In the wardrooms, the spellscarred flickered as they slept, and some, no longer burdened by the eager watch of acolytes, sat up in their cots and chatted or played cards. Brin watched a moment, recognizing the camaraderie of soldiers. Memories twitched behind the familiarity, but when they didn’t rise up, he just shook his head. He was tired, after all. He’d been … somewhere doing … something. He cursed and finished the bread and cheese, and drank a little more cider.
Which room was his? He turned into a likely one, the light of a distant streetlamp the only illumination.
His foot banged into something and he stumbled to the flagstones, the jug of cider shattering under him. He cursed and reached for whatever it was he’d tripped on-
His hand closed on the haft of Havilar’s glaive.
Havilar …
She’d been in the courtyard. She’d left when Brother Vartan came-no, he’d covered for her so she didn’t have to stay. But she was supposed to come back, he thought irritably. She was supposed to come get you for supper.
And she didn’t, he thought. He picked up the heavy polearm. Loyal Fury, she had to be strong.…
She didn’t come back-the thought was growing more insistent, pressing on the fog of his brain. She hadn’t come back and her glaive-the weapon she loved like a child-was lying on the floor.…
He looked around the room, his eyes adjusting. This was the twins’ room. He was sleeping two doors down. A jumble of cloaks and clothing was piled on the beds, but several things were conspicuous in their absence: Farideh’s sword and both twins’ armor.
Havilar’s armor’s gone, he thought. She’ll be angry she left her glaive. She’ll be furious you kicked it.…
She hadn’t come back, but she’d taken her armor and left her glaive on the floor like something discarded. She hadn’t come back because she’d left.…
Brin grabbed the haft of the weapon in both hands as the haze over his thoughts finally cleared like a cloud break, so sudden he gasped in surprise. Something was wrong.
Still clutching the glaive, he ducked back out into the hallway. It didn’t make sense. They shouldn’t have taken armor and left the weapon. Why would Farideh have taken her sword and Havi left her glaive?
The corridors were still empty. He hurried back to the open wardroom. Three of the soldiers were up and talking still-a thin human man with a bandage over his eye, a tiefling with his leg in a splint, and a rather petite half-orc woman with one arm in a sling and the shimmer of a spellscar encasing the other.
“Have any of you seen a tiefling girl?” Brin asked.
The human nodded at the glaive. “The one running around with that thing? Aye, she was terrorizing the acolytes this afternoon.” The tiefling chuckled.
“They told her to get lost in the unrepaired wing,” the half orc said. “And she offered to beat some sense into them. Or something.”
“Haven’t heard a string of Draconic that blue since I was in Tymanther,” the tiefling noted. “You here to put us to bed?”
Brin shook his head. “I’m not an acolyte.” He hurried back toward the rooms. Surely, surely, the twins had to be somewhere near. He lit a candle off one of the torches and returned to their room. The light fell on their haversacks and cloaks, still piled by one wall. They couldn’t have gone too far.
Unless they didn’t go willingly, he thought. Lorcan, the orc … and something worse than Netherese. When a city gets as old as Neverwinter, old powers entrench themselves in all the gaps and crannies. He hurried to his room, to gather his own swordbelt and his holy symbol.
Old anxieties twined their way up through Brin’s thoughts. Holy champion or not, he knew what he had to do. But gods, if things were as bad as he feared, there was no room to fail. He pushed open the doors of the remaining rooms. In the third one, he found Mehen, sitting alone in a chair missing an armrest, watching a flickering lantern sitting on the floor. He looked up at Brin.
“Thank the gods. Well met,” he said. The dragonborn kept staring at him. “Do you know what happened to Havilar and Farideh?”
“No,” Mehen said coldly. Brin took a step back.
“They’re not in their room. And Havilar’s glaive was just lying on the floor.”
Mehen didn’t answer, he just kept staring at Brin in that unnerving way.
“You don’t seem concerned,” Brin said. Again, no answer, and again, Brin felt an uncertain anxiety, like he was being stared down by a stern Tormtar, unhappy with his arguments about the nature of duty.
He backed out of the room. If Mehen wasn’t worried, perhaps Brin shouldn’t be either … but there was still the glaive that shouldn’t have been there, and the missing armor. Something was definitely wrong.
Brin turned and nearly ran smack into Brother Vartan. The priest didn’t move, but stared down at Brin over a box made of bleached driftwood planks.
“Sorry,” Brin said. “I didn’t see you. I’m looking for-”
“We are all looking,” Brother Vartan said. He pressed toward Brin, his eyes shining with a strange film that made them seem paler somehow. “But will we ever find? Not without new eyes. There is so much you cannot imagine. So much you cannot see.” He giggled, in a strained way. “Your mind is too ephemeral to hear the song.”
Brin swung the glaive between them. “Are you all right, Brother?”
“I brought a gift.” The half-elf giggled. “It’s not for you, not yet. They said to give it to her, and only her. They think perhaps she’ll suit better than Anthus ever did. And if she doesn’t?” He giggled again. “Tomorrow’s always another day!”
Vartan pounced toward Brin, and broke into maniacal laughter when the younger man blocked with the heavy glaive. Vartan turned away with the strange casket, and wandered his way up the corridor.
Brin watched him go, the glaive still held before him like a barrier. What, by every watching god, was happening in the House of Knowledge?
You need to leave.
Farideh sat up, startled, and glanced around. Night had fallen and the temple was dark but for the fall of moonlight that struck the statue of Selune. She was alone still, the temple quiet as a tomb. She stretched against stiff muscles. How on earth had she managed to fall asleep? She eyed the statue.
You need to leave.
Farideh startled. It was her own voice in her own thoughts, but it came so suddenly, so insistently. Not an order. Not a threat. A certainty. She needed to be somewhere else. Soon. Now …
The statue looked down at her with a beatific smile.
Farideh’s stomach tightened. She stood and backed away from the altar. She did need to leave. She’d known that. It wasn’t the statue telling her what to do. It couldn’t be. But the hazy memories of the hours before drifted back … the strange calm that had overtaken her with the scent of incense …
Please just make him go away. Please tell me what to do.
You need to leave.
The statue shone in the moonlight, still and quiet. A cloud passed overhead, shadowing the statue, but somehow it seemed to gleam just as brightly. Farideh backed away.
“Thank you,” she said as she reached the door, uncertain of the form, “for the … protection.”
Outside the shrine, all was quiet. Lorcan had left for the moment. She peered up at the broken rooftops around her. He might be anywhere.
“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself, as if hearing her own voice would ground her. The shadows reached out for her, and in turn, out of her more shadows crept, swaddling her like a blanket. She crept across the square and edged her way down the road.
Neverwinter loomed all around Farideh, a toothy monster all shadows and voids. With every step she put between herself and the chapel, her unease grew, and whatever had cooled and calmed her pulse, began to wear away. Her hip still ached where she’d fallen on it, and the rough fabric of the hospital’s robes rasped her scraped tail.