Bethphel's Diary: The Fading

Wolves see the world in black and white. I have learned to see it in color. And here I am, in the dark of night, waiting for the sun to rise. How many times have I done it already? Had I not been here before? A she-wolf hiding in a shack, licking her wounds. Running away into the night before the dawn would come... This time, I'm staying. Waiting for a flash of red to slice the sky open; I won't even howl. Wolves see the world in black and white, but I have known the true color of blood.

It has been following me along the way. Touching lightly upon the leaves, and hiding in the bushes. Dark, burning red where used to be only brown and yellow. Far away in the heart of the Cloakwood, the willows must be weeping tears of blood into the quiet mirror of a sacred lake. How long? Some say the month of the Fading is almost over. I say it's only just beginning.

Once again I'm ready to cross, and the city across the river is concealed with mist. It tricked me once, taking over with its charm and magic. Until I forgot what I came there for, and who my real friends are... Only this time I'm not alone among strangers. I won't leave them behind, Shar-Teel's strength and Viconia's denial, Quayle's simple ways and Edwin's cunning, Gorion's wisdom and Alora's smile. I'll have them all by my side. And, for the darkest hour, my mother's incredible will to live. To let me live...

Even my real father's nature I must harness to serve my own ends. For I have known my true enemies by name. To call them out before the dawn strikes. Before I leave this place that still remembers a child's prayers of vengeance. Tenya... How many times had she been waiting here for the dawn?

I can be faithful, father. I won't forget the flash of sword in the darkness, and Gorion's final words. I won't forget Viconia's tears when she struck down her first spider.

"Do you hear me, Sarevok?! I'm gonna see the color of your blood!" Because I won't forget...

Patience... I'll have to learn it.

But drat those buffoons! Drat whoever offered to stay at the Helm and Cloak! Dradeel, was it? Madness comes in all shapes and sizes, and his took on the form of a heavy leather-bound tome, from cover to cover stuffed with an explosive mixture of recipes only an idle mind could conceive, much less try. Of course, no one else but the chef of the most prestigious establishment in the city had to let the steam out.

Instead, he found obliging listeners in Gorpel Hind and his Band of Merry Fools. Not too shabby on introductions. Farluck the Fearless, Turpin the Roaring Ranger, and Nelik, "the Most Devious and Fiendish of Thieves." They owe him money, you see, so the halfling got the best title.

Dradeel's Vegetable Surprise, indeed! The old elf was in the process of describing wholesome properties of Netherese virgin olive oil, when a group of even more puffed up, yet infinitely more contagious, fools entered the grounds.

"Clear the way for Gretek and the Maulers of Undermountain!"

The next time I hear a word of the Knights of Unicorn hanging nearby, I'll make sure to avoid them at any cost. Not because they're as tough as they're made to believe, rather they took the art of bragging to such lofty heights that even Edwin, normally cool and observant, couldn't hold himself.

"If you truly be Maulers of Undermountain, you can clear your own way. I don't sweep the streets before common braggarts."

You know it can't be good when Viconia and Edwin agree on something. The drow at least should've stayed out of this, but no! More words stung from under the cover of her hood, adding insult to injury. In no time, steel flashed out of scabbards.

"No one stands between the Maulers and their ale! Ready your weapons, men. We have some garbage to pick up!"

One has to give them their due. With ale and wounded pride at stake, they could fight pretty well. Worse, for they had mages in their midst. Dradeel's calls for peace fell upon deaf years, and we could've been easily fried for supper if one of the tongues of flame didn't slip under his magical shield, licking upon a few of his priceless pages. That, or the throaty wail of a serving wench. The fools shouldn't have touched any bystanders.

For you must know, Dradeel wasn't quite alone on his isle, having turned to Selune for help and companionship. And the elven deity rewarded him well for his devotion. In a blink of an eye, a shining blade appeared in his gnarled hands. So surprising and blindingly fast was his onslaught, our enemies were minced into a fine salad within minutes. Selune's justice was served.

In truth, however, the inn was a good place to keep an eye on Rieltar's mansion, not far away across the street. (I wonder if Rieltar even knows Sarevok is not really his son!) In any case, such unexpected publicity wasn't exactly a part of our plans. At the very least, we had to retire to a different part of the city. And real fast! That inn is one big Unicorn stable!

And that's how I ended up here, at the Elfsong Tavern, waiting for Quayle and Alora to return with their reports. Waiting for a ghostly, yet exceedingly beautiful voice that haunts this place. Comes and goes, no one sure why. Some say, an elven maiden calling for her lover lost at sea.

Only there was no song to be heard here for weeks now. I must be waiting in vain...

Had we been expected? Probably not, but the owner of that house must've had reasons to be afraid.

The night was peaceful and quiet, but the moment we stepped inside, the silence burst apart like a bubble. Deafening explosions carried across the empty hallways, as if portals were opened from the Plane of Air, torn and closed faster than sound.

Out of those holes, wild twisters of wind blew. Whooshing and keening, or screaming with rage. Yet each with a voice of its own, for they were alive. Invisible Stalkers, three or four of them. The very spirits of the wind, what eye could boast to have seen their true form, howling freely through the endless expanses of their home? In our world, they were prisoners, and they knew.

Can a wind truly die? Think of it in the secluded privacy of a forest grove, and in the solitary confinement of a prison cell. Are you resting at ease, or only waiting for a window to be opened, your only path to freedom? So is the wind... Out there, in their native Plane of Air, perhaps they would have died once stopped. Having been summoned here by magic, the spirits of the wind could only go home. Think of it, then, through the eyes of a prisoner sentenced to death, and know how it feels to stand beneath the eye of a living storm.

They fell upon us in roaring strength. Smashing with a hurricane force, and throwing against the walls. Knocking the breath out of our lungs. Skeletal limbs were flying through the air, wheezing like razors, only to decapitate another of the summoned undead. The ancient armor came alive along the walls. Whoever managed to survive the wind had to face the silent Doomguards and Helmed Horrors.

Together, we stood our ground. With Selune's help, we lived to hear the enormous house go quiet again. Sarevok wasn't home. Only Degrodel, a wizard on duty with his pet basilisk. Facing them were five silent statues. And after all was over, I could finally take a good look at the man my scouts must've mistaken for Sarevok last evening, on his way to this solitary mansion.

He was tall and proud, much like the one we came looking for. But no hate, no thirst for blood in those eyes. Always a smile, even in stone. Along with his party of adventurers, Vail was bringing the Helm of Balduran to crown what he thought a noble quest by Degrodel's master. Little did he know that neither of them wished to have those lips speak again. Little did they know that the cloak the elf had on his shoulders used to belong to the famous seafarer as well. I have both now, one won by force, the other one a gift of gratitude. But how did they even wind up here, so far from the place of Balduran's death? Mendas must not have told us everything before he died.

Our first strike found empty air, it seems. Yet there is another place to look for Rieltar, among the other leaders of the Iron Throne. Hey, Sarevok! Do you love your stepfather as much as I loved mine? Or maybe it was him, sending you out on that stormy night?

Well, if he didn't expect us before, he'd sure have even more reasons to be afraid now. Good, let 'im fear! He knows why...

Last night was quiet. Sarevok did not strike back. Perhaps, he's not even in the city, and the word of our attack hasn't reached him yet? Hard to say, for little has been known lately about the Iron Throne leaders' whereabouts. Dark rumors multiply, even scullery maids talking of war now. The Amnish ambassador has his hands full with accusations of Amn hiring dopplegangers to take over the Seven Suns trading coster and disrupting the iron trade in the city.

Guess who benefits most from all of this. The Iron Throne, of course! Amazing how they're taking advantage even from their own defeats. Wriggling away like worms even from the dopplegangers' fiasco. The secret mines in the Cloakwood are destroyed, but will it stop the spiral of war now that the Iron Throne turned into a sole supplier of all iron to the city? No longer a question of "if," 'tis now a matter of "why."

I had much to think about through the long, sleepless night. I wouldn't at all be surprised if Sarevok, my murderous brother, stood behind it. Only how would a full-scale war serve his plans? What is he seeking?

"BLOOD!!! Have you not learned yet, child?!" Best if I haven't. Then I could've told the voices in my head to shut down. Best if I were walking with Shaella in the mists of Leira. She was at the inn, as if waiting for me.

"Leira, Lady of Mists, Mother of All Illusion, the Guardian of Deception, the Mistshadow.

"Some say she died in the Time of Troubles, killed by Cyric, betrayed by Mask. Some say she loved Mask and loves him still. Some say gods can die. Some say gods can be born. Some say gods are an illusion we create to disguise our fear of dying, or our fear of being.

"If a disguise, if an illusion, then perhaps Leira is the only beacon of truth in our entire pantheon of lies. But if real and true and all-knowing, then Leira cannot be and must be dead, if indeed she lived at all."

She could've talked me all the way to sleep, the Most High Middling Priestess of Mistshadow. How do I miss the days when I could sleep innocent as a child! Like back at Candlekeep... before I knew.

"Forgotten deep in the library of Candlekeep, lies the Great Book of Unknowing. Bound with the chameleon's hide. Changing always, as does Shaella. Ask no one there of it, for all who have touched it are blessed with the ignorance it grants. But you can always find it somewhere in the inner rooms, wreathed in the mists of Leira."

Much would I have given for a chance to be a child again, and listen to the wondrous stories Gorion used to tell me before sleep. I used to have only one father back then... But there is no return, and Gorion is dead. I now have a few things to remember. All through the last night, I could not close my eyes.

What is my next night gonna be like, and where? What new secrets will I know by then? We're not staying at the same place twice. And the day is promising to be bright indeed. Not a cloud in the sky, and the noble ladies are applying more shade against the revealing sunlight. Perhaps, in the light of day we might learn more than under the cover of night.

The Iron Throne citadel by the harbor proved not to be as unassailable as before. Wits and cunning succeeded where stealth and combat mettle did not. Though the latter did help in the end.

Our original plan was to infiltrate the basement through the entrance from the sewers that Alora had spied out the night before. An unlucky guard fell a silent victim to our blades, though we took care not to stain his armor with blood. Soon it was hard to tell Shar-Teel from an Iron Throne recruit, and Quayle from a rich, fat merchant in search for better prices on iron. Edwin took on the role of a shady character from Sembia, on a classified errand from the Iron Throne's heartland to their Baldur's Gate branch, initiating the unsuspecting merchant in the painful arts of deceit.

Viconia was invisible behind our backs, and every now and then a guard or a merchant would feel a bout of irrational fear and turn away before even coming close to asking us a question. The divination traps were apparently disabled during the day, for who would fear a perfectly business-like group escorted by one of the Iron Throne guards, or a halfling thief sneaking her way through the crowd? I was the only one out of place. But that was soon to change...

The bartender on the third floor was serving fine wine to a nervous looking woman when we entered. Emissary Tar was dispatched by the Dukes of Baldur's Gate to negotiate the terms of iron trade, now that the Iron Throne turned into a sole supplier of this strategic material. Perhaps it was her lucky day, for she was meant to be overwhelmed and entranced by Dradeel's splendid display of culinary knowledge. Leaving the two to enjoy themselves, I donned my best diplomatic face and headed up the stairs. The "Emissary Tar" has arrived!

We were greeted by Destus Gurn, Assistant Chief Accountant for the Iron Throne's operations on the Sword Coast. He didn't have to brief me on the upcoming proceedings, introducing me to the board of six Iron Throne advisors, recently arrived from Sembia. Even in that darkened hall, the light of day was working wonders. For could one mistake a powerful mage for a dusty clerk, and a seasoned warrior for a petty official?

By that time, it was no secret to any of us that the only greeting Emissary Tar could get with them was the merciless stare of a doppleganger. The false mirrors were broken... But did it happen when Shar-Teel stubbornly chose to stay when ordered to leave me alone? When Zhalimar Cloudwulfe and his cronies tired of an endless stream of Quayle's explanations? Or was it when an invisible wind shuttered the windows, and the glorious, beautiful day streamed into the hall, flooding it with revealing sunlight?

The lone doppleganger was easy to deal with. Not so the Sembians. Magic flared, like flowers in blossom, burning hot as the pillars of flame struck from the sky. Suryris' blade flashed, the legendary minotaur's halberd, and in a blinding dance of colors I lost myself... How many minutes, maybe hours, went in confusion? How many people did we kill, and how did we manage to escape? One face is reflected in the shards of my memory. Husam, a thief bereft by the Iron Throne of everything he held dear, holding a funny smelling handkerchief to my nose. Many others, carrying me away... But how come Alora didn't lose her head to find and fetch the secret Iron Throne papers?

And now we know the leaders of the Baldur's Gate branch are all in Candlekeep. Rieltar and the others, meeting with a mysterious envoy from Amn... Candlekeep? I must be dreaming still. How can I go back into my childhood's home like this? Every stone, every face there will remind me of Gorion... of Imoen. I cannot go there, knowing what I have lost... what I have ruined.

And yet I must, for time is running short. Dradeel failed to reach our hiding place, and I fear the worst. We'll give him one night, but by the morning we must be off.

The last night before my coming back was long. Unlike the previous day, wet and dripping. Heavy with the kind of moisture that corrodes iron hinges on the doors and can cause entire houses to rot away, even if all of the wooden surfaces were wiped dry and clean of blood.

On a night like that I was walking down to the harbor. Mist was rising from the sea, and I couldn't sleep. Why do they always keep lanterns in the most intimate places? The shadows were tall against the walls, mine and the other one, bent and broken, closing the distance slowly. It was the lantern's fault we couldn't pass each other.

"Diseased! Diseased!

"For your own health and that of your children, come no closer. I was cursed with this fell disease as punishment for my wickedness."

My children? Would they even be born yet?

"Diseased! Diseased! Stand well back..."

Our shadows touched each other, and the mist revealed the face of a man being eaten alive by a rotting disease. I didn't stand well back enough, and found I was drawn to follow him. A girl and a cripple, two shadows in search of redemption.

By the time we reached the Three Old Kegs, I'd seen him shuffle through the empty city, step by a jerking step, staggering with pain along his torturous path. Strange, but it was as if the Tethyrian innkeeper expected us to return, just as back then when I was leaving. Why does he remind me of Jaheira so?

Looking at the living dead standing before a priestess of Tymora in the Lady's Hall, I couldn't help but think of many long, gloomy years he'd been waiting for that moment of truth. Why? Why was he waiting so long? It wasn't far, the secret niche in the inn where he hid his brother's skull behind a portrait. Not far from it, the Lady's Hall... not far if you were still young and didn't have to crawl there through the rotting mists of pain.

What is the disease whose only cure is to right the wrongs of the past? Agnasia, the priestess, would know...

"The skull of Kereph... He was a priest here long ago, and the Lady of Luck blessed him greatly. Too greatly, perhaps. Made some people jealous. Made him some enemies...

"Then one night we found him dead, his body torn and broken, his head gone. No one ever found the killer. No one ever asked... It is best to leave that sort of justice to Tymora. Perhaps, this is her forgiveness?"

With my own eyes, I saw a gaunt man straighten up. With my own eyes, I saw a broken man rise and smile again. Unexpected warmth stirring beneath my heart.

Perhaps, there is a hope for me yet?

