, boy, so take that look off your face." There was a tenderness to the words, despite their content, that made me shake my head and smile. She continued. "Its the other part I'm thinking of."

Dethlis reached out to lay a hand on my shoulder, her brow furrowed in compassionate worry. "Listen to me, Ameris. She's sinned, and walks a path of atonement. So did you, and so do you. The way you are, I do not know if it will ever be done, and the Broken God asks us to carry our burdens, not shrug them off."

Then, she cupped my cheek with motherly affection. "Speak to me."

I frowned. And I spoke. "In the north, in Baldur's Gate, people know me for what I've done there. Good deeds, mostly.I do not hide my past crimes, yet its hard for them to judge me for the abstract, things done in a foreign land. Even Telia, even her,she did not see a criminal, she saw a man fighting against the darkness inside of him, and its that she loved as it gave her hope."

At this, Dethlis smiled.

"What?" I asked.

"We've all got a past, Ameris. Some of us have a past that is filled with things we shouldn't have done. Thats true of you, of me, and of the woman whose soon to be your wife. What is the lesson you want to teach? What is it that is your duty to teach? That once we've done evil there's no going back, so we may as well carry on spreading suffering? Or is it that our past mistakes can give us another lesson, and guide us in how to live better in the future?"

"Well..."

"Don't answer. I know you know the answer, you've been preaching it to others, including that girl who is apparently sorely in need of a pair of gnomish glasses."

At this, I laughed. Dethlis grinned. "It applies to you as well, Ameris. Don't preach what you don't practice. Live with this woman, truly live. Love and compassion make the world a better place, and together you can show that. She deserves that chance, and so do you."

I raised my hands to Dethliss' shoulders and we drew each other into a hug. "Does this mean you are going to listen to me first time, for once?" She asked lightly.

"I suppose I am growing up." I replied, chuckling.

We pulled back and she stood. "Finish your vows, and I'll be downstairs."

"I think I have them", I replied, standing as well. "I just need to say what I feel."

"Lord Santraeger." Said Dethliss, in mock shock. "My, how you have changed."

And then we went down, so I could be married.

Each year, on the anniversary of her death, I do not just remember the moment of her sacrifice. I must not. I must remember the warmth of her life, too, and what she stood for. The same for Adolina.

---

The Vows

I was a desert; you brought me rain.

I was the night, and your sun rose.

My legs were shattered, you bound them in a splint.

I was blind, and you took my hand, leading me to life.

I was cold, and your arms were warm.

I was weak, and you lent your strength.

I saw nothing but sadness, and you spoke to me of joy.

I drank only of pain, and you offered me something sweeter.

I replaced steel with emptiness, but in you I found love.

I doubted myself, but you never did.


////NB, this entry should have been made about six weeks ago in the aftermath of Sister Adolina's death

[kleomenes]

Student and Master

It was a little rowing boat, and we hadn't got far out, so I could see one of the old fishermen stood on the jetty watching us. He was shielding his eyes from the summer sun, and his wizened face was cracked into a benevolent smile. A thankful smile, probably, given the past days. He'd been one of the first sick I had seen, and the whole time he had babbled about his granddaughter. We had saved them both.

I raised my hand in greeting and he waved, the smile still decorating his face as I turned back to the oars. Perhaps a little further out. I began rowing again. Telia had been quite firm that now the disease that plagued the village had passed we would have a holiday. I couldnt deny it, in fact I needed one myself. We both needed to rest after the horrors of Tethyr. So it was time to fish. The exact opposite of a childhood pursuit for me.

It was the end of Eleasis 1351 and I was newly-wed. I looked over to where Telia dozed at the back of the rowing boat, her book lying on her chest forgotten, her sun hat angled forward. My rowing slowed as I took in the sight of sorceress. Wife. I felt my heart lift, and my lips curled into a loving smile once again. How far we had come.

"Keep rowing, Ameris." She commanded, without opening her eyes. My smile became a grin as I picked up the pace.

Dag's eyes were scrunched narrow by the sun as he watched me row. My grin took in the orphan boy too. Telia had rescued him from the slums of Athkatla, and a murderous gang there. It was clear that she already loved the boy. This trip, however, was my first meeting with him. He had already impressed me with how ready he had been to help fight Talona's blessing within the village but, it was only now we were getting to spend what one would call quality time together.