We started fast on our feet, but the Friendly Arm Inn bade us stay. The tall massive block of brown stone was hard to miss, a welcome beacon of rest. It has not always been thus. The moment I stepped in, the night washed over me, and a tiny needle of fear pricked pointedly inside my skull. Not that long ago this quiet place used to be a temple of Bhaal. Before the Lord of Murder sired such creatures as me. Before he was murdered himself, and the gnomes drove away the weakened priests...

The Time of Troubles is over, yet vagabond gnomes are walking Toril again. Must these walls still remember? The walls are calling to me, with silent voices... No, this is not my home, and will never be! Quayle has never really had one, and Durlag used to have one but lost. I'm not like any of them, yet I'm still afraid. Of homecoming? I've been away for too long, with my wounds still fresh and bleeding. Must I rush back to find what I had left behind?

The darkness beneath a hood is looking after me with silent eyes. Viconia... She must know the answer. The secret promise we made to each other. The drow cities are far and deep, beyond our reach. It is my turn to find us home.

She looks away, and the walls are crowding around me. Stifling, cutting off the air, like on the day when Eldoth was singing. Too heavy... my heart! my heart!.. too hard on me. The walls... pushing me out to leave, or closing in to make me stay? The tiny needle inside my skull pricks again.

If I want to go on, then why the fear?

I have been there before. I have seen that place at night, pierced with magic and pain. And later, clouded and gloomy, through tears in my eyes. But never before did I see it so clearly, in such bright and relentless light, as today, when the sun was still high in the sky. The place where my father met his fate.

It was the same as before. The same circle of decrepit old stones, weathered with wind and false hopes. Once we were hoping to find refuge there, but no longer. Only the same modest grave that we dug together with Imoen, now deepened and improved. A fitting epilogue to the work of nails and tears. Whoever did it will have one more heart to thank him.

No, two hearts. Imoen, where are you?! You would not forgive me now, after all I've done. After all I have repaid you with, for having saved me on a cloudy morning when I would rather drown in the salty sea than in my own tears. Today, we saved just such a desperate soul from the very edge of a precipice, not far from here, where the jagged shoreline meets the sea.

He sighed and smiled, and turned back toward the keep. He didn't say any thanks.

"Once I was thinking of death too," a voice behind me cracks like a whip. Shar-Teel is talking, yet her eyes are silent, centered upon something far away. "I used to live happily among the Flaming Fist soldiers. My stepfather was a fine officer, well respected by his subordinates. Too much respected, or envied perhaps... Then two of them caught me in the woods and..."

She swallows hard. "I had a choice. To lose myself, or to come back with vengeance. I knew I was to be tried, and if I escape, my own father would be sent to find and capture me, and to dispense justice. I knew it all, and still I chose homecoming. I still don't know if that was the right choice."

The sun is touching the horizon now. A single, overgrown tear finally falling down. Mixing the sea with the color of blood. I turn and look at what Shar-Teel has been staring at all this time. The sharp spires of Candlekeep rising from the other end of a narrow, rocky isthmus jutting out into the sea.

I'm almost there, but why the pain?

This morning, I was lying in bed for a long time, with my eyes closed. Listening to the sounds of steps up and down the inn's staircase. Hurried or cautious, stately or careless. One wooden plank would always croak loudly when stepped upon, without fail. Winthrop had been stoutly refusing to fix it since the memorable time many, many years ago, when two girls on a mischief trip were trying to sneak into the guestrooms, with a specially prepared basketful of frogs.

Frogs didn't croak back then, but the cursed plank would. I remembered it in the night, of course. And still I stepped upon it firmly, waiting for the strange sound to die in the empty hallway below. Did it, even though I was trying my best not to be noticed and recognized by anyone in the keep. Winthrop wasn't moved. But... how do I know?

Maybe, his heart too was clenched tight with the memory of a brash girl with lively eyes. Too tight to move. Why did I step onto that plank? To bring up the image of that same pair of eyes rounding up in childish horror as she heard her stepfather stir downstairs. Perhaps, I wanted to be discovered now, just as it happened back then? To bury my eyes in shame, and feel again at home...

I have succeeded at passing quietly into the keep. None of the townsfolk recognized me. I couldn't recognize most of them, either. Especially the guards, but some of the monks too. Many of them were new, but even those I used to know looked somehow... different, with eyes shifting like quicksilver. Ironically, it had to be a foreigner, Cadderly, once a student of Gorion's, who called my name. And the night heard it.

The night was sending me familiar faces in a dream. There was Phlydia, asking me to find her book again. Dreppin, curious about the wide, wild world of adventures. Arkanis and Deder, old friends, strangely troubled and cautious. And Jondalar, sternly warning me against something. Something dangerous. I wasn't listening. I was running away. I couldn't make myself ask whom I should thank for my father's burial. Everyone knows why he left Candlekeep to never return. All must know I have dug his grave.

In my dream, I was a child of only a few seasons once more. Trying to keep up with Gorion, aged though as he was, even back then. He had an important meeting with Ulraunt, the Keeper of Tomes. An important meeting about me that I didn't remember.

Standing outside the doors of the inner keep, I could hear the shouting from within. As I was tracing patterns in the water of a fountain, a reflection distracted me from the argument. A large raven was perched atop a stone wall, staring directly at me with huge black eyes. I was looking back through the mirror of the water, suddenly afraid to meet the bird's gaze any other way. It had claws for feet, little skeletal claws.

The doors of the keep suddenly swung open, and Ulraunt stormed out. He glanced at me for a moment, but looked away as he spoke. "You both can stay," he sneered, "but mark my words. That child will be the death of you."

A flash of memory once more, and Gorion walks out of the keep as he is today, dead. I drop my eyes back to the water so as not to see. The raven is gone, but my own image remains. My eyes are black, like those of the bird.

If I found home, so did the blame.

I found him in his room. On the fifth floor of the inner keep, above the dusty treasures of the Library. He was waiting for me, and a secret niche in a wall clicked in anticipation, the enchanted lock reacting to my presence. Inviting me to take a peek.

The scroll unfolded itself before me with a sigh. His final breath. His final words.

Bethphel,

If you are reading this, it means I have met an untimely death. I would tell you not to grieve for me, but I feel much better thinking that you would. There are things I must tell you in this letter that I might have told you before. However, if my death came too soon, then I would have never been given the chance.

First of all, I am not your biological father, for that distinction lies with an entity known as Bhaal, the Lord of Murder. In the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked Faerûn, Bhaal too was forced into a mortal shell. He was somehow forewarned of the death that awaited him during that time. He sought out women of every race and forced himself upon them. Your mother was one of those unlucky, and as you know, she died in childbirth.

I have been her friend and her lover. We used to dream together of the happiness that was denied us. I have always thought of you as my child, and I hope you still think of me as your father.

Bethphel, you have lived in Candlekeep all your life. You know that our founder Alaundo left many prophesies concerning the coming of the spawn of Bhaal. They shall be good and evil, but chaos shall flow through them all. It is said that when the Beast's bastard children come of age, they will bring havoc to the lands of the Sword Coast. One of these children must rise above the rest and claim their father's legacy.

Some say that the spawn of the Lord of Murder are fated to come into their inheritance through bloodshed and misery. It is the hope of their father that only one shall remain alive to inherit his legacy. My hope is different. But one thing is certain. There are many who will want to use you for their own purposes. One, a man who calls himself Sarevok, is the worst danger. He has studied here at Candlekeep and thus knows a great deal about your history and who you are. And recently I have learned another thing... He is your stepbrother, a Bhaalspawn himself.

Bethphel, your mother was a special woman. Know that light and dark alike are mixed in your blood. But, if only our dreams could still come true, Lifegiver shall be spared the share of dead gods.

Your loving father,
Gorion

The yellowed parchment curled back in my hands. I looked around, as if I saw the room for the first time. I used to know it well; everything was just as on the first day of Melting, before we departed hurriedly into the unknown. The same, and yet back then I did not know. He knew. The answer to Nalin's riddle that not even a demon of death could pervert. It must be mine to find out...

My father knew his killer, too. Sarevok... Only to think that his bastard father is just two flights below, along with the rest of his Iron Throne lackeys! The air is heavy here. Parda and Karan, my childhood mentors, are complaining of the same uneasy feeling haunting them for the last few days. I have a good guess where it's coming from. It was at its heaviest when we were facing Reiltar, staring him eye to eye. The sanctity of life within these walls may grant them protection. For now... But they know I'm here. And I can wait.

A soft and quick splash of bare feet across the stone floor, and a little girl, barely seven seasons old, runs by and stops, staring at me with blue eyes, wide as saucers. Then, a mischievous smile, and a snicker, "Hey, wanna play?! Some whammy wizzah is comin'. And, you know what?! Immy says his cloak can fly!"

The little child disappears the way she came, a momentary vision of my own giggling childhood running away... I know whose work it was. Good old Theodon. The only one of those whom I met, greeting me with a smile on his face.

"You'd be as naked as a jaybird the moment someone turned their back on you. I remember the day that fella Blackstaff came floating in, and there you were, tearing around the outer keep with Gorion hot on your tail. Took the cloak right off his back, you did, and made yourself just the cutest little..."

I wouldn't mind being recognized like that. Imagine Khelben Blackstaff, trying his hardest to look important while my little self was running through the stables with his cape flying behind me!

"Such a lark, eh, Jessup?

"Nobody was sure what to do, and then Khelben mutters some words and catches you by the scruff of your neck with some sort of spectral hand. He hauls you out and drops right in front of him, grabbing his filthy cape in the process. Everyone was scared, they were.

"And then old Khelben bursts out in the biggest laugh you ever heard. Everyone in the keep was laughing, like mad, except you, Bethphel. You just stood there, naked as the day you were born, and wondering what the fuss was about. I tell you, those were the days..."

For the first time in a long while, I was laughing. At least someone remembered... I looked around, at the solemn statues lining up the great hall. Great monks of old, Alaundo, and the others. How could I have doubted that? This is my home, after all. It shall always remember.

Shadows are walking by our cell, dancing on the walls. The shifting stripes of light and dark are playing a silent flute on the iron bars of my prison.

Some of the shadows stop to listen. To gaze upon us, and to speak. There was Ulraunt, the Keeper of Tomes, what the outsiders might call the lord of the keep. He said much. About the lost honor and due punishment. There was Tethtoril, the High Priest of Mystra and a true power behind the silent walls of Candlekeep. He said little.

All of the people I met before, during the day, were coming to the prison to jeer and spit at me. How could they?! Parda, sweet old Parda. You, who would never harm a fly, and always called me a child. When did your eyes turn into quicksilver?.. Cold spittle burns deeper than boiling water. The worst of all was Theodon. I would never be able to laugh again.

The events of the last day fly before my eyes like shadows of light and dark. Always finding the thick iron bars, for there is no escape.

"You there! Stop and surrender yourselves. You are accused of murdering the men Brunos Costak, Thaldorn Tenhevich, and Rieltar Anchev."

All the leaders of the Iron Throne... The voice of the guard was stern and composed, but no one believed his promises of a fair trial. No one but a stupid girl who thought she was still seven years old.

The fight was quick and savage. Shar-Teel was terrible to behold. Throwing herself against the guards' halberds as if death itself was better than having to face the same justice again. If not for the monks and their immobilizing spells, she would have never been taken alive. And much rejoicing was caused by taking of a drow. I'm glad, at least, that Quayle and Edwin managed to get away in the initial confusion. And, of course, only a fool could hope to catch a halfling with bare hands.

I would have liked to be invisible as well. If only to hide away from those mocking eyes! Tomorrow, we will be sent to Baldur's Gate, to stand trial as murderers and Amnish spies. I'd rather be on my way already! 'Tis a much worse torture to stand here, for all to see who called me friend and now calls me traitor.

Someone has done a pretty good job of framing us. Why don't I feel much pain at this thought? Maybe, that's just what I truly deserve. If Dradeel is still alive, he should be glad he didn't follow us here.

A giggling girl runs by without pausing and disappears. I won't see her ever again. But a new light suddenly flickers at the end of a long corridor. Why don't my memories leave me alone?! Someone, tell that girl to go away. She looks too much like Imoen...

Many times I tried to imagine what I would do when we meet again. And when it finally happened, I did nothing. They just walked in, as-a-matter-of-factly. Imoen, Jaheira, and a burly ranger with his hamster. Dradeel, Tethtoril, and a few others. No, they ran in, for there was no time to lose.

Often, I wondered what I would say to them, Jaheira or Imoen, when they were coming to torment my dreams. And those dreams were strangely silent. Now, all I could remember from our meeting was a rushing stream of voices.

"Quick! The keys!"
"Bethphel! Are you OK?"
"Someone, quickly heal that woman!"
"Who are you?"
"Don't touch me, rivvin!"
"A drow?!"
"No time to explain... Dopplegangers are afoot!"
"More righteous buttkicking to be dispensed!"
"There is fighting in the keep."
"The wizards... anyone with divination skills will have to help out."
"Minsc and Boo stand ready."
"Relax. These people here might have a better need of your... advice."
"Beware the quicksilver eyes!"
"I'll show you the way, but then you're on your own. Can I count on you?"
"Hello? Someone, wake her up..."
"Bethphel, damn it, girl! Will you move?!"
"Behold the stare of my hamster, and change your ways!"
"Jaheira, you're in charge. Quick!"

Long corridors, someone's strong hands helping me up, pit-pat of running boots against the stone floor. "Move! Move! Move!" Patches of torchlight on the walls. Damp, stifling air of a graveyard. "Hold!" Panting...

Catacombs of Candlekeep. A trapped, torturous maze of twisting corridors and hallowed chambers beneath the main keep, the quiet place where Alaundo and the other monks sleep. The coveted crown of our many childhood adventures.

Dradeel must've brought Imoen and the others. And now he's gone, having joined Tethtoril in the defense of the keep. Our task seems just as hopeless.

"Worry not, there is enough trouble waiting for you underground," Tethtoril assured the impatient ranger. His furry companion seemed to agree. "But under no circumstances are you to be seen fighting someone who looks like our own people. We, students of Mystra, just have a few... tricks to survive and to rescue, should the battle not go our way.

"Bethphel... Bethphel! Listen to me. Guilty or not, go. I'm doing it for Gorion's sake. Fly to Baldur's Gate. Find Duke Eltan and give him this. He'll believe you. Remember, our fate is in your hands."

A magic locket next to my heart, and many feet of earth above us. We are to crawl out of this grave together. Imoen and Jaheira are near, sitting right across from me. But I still don't know what to say...

Our rest was brief. The catacombs opened their bowels for us, blowing up hordes of undead. How did this evil find its way here? When did this quiet place manage to build up so much decay, such hatred toward the living? As if the Lord of the Dead aligned himself with the Lord of Murder. But if there were any voices in my head, I was too dazed to listen.

We were running through narrow passages, between the sickly arms of ghasts groping for flesh. Around a corner, and into a skeletal embrace. Into a burial chamber, and a half-decomposed putrid mass would rise against us in a dull, yet steady, resolve.

Through the narrow passages, with long swords flashing. Turning the corner, and banishing with song. Into the chamber, and then Imoen would touch something cradled against her heart. A whisper gives birth to engulfing flame. A turn, and a flaming arrow. A corridor, and a roaring jet of fire, scorching the walls down to bare stone... She has changed much, this new Imoen with a fiery necklace from my dreams. She had seen the death face to face, and learned to cleanse her pain with fire.

The undead are silent. It is harder with the living. Phlydia... Our dearest, absent-minded Phlydia! Always forgetting her books in the strangest of places. "My book! You stole my book, you curr!"

Dreppin... "Poisoned Arabelle, have you? Brought your fucked up little sister back to me yet?"

The living were talking around me, but I could hardly hear them. I couldn't tell...

"You are not Dreppin! Not the open and smiling Dreppin I used to know." Imoen... How was she able to tell truth from lies? They can be true, the words of quicksilver eyes. And they can lie, the people we hold dear.

Oh, they're fast, Minsc's sword, Jaheira's spell, and Imoen's fire... And Imoen's fire. It's in her eyes. How could she be so sure she was killing an enemy, and not a friend? So easy to make a mistake... Arkanis and Deder, the stout dwarfs were real, but the others... Jondalar and Hull. Parda and Karan... my tutors in arms and wisdom. Even old Winthrop... many more... They'd spoken true before they died.

"Thought you could best me, did you? Try me now, twerp, and we'll see who comes out the better!"

"Fickle as the wind, ye are, fickle as the wind... We have a name for yer type. Ratbastards, it is. Aye, ratbastards, and I've never known one I didn't hang with my own hands!"

"Seek my comfort, will you? Aye, I'll show you a sweet and silent comfort if ye'll only let me, wasteling."

"Dullard! Insolent waif! I tried to instruct you, tried to make you wise, but it was like drawing compassion from a Zhent! You are a nothing, child..."

Silence! The worst of all was to know that a doppleganger could be right, after all. What kind of truth had they been telling Durlag? Now I know what he must have felt. But if his was the curse of insanity, mine must be the one of weakness.

The living were talking around me, but I could hardly hear them. I couldn't tell... My small, stuffy crypt of a world was swimming before my eyes, faster and faster... That's when they found me, Tethtoril and Elminster. And behind them both, beyond belief and higher than hope, Gorion. He did not die! How could I have been mistaken so? My father, he was everything. And I was... so... so... nothing, that I almost believed them. Like a dream...

"Bethphel! Stop this madness, child, I beg of thee! Thou hast soaked these halls with blood of the innocent, and I cannot permit this to continue."

The innocent... Why are you wounding me, Elminster? Your words are sharper than the claws of those that were calling my name in voices I once knew, only to turn into monsters and attack me from behind.

"By all that is good, Bethphel, what have they done to your mind to haunt it so? Your old friend Dreppin lies tangled in his own entrails. And foolish Phlydia! She ran down here to offer a mother's shoulder, and you have butchered her like the monster you perceived her to be! The gods have no mercy on us mortals, it appears."

My father! He can't be wrong. But then, it means...

"Listen closely, Bethphel. With the help of dopplegangers and some powerful magic, Sarevok has encased thy mind within a vast and frightening illusion. I was unsure if I could even penetrate it to reach thee. The time has come for a leap of faith, child!"

Time to leap from a high precipice, toward the sun. Your child is nothing, father, and will soon be even less so.

"Please, child, sheathe thy weapons and sheathe thy madness. Come with us, and we shall see thee to safety, at last."

Too good to be true, and so horrible to let go. A ball of consuming flames burst forth from Imoen's fingers, and in its blinding light the familiar form started to change. Touch it! grasp it! hold it before it is too late! ...but when my hand stretched into the fire, I didn't feel the pain. Then I have known that my touch could kill.

...But wait, I recognize this place. We have already stood before this very solemn entrance, where our first doppleganger died. In the end, we have come a full circle, and are now lost for sure. But the pain is gone, even though I'm feeling all burnt inside.

The floor is plain in front of Alaundo's tomb, and we're stretching on polished marble. The inner chamber beckons with a strange and warm light, as if the prophet himself were inviting us to join him, but we're reluctant to violate its sanctity. Not even the ghasts and dopplegangers dared to get in. But whatever traps might've kept them out surely weren't meant for us. Just the smooth floor of warm stone.

I had been numb and deaf before. In this brief respite from running and fighting, I choose to rest, to watch and listen.

My new companion, Minsc sits with his back against one of the Alaundo's statues. Diminutive and slender, the prophet would've been dwarfed by the huge Rashemen ranger during his life, but now his likeness towers above Minsc's bald head. He shaved it clean in memory of Dynaheir, the "witch" that he, as an aspiring member of the White Dragon Berserker Lodge, had sworn to protect. His dejemma will now never be completed, all because of me.

He shakes his head sadly, a little fluffy hamster cradled gently in his big, muscular arms. "They didn't want our help. 'Divination skills!' How would they know that Boo can smell evil a mile away?" The rodent squeaks excitedly. "Yes, they wouldn't even know he is a miniature giant space hamster. Big wizards all of them, and couldn't divine such a simple thing!"

"Why don't you ask your 'diviner' friend to find us an exit?" The same brown locks, haphazardly thrown across the face, the same taunting smile. Some things just never change. "Or shall I cast my cards again?"

"Shame on you, Imoen!" Jaheira scowls. "The poor man must've been hit on the head one too many times, but what part of yours has suffered most, as you were trying to grow up? With those cheap tricks of yours... Last time you were trying to cheat Bentley Mirrorshade out of his money, you couldn't sit down for a good week afterwards!"

"I told you Boo can smell a friend, can smell an enemy... Cannot smell an exit." Minsc's sincere disappointment offsets the blushing color of Imoen's cheeks.

"What are you looking at? I told you everything you wanted to know." I catch the guarded glance Jaheira shot at the drow, and I remember another one, just like that, only directly at me, in a cavern beneath the Nashkel Mines. Back then, she didn't know that I was ready to talk. She knows it now...

"It was my fault, too. We lost you, and so paid the price." Her voice breaks, and I avert my eyes. I do not deserve. "Gorion told us about who you were, but... I'm sure you know more about it already than I ever did.

"One thing, though. He always believed you will deserve his love."

I will? I stand in Alaundo's inner sanctum, and I don't remember how I got here. There is a strange, magical glow in the chamber, on the edges of my vision. Imoen and Minsc, Viconia and Shar-Teel, all in a circle around me. Jaheira, face to face, with a helm of gold in her hands.

"This Helm of Glory used to belong to a knight that spurned his calling." I hear Jaheira's voice, and I remember the same shining gleam. "As a result, his calling has spurned him. He wanted to kill you out of greed, but we found him before he had a chance to act. He knew the evil of his deeds, for this magical helmet won't let you be deceived ever again."

So it was true! What I saw in my dreams did really happen. They fought for me! But why?

"Wear it with honor, and do not repeat Jardak's mistake. But before you do... each of us wanted to tell you something."

I look around, and the glow spreads, helping me to remember their faces just as they are now, this very moment. I'm standing still, I look and listen.

"There is strength in knowing your enemy," in Shar-Teel's low voice.

"There is wisdom in remembering your friends," answers Viconia.

"I forgive you." Imoen! "You didn't know what you were doing."

"Minsc and Boo are happy! I knew that! Boo doesn't smell any evil in your wake."

Do I deserve their forgiveness? There is a new presence in Alaundo's sanctum, it won't bear to hear silly questions.

"I forgive you," repeats Jaheira, and I feel something heavy drop from upon my soul. We leave together, hand in hand. And when the glow vanishes, so does the blame.

The exit led into a maze of broken passages. Forgotten even by those who were left to guard it from the other side. They didn't think much of anyone's chance to find it, huddled around a feeble fire a fair distance away. Only, when Imoen sneaked by and found a tunnel opening into their cave from another direction, it was they who didn't stand a chance. Brave and able warriors though they may be, when their cooking fire suddenly burst out into a roaring ball of flame, any battlecries they knew were drowned with pain of burning inferno.