Finally far enough out, I brought the oars to rest. "Is this far enough out?" Asked Dag.

"Yes." I said, reaching for the poles. "Now what you have to do is..." And I began to explain fishing to the boy. I had learned myself more than two years before, stood on the beach of Ulgoths' Beard chatting to Nerys of the Greyfox about her people, and her history; and confiding my own, the whole sordid truth of my steel-clad brutality. I do not know why I did. I expect perhaps it was because of how different she was, how alien barbarian skald seemed. It let me open up.

The boy let me explain everything. When I finished, he cast his line rather more expertly than I expected. "Thats....very good, Dag."

The boy shrugged. "We used to fish in the river for rubbish." Telia chuckled, she had done the same in her own mean childhood.

"I see." I replied, feeling a little surplus to requirements.

And so we fished under the afternoon sun, until the excitement of the first catch of the day. It was mine, which impressed Dag. And myself, honestly, I was never actually good at fishing. My surprise must have been obvious, because Dag laughed, and even the dozing lioness at the back curled her lips curled into a smirk.

So the question, when it came, surprised me. "Brother Ameris?" The boy sounded uncertain.

"Yes, Dag?" I asked, trying to look like I had not dropped my bait.

"Why are there bad people in the world?"

Hm. A bit heavier a topic than I had expected. "Well." I began. I looked at him, all of seven years, and I didn't know where to start.

The dragon at the end of the boat opened one emerald eye, fixing me with its stare while pretending not to be listening. I suddenly felt as if I was being tested.

"Well." I repeated.

No simple answers.

"Most people are not born bad. Some are, yes, and they choose the bad thing every time they can. Most are not though. It is more that they have been taught to be bad, or their life has been so hard and cruel that all they know is to be cruel to others."

Dag's big blue eyes were wide as he listened intently to every word. "Even the ones who killed pappa?"

Both the dragon's eyes were open now. I felt their gaze as I scooted round to face the boy. "Most likely the men who killed your father had hard lives too. It does not excuse what they did, though. It just means that if they had chosen to try and change, they should be helped. One of the things Ilmater likes most is when people try and be kind to each other, and forgiveness is kindness."

Dag frowned, listening. "But they were so scary. They wanted to kill me, too, because of what I saw." A tremble ran through him.

I put my hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. "It is my job to try and help bad people who try and become good people, like it is Brother Alavar's and Sister Noa's. Like they help Sig." I spoke of the Ilmatari at the shrine that was currently looking after Dag, and the reformed criminal who protected them.

I continued. "But it is also my job to stop people getting hurt. That means if someone is bad and they do not want to stop being bad, and they try and hurt someone, I have to stop it."

"How?" Dag asked.

"Telia said she had showed you my sword." I said, softly. I was uncertain if this was what he needed. I felt it was, but I was uncertain.

"She did." Dag nodded. "Are you a knight?" He asked, wide-eyed.

"Not anymore." I said. I could see his face fall a bit. "I prefer being what you saw when we were helping the village, a healer."

At this, I was surprised to see the boy smile. He was, however, fearful of something.

"I will still protect you though, Dag, from whatever comes. When you come and live with us, I will do my very best to stop anything from harming you. I promise you."

Dag smiled, and he threw his arms around me. After a moment, my reserve melted, and I hugged him.

At the end of the rowboat, Telia smiled in satisfaction, closing her eyes.

///dated when Ameris left Baldur's Gate back in early May

[kleomenes]

*this entry stops and starts, as if the words have been hard to come, and the author has tried several times to complete it. It dates from Flamerule and early Eleasis 1353*

Brother

I recall it was a fresh spring afternoon, not long after Greengrass. I was heading down to the stables and from there, out for a ride. I was man, finally, and my father's anointed heir, but it was a still a new feeling. The pride welled off me; I imagined my footprints now left echoes in history, and that the world cared in detail about what I thought. In fact the only thing echoing was the sound of my spurs.

I heard the tittering of female voices before I stepped out of the door of the keep. Sure enough, as I paused at the top of the stairs and looked out over the courtyard, I saw a gaggle of the maids clustered near the well. Clustered around my brother Errilar.

There was is, I have to keep on correcting myself on that, less than two years between my brother and I. He was always hot on my heels in many things, but he was not shaped by expectation the way I was. He was not made stern by duty. Nana used to say Errilar favoured the Santraeger more than I do, with his darker complexion and darker hair. There is more Deshar in me than I like to admit, in truth, and not just in looks.

Anyway, I remember that year was the first year that Errilar turned heads. And he didn't know what to do with it.

One of the maids said something, something saucy it must have been, as the other girls exploded into a peel of laughter. Whatever she said made Errilar blush and murmur something bashful in return. I cannot quite remember the guilty party's name, I believe it was Yerina. I do remember she left next winter to get married and was very Chauntean in aspect.

Errilar's bashfulness, and probably the boyish smile he wore, only encouraged the girls' laughter; it was when Yerina reached forward to touch my brother's arm that I felt the need to intervene.

"You have work to do. Get on with it." I called out. My clipped voice was as cold as the stone of the castle walls. My footfalls were heavy on the steps as I began to descend.

"Yes m'lord, sorry m'lord." Said Yerina, eyes wide and curtseying, The maids scattered like a flock of birds back to their duties as my brother gave me a sheepish look.

All the maids except one. A woman from the south, she looked to be, dark skin and dark hair rare this far north. I walked across to the well, staring at her, none to pleased. Then she smiled a tiny smile, coal dark eyes shining with challenge, before she curtseyed poorly and far too late.

"You are new. What is your name?" She met my gaze boldly. There was no respect. No deference. For some reason I found it intoxicating. "Reena, my lord."

It took me a few moments to respond. "You aren't paid to distract my brother from his studies. Off with you."

Another very poor curtsey followed. "Yes, my lord."

It was Errilar's laughter that drew my gaze from her retreating form. I glared at him."You should not be dawdling with the maids. Its unbecoming. What would mother say?"

Errilar's laughter only increased, but his teasing smile was good natured. "She'd be too busy wiping the saliva from your chin, Brother."

I wasn't going to take that, and clipped him round the ear before darting away raising my fists. The grin on my face showed I wasn't in earnest, and we danced about, seeking to land light blows until the sweat glistened on our brows.

We only stopped when another voice interrupted us. "Harken, my sons quarrel, blind to the outside world. If the Syl-Pasha was at our gates they would never know." Father smiled. He'd been stood there, with Jalamir beside him, for Helm knows how long.

It is a happy memory. Moreso thanks to the pain that followed.

I cling to memories like this, as much as parts of them hurt me, as they remind me what my brother was. He lives, I am told, I have seen. He lives, and yet the deeds to his name - our name, our father's name - are those that even my father would condemn. Slaving, conquest, murder, exploitation. Blood pacts with dark powers. And within it all his soul screams in pain, screams for help, screams for release.

I know not if he is a pawn or a foolish sinner... I cannot find it in me to believe he chose to do these things, but it is my duty not to discount it, and to do what must be done.

It torments me to believe the gentle soul who healed Evalynn's hurts would bring such pain.

Amidst this, a blessing. I am to be an uncle. Yet learning this has caused its own mistakes, its own errors. The righteous path is not always clear. Jonas and I erred; while it is he who pays the price I think the sin is more mine. No doubt he would clip me round the ear for that.

Another wrong to right. It will be done. We will see it set right together, him and me.

*this text above is covered by a muddy footprint, as if someone stood on the open book*

*beneath more words are written. They are written in haste, perhaps in anger*

Your assassins failed, Brother. The cultists you have pacted with were slain. The soldiers wearing the twisted variant of our coat of arms lie dead. I live. Evalynn remains free. I pray for your soul, Brother, I pray this is the work of fiends or undead servitude. I pray you suffer now at the hands of the iniquitous. For if it is so, I will save you.

And if it is not, if this is your own hand, your own will, I will send you screaming to the hells.

[kleomenes]

This entry is written sometime in the autumn of 1353. It consists of a transcribed poem, without explanation.

The Potter

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses
your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the
daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem
less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that
pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the
winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within
you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy
in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by
the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has
been fashioned of the clay which Ilmater has
moistened with His own sacred tears.

Hidden: show

Adapted - well copied except for one word - from "On Pain" by Khalil Gibran.