Perhaps, they were only waiting for someone to come by and relieve them of their duty. Those who survived the fire were eager to find a quick release by our blades and arrows. My booty was a fine throwing axe, molding into my hand like clay obeying the master's fingers. Minsc was quick to share Boo's opinion that the axe would remember the hand wielding it, and always return were it thrown, after a hit or a miss alike.

It's so light in my hand, yet weighs so heavy on my soul. I know who it belongs with, and just the dwarf to do it justice. Alas, it'd be much harder to see Kagain come back from stone. Yet another soul I used to keep forgetting, and only now remembered.

Why do these tunnels feel so much like Durlag's Tower? The labyrinths of oblivion, with legions of ghouls carrying on their curse, forgotten in the wake on someone's fame and glory. There are no ghouls here, but giant spiders. The spiders hiss, and the drow whispers, "Your home too has tasted their venom."

Time to clear away the cobwebs of memory! With sword and fire.

"Where Minsc goes, evil steps aside!" The ranger's grin is broad and loud.

"But where his new, pretty witch passes, only the fresh scent of goodness remains!"

A new witch? To answer my incredulous stare, Imoen strikes a tiny flame off the top of her big finger, blowing it out with a wink and a flair. What in the name of...?! But as I watch them pass, all but dancing to the rhythm of a shared inner chuckle, I suddenly realize who returned a smile to Imoen's face.

He can be brutal and savage, that mountain of a man. Sometimes I'm wondering who his real charge is, Boo or Imoen. (Or shall I say, who is really in charge?) When a pair of basilisks had the misfortune of petrifying the little hamster, they learned in no time what Minsc's righteous anger could do to their hide... and how quickly he can lose his head. Beside himself with berserker rage, he wouldn't stop even after the poor lizards were shredded into tiny strips and pieces. Drastic measures had to be taken before Jaheira could approach him safely and turn Boo back from stone. The lucky creature was as safe and sound as can be, and didn't suffer a single crack!

But all good things come to an end. Just as a movement of air signaled the exit was near, a hurried messenger ran into us, babbling, with round eyes. He must've been sent to retrieve the guards we had killed at their post. Having mistaken us for them, he told us, catching his breath, that even as Sarevok was meant to leave the keep this way, something held him up there, forcing to choose different means of exit. A race is ahead, for he's heading the same way we're going. For Baldur's Gate!

The worse news is that Rieltar and the others are indeed dead, not by my hand. What kind of monster would have hired dopplegangers to murder his own father? What hatred for me must he harbor in his black heart to have them do the deed in our likeness? At least, he had the courage to confront Gorion face to face.

He murdered those I held dear, and I'll make him pay. For I shall always remember...

A storm of fallen leaves rose against us when we climbed up toward the light. A faint, cautious kind of light, as the sun was peeking out over the horizon. The keep was dead silent, and the emboldened disk of gold soon sent its feelers out, toward the slanted roofs and rising spires. They returned a gleam of burning red, the color of blood.

We've made it. Have they? Has anyone, left within these walls? The same question in everyone's eyes... "I must go," asked Imoen. "We must go," repeated Minsc and Jaheira. I knew it was their duty, but I had mine. I wished them luck, clenching a small locket in my hand. Salvation for the living, and vengeance for the dead.

"We'll meet again, Bethphel. I shall be with you when the justice is done." Perhaps, we will. Only... last night I lost my home. I won't see it again.

The air stirs anew, but there is no response. Only the rustle of leaves on the ground. The world is fading. And the leaves are falling... red and slow, like tiny droplets of blood.

It didn't take long for them to find me, though I did not call. I could not wait. As if a wolf once more, running after her prey. That day, there could only be one, with no distraction. That day, a hungry fox wouldn't stop to sniff for a hobbit. Nor would a dark rider pause for a wizard. But they would come out of their hiding places and fall in with my stride. Alora, Edwin, Quayle... I was feeling their breath behind my back again, that day and the following night. And another day, without fail.

My memories were racing after me as well. What seems an eternity ago, I decided the hunted will turn into a hunter. Only... there was someone else... or something... following me, something that I did not recognize. Yesterday, once again watching the sunset consume the city across the river, I wasn't sure if I was the hunter already, or still the hunted instead.

As well, it was good we double-checked before crossing the bridge. In the end, we had to swim over under the cover of darkness. The extra heavy patrols were in our honor. As if Sarevok's fabricated charge was not enough, I was also wanted for kidnapping Skie, the Grand Duke's daughter. She turned out alive, after all, along with her savior and new champion, Eldoth Kron... Gods! Must I suffer still that if not my murderous brother, then it must be Eldoth leading me onto the scaffold!

My face was in the dark, and she was talking. Her eyes were impatient, in the unsteady light of a candle, but her hands were not trembling. Slender fingers, and narrow eyes of Kara-Tur. How did she find me? And what did she want? Her name was Tamoko, and her words were for me alone. I only had to swear to hold to a promise given in advance.

Sorry, Tamoko, I don't trust strangers anymore.

"We'll meet again. I shall be waiting."

So much hope in so sad a voice! They did not want me to let you go back into the night, you know. Too dangerous, they kept saying, hold her here till we are gone. Easier said than done... I won't promise you anything. Better leave now, before it is too late! You are too much like myself...

All right, it was foolish of me to rush straight into the Flaming Fist compound without so much as looking around to see what was going on. Placing all my trust into a single locket, and a word for Duke Eltan... But who's to blame me when so many lives are at stake? Right, like they'd be any safer now, with their would-be savior behind the bars. And I thought I have learned patience before! The call of vengeance can truly cloud one's mind.

So powerful, because its target was near. Sarevok made it into Baldur's Gate ahead of me, but his minions must've been busy at work long before his arrival. At least one of the Grand Dukes is dead already. Skie's father, no less. Tortured and murdered in his own dungeons, much to Eldoth's joy, I imagine. That gotta open his path to the Silvershields family fortune. While Sarevok, with the Iron Throne's leaders dead, has already opened the Iron Throne's coffers to the iron-starved city. His name is on everyone's lips now, and the war with Amn is all but inevitable. He is to be a new Grand Duke in Entar's place. He is the hero, and I... a common criminal, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.

We must get out somehow! The magical locket, Tethtoril's parting gift, is hanging limp. Duke Eltan? I know not what happened to him, nor the name of the strange disease that's been holding him in the death's grip. Only Scar, his second in command, is dead already, and Angelo is now leading the Flaming Fist. Angelo, who laughed into my face when I told him of Sarevok's crimes. Angelo, the brute of a man, who didn't even bother to hide where his true allegiances lie. Angelo... whose eyes only faltered once. Stumbling upon Shar-Teel... Turning the cloudy blue, like when you're looking at someone you always earned to find, knowing you're about to lose them again.

But for a moment... Shar-Teel is still looking back. Even now, when everyone is long gone.

"He is my father... There was a time I would've died for him."

There is a refuge in the dark. A special kind of space, created when the light grows lazy to penetrate every corner. Those who know to find it, also know how much it can hide. A refuge for an imprisoned mind away from prying eyes, or a disguise for a daring soul waiting in ambush. As soon as I entered it, I knew I was sharing it with someone. There was a quiver of anticipation in the air, not yet a wind but a baited breath waiting for a window of opportunity to be smashed open.

The moment came when one of the guards yawned and motioned for the other one to join him in a game of dice. Having surrendered to boredom, he didn't even guess how badly he was in need of a lucky shot. He didn't see a shadow detach itself from a wall, and glide toward him, with a catlike grace. I saw it, for we shared in the dark.

Freeze! A sharp command calling the guards away in a voice that brooks no delay. The dice fall to the ground; theirs was a lucky shot... Unexpected, but it makes it easier. The guards leave, and the shadow dances toward me. The lock cannot but yield to her cunning arts.

"Quickly now." Tamoko?! "I did promise to be back," in her angular, undulating voice. "Now, move on, move on. You cannot die yet... Promise?"

I'll try my best... Then how come I was the last to leave? Someone was behind me in the dark, someone just entered our prison. I looked back, and saw his face. Angelo was standing in the other door with the keys to our cells in one hand, and a torch in the other, bringing out the blue in his eyes. The same kind of regret one often finds in the final, parting glance.

How could I hide it from Shar-Teel? She guessed it, though she didn't stop, didn't turn back. We were running down the long corridors, plunging into the sharp flights of stairs. Strangely deserted, with no guards on their posts. All the doors, unmanned... but one. When the heavy body sagged softly to the floor, Tamoko gestured. And we came in.

What do you call the disease when your healer is a doppleganger? Sarevok must've thought Eltan was in good hands. But even in his sickbed, the Duke was still strong enough to grasp the beast and hold it down until we finished it off. He collapsed soon after that, and we had to carry him out. Grand Duke or not, he'd best be invisible for now. At least until he's back on his feet, or till we find clear evidence against Sarevok. Here, at the harbor master's building, Tamoko said he would be safe. By now, she has earned out trust.

The hunter is being hunted, and we're reduced to going through the sewers in order to avoid the Flaming Fist. Why do I have a feeling I had been there before? Together with Imoen. Only, it was different in those dreams. The stench was not as strong, the smell of being hunted.

Tamoko's conditions were harsh, indeed. Where am I gonna find the strength to hold my word?

"There are three things that are strength incarnate. The love of life, the fear of death, and the family. A family that loves death would have a strong pull indeed. Can you... feel it? Can you feel him? He hates you, you know."

Yes, I know. And I can feel it. He comes to me in my dreams, too. A dark shadow in spiked armor. Cold and relentless. A Warrior of Chaos. Bhaal's Chosen. Sarevok. The beast that killed my father. How could anyone love him?

And yet she does. Tamoko, a willow that doesn't weep.

"You must defeat him. You must destroy his plans and stop his scheme in its tracks. You must strip him of the belief that he can succeed on this path he follows. You must do this for me, and... and you must also leave him his life. I will... I will help him to live his life as a man, not as the god he thinks he can be."

Her bark is strong, her heart is golden. She wants to give him a chance. But can it even be done? To strip a man from his belief in being destined to become a new Lord of Murder? Even gods die when there is no one left to believe.

"Gods are not known for bequeathing their powers, especially if they have foreseen their deaths. Sarevok believes he is a master of his destiny. I fear he's only a tool, a means for his father to arise again. The Lord of Murder consumes his children...

"You have felt the hunger and heard the offerings of power? Sarevok thinks they are true, and so he seeks a senseless war, and a slaughter on a scale so grand as to defy description... Stop the rivers of blood, and save him too! I would keep him here, grounded firmly among those of us that are all flesh."

"Flesssssh... Sssschlumpssssha." What was it? An abomination born of the sewers, or all the filth and vomit seeping out of the darker corners of my mind? Materializing in this waking nightmare... A heaving mass of sleaze, surrounded by the decaying flesh of its own kind. I could recognize what must once have been an ogre, a goblin, a human. The Sewerkin. Silent. Schlumpsha was silent too, to everyone but me. Its tentacles writhing within my mind.

"Who ammm I, whooo indeed... It hasss been so long sssince I had hideousss form and... and ssshape like you... Hah, in yourrr mind, I see thingsss I recognize therrre, a place you called home, onccce..."

Candlekeep. Until this springtide it was the only place I had ever known.

"Candlekeep... I was therrre, wasssn't I...

"A child of booksss, you werrre... Aye, booksss are goood... And a child of fffate... Heeee, I have hearrrd of you, Bethphel. I have hearrrd your name whissspered down theeese stony hallsss, where the drip of waterrr minglesss with the gurgling of the dead... They have wanted you dead, you know."

Who has wanted me dead? Have you?

"Who, Schlumpsha? No, not I, not yet, but yourrr death izzz ssso tempting, now, ssso near... I can almost tassste it on you, child."

What death do you taste on me, Sewer King?

"A death foretold, a death plannnned for by the godsss themselvesss, heeee! But I'll not tell you more, not Schlumpsha, not the faithful sewerkin, nooo..."

Something that's been following me, something I couldn't recognize was near. And then I felt them! My mother's wings. Surrounding me, enveloping tight in their protecting embrace, not letting go. Up, up, to the fresh air! There was a quiet house in the city, the light of a single candle shaking off the darkness in the depths of an empty hall. The children were afraid to approach the windows...

"Mom and dad don't believe us, but there's a bogeyman that comes and looks in our window every night. We're real glad we're twins because, if there was only one of us, then there'd be no one to hold onto when we are scared."

How do you know I am not the bogeyman?

"No, lady, you are kind. You are not a monster."

Now I know where to find strength.

The Undercellars is a noisy place. This is where the ladies of the night ply their trade, and crowds flock to them like moths to light. I felt many a burning stare on me as well. Hungry with lust, and openly questioning... A sword on my side for a silent reply, and ice in my eyes to drive it home. I made sure they knew to expect the ultimate price, should they dare to approach. So they would smirk, and turn back. Until I met two pairs of eyes interested in that kind of dance. The two I was looking for. Accomplices in a crime. Husband and wife.

"Ooh, she's got a tongue of steel and a heart of gold, my Krystin does... And she's so pretty that she makes herself all invisible, so guys don't give her hassle. Not that they would, with a tough guy like me looking after her, of course..."

"Slythie-baby, you tell them, honey..."

I could have been like them. I used to want to be like them. Cool and independent. Equally proficient with charm as well as with sword. Jumping at a challenge, no matter what it takes. Juggling lives as jokes... Cold-blooded assassins. I owe much to Khalid for the words he stuttered out in the nick of time, when I was almost ready to do Silke's bidding. There is something I must've learnt through my travails, after all.

Only, Slythe and Krystin were not of the common assassin stock. An eagle flying high could discern a tiny mouse in the grass, swooping down upon it like a rock from the sky. Too easy, they would say. Let the eagle try to find the mouse flying low. Let anyone try to murder a Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate in his own palace! And then, how about two more? Since Balduran's time, four Grand Dukes have always been ruling the city, chosen on their merit by the people. Sarevok was planning to rule alone.

Tamoko pointed me toward the pair, showing me their usual stomping grounds. Oh, I can understand her revulsion! "Worse than animals," she said. Unsavory beings, thriving on pain and sniffing it out from miles away. They must've felt it within my heart, and when our eyes met, we recognized each other. Like in a mirror... I could have been like them.

"Looking for a challenge, my dear? Entar was screaming most deliciously all the way to the end. Let's see if you can outdo him now."

I didn't think so. Private rooms are precious in that noisy place. And best of all, they can be totally silent. Especially, when Viconia decides she likes it that way. No spellcasting. Unlike their victims, Slythe and Krystin died without a sound, but wreathing in pain nonetheless. I was watching, and I knew I would have become just like them. Only, I mustn't.

We know a part of Sarevok's plan now. Among Slythe's belongings, we found an invitation to the coronation ceremony. Tomorrow in the Ducal Palace, the Grand Duchess Liia Jannath will bestow a crown upon Sarevok's bald head. Duke Eltan cannot attend, of course, but the fourth Grand Duke, a former adventurer only known as Belt, would join as well. A double murder during a coronation ceremony! Sarevok could not have given them a harder challenge. But Slythe and Krystin were not the ones to refuse. Not if it meant losing the job to a bunch of dopplegangers.

My brother is certainly mindful of his heritage to wash his own triumph with blood. Not if we can help it! A perfect moment to show the real murderer, to clean my name, and to save my home. With such an invitation in our hands, we should be able to sneak into the palace without a problem. Unless Sarevok realized by then that his bloodthirsty pets were missing...

Thankfully, we're not alone in this. Husam was more than the simple drunken thief I used to know. He greeted us upstairs, in the Blushing Mermaid, with a dozen of his friends. Respected by some but feared by many, the Shadow Thieves of Amn are not about to take it kindly to anyone leaving their sigil, a black silken mask impaled upon a stiletto blade, over the blood they did not spill. They were not about to tolerate having been implicated in the Baldur's Gate murders.

We were not the only ones to be framed. Well, tomorrow we're gonna need all the help we can get. But now, there is another place that I must pay a visit to. There we shall go alone.

I'm turning the first page open, with effort. It is soaked with fresh blood. I'll have to skip the beginning; too slippery... I'm supposed to look for evidence in Sarevok's diary, not for his soul. Still, what was he like when he was younger? I had Gorion, and he... he's murdered his own father. Whom has he been following?

14th of Eleint, 1366

Today Cormyr has instituted a ban against the Iron Throne from operating within their borders. While this is a great blow to the Iron Throne, it is the perfect opportunity for Reiltar to approach the Throne's High Council with his proposal. If things go well, we could begin the operation within a year.

Today, we met no resistance within the Iron Throne's headquarters. We might as well have stepped in right through the front door. It was wide open, more to the rats escaping the sinking ship, rather than to those wishing to enter. Sarevok was in command now, and he ruined all business by handing the Iron Throne's assets to the city, all the iron for the war cause.

The branch in Baldur's Gate is now closed. Reiltar's plan is dead, as is Reiltar himself. It was a clever plan, in the beginning. Simple, really. To create iron shortage, gaining money and power. But it was neither of those that Sarevok was craving. He wanted a war. Why?

25th of Marpenoth, 1366

The Iron Throne council has agreed to support Reiltar's plan. He has been given all the resources he needs, as well as leadership of the project. I have expressed interest to my so-called father, and he had promised to include me within the operations along the Sword Coast.

He mentioned mother in our conversation. How I wasn't to be unfaithful to him as she had. He made it clear that I would suffer her fate if I was. His threats are weak and hollow, and I shall listen to them for only so long.

Vengeance?

A voice like in a fuzzy dream. A distant memory. "Father?"

"What is it, Beth?" Does a smile have a flavor? The little girl forgot that face, but the smell still remains. And a big hand ruffling her hair.

"What was my mother like?"

"She was... she was beautiful. And very strong. She loved you very much, Bethphel. And when you grow up, I want you to be just like her."

It is the smell of blood that's troubling me now... Unlike me, Sarevok knew his mother well. And he remembered. The seeds of hatred are strong. It was Reiltar who sowed them. Then how did he hope he would be obeyed? Warning Sarevok not to follow in his mother's footsteps... He didn't have to. He followed his father's trail. When did he learn?

2nd of Nightal, 1366

Davaeorn has sent a message to Reiltar, informing him that the mines at Cloakwood have been drained and are ready for use.

I have decided to take this time to make my visit to Candlekeep. I have waited a long time to research the prophecies of Alaundo, and I must know if the dreams speak the truth. I will not believe the words of phantoms without proof, and the priest of Bhaal I confronted gave me nothing. He was old and died quickly in my grasp. If the words are true, I shall surely groom stronger acolytes than this.

The Lord of Murder shall perish.
But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.
Chaos shall be sown in their passage.
So sayeth the wise Alaundo.

I lived in the heart of Alaundo's world, where the monks are singing, and I have never stopped to listen. He heard his call from afar, and came. But it was not the priest that opened his eyes. Even before that, he must had killed already.

11th of Ches, 1367

My research has gone well. The monks here at Candlekeep have been quite helpful. From what I have read, it would seem certain that the blood of Bhaal does indeed flow through my veins. His prophecies are ambiguous, of course, but I think I understand them. He foresaw his coming death, and seeded his essence across the land. The children born as a result bear the marks of chaos, have power with no direction, and shall feel the blood of a god within them.

It does not explicitly say so, but obviously this means that death wrought by the children will cause them to ascend. Fitting, and since the father was the Lord of Murder, proving one's worth must involve an act in accordance with his portfolio. I begin to see what I must do. Death on a god-like scale.

And so, everyone has failed to guess his purpose. Could he be right? Many months have passed, and I too have felt the hunger and heard the offerings of power. Sarevok believes they are true. He believes the children of Bhaal are destined to fight each other, and to prove their worth by bringing death. Only one of them to ascend in blood!

I remember the prophesies, too. "One of these children must rise above the rest and claim their father's legacy." Sarevok knew but one way to rise, only one legacy to claim. That was his purpose... the purpose everyone has failed to guess? Love cannot be fooled. And I remember Tamoko saying, "The Lord of Murder consumes his children."

3rd of Tarsahk, 1367

The monk Gorion troubles me. He seems to have taken an interest in my readings. I must be careful to be more clandestine in my research. I wish I could simply kill him, but I doubt I could safely murder him within this damnable library.

No, brother, you couldn't. And you remembered it well. Even now, I am being hunted for the murders I did not commit. But soon enough, I'll have my proof. By the time this diary is over, the hunted will become a hunter instead.

Only to think we had been sleeping under the same sky already...

11th of Tarsahk, 1367

I had a dream this night. My mother was talking to me, but as she did, her face became bloated and discolored. Her voice became weaker as she spoke to me, telling me to save her from Reiltar. I could see the garrote cutting into her neck, but I did nothing. It was only a dream.

My mother's wings, shield my eyes! The seagulls crying, fill my ears! Drive away the nightmares. But in my dream, just let me listen. Listen to the soothing words. "Lifegiver shall me spared the share of dead gods."

I must find out what it means. What are you whispering to me, mother? Bhaal did not want me to be born alive, that's why you struggled? That's why you died, to give me life... Don't go yet! I'll need your strength. And when I stumble, teach me about an unexpected warmth beneath my heart.

27th of Tarsahk, 1367

I take my leave of Candlekeep now, and not a moment too soon, for I am sure that Gorion has perceived my heritage. One thing that I am certain of. Bethphel is, in actuality, one of Bhaal's brood as well. Bethphel has all the markings, and it would explain Gorion's curiosity of my studies. Though there is nothing I can do now, I will have to make certain to return and kill the little brat. It would be foolish of me to let one of my siblings live, especially one being brought up by the Harpers (and I am sure that is where Gorion's allegiances lie).

Yes, and Gorion taught me well. He taught me not to pay heed to the monks' insistent singing. I did not hear the voices... until you came. Could I forgive you? What would my father have said? ...My father? Which father?

Almost an eternity ago, a certain game of knucklebones decided the first right to choose. Three hopefuls, with three kingdoms to divide between themselves. Bane cried out triumphantly, "As the winner, I choose to rule for all eternity as the ultimate tyrant. I can induce hatred and strife at my whim, and all will bow down before me while in my kingdom."

Myrkul was in the second place. "I choose the dead, and by doing so I truly win. Because all those you are lord over, Bane, will eventually be mine. All things must die - even gods."

There can be a boon in being the last one to speak. Bhaal demurred, "But I choose death, and it is by my hand that all that you rule, Lord Bane, will eventually pass to Lord Myrkul. Both of you must pay honor to me and obey my wishes, since I can destroy your kingdom, Bane, by murdering your subjects, and I can starve your kingdom, Myrkul, by staying my hand."

By staying my hand...

28th of Tarsahk, 1368

Everything proceeds well. The ore coming from Nashkel has started to deteriorate, and my mercenaries have been doing a fine job of destroying any iron caravans en route to Baldur's Gate. Though some of my mercenaries have been captured, most think they work for the Zhents, so no trouble has fallen on the Iron Throne. I am sure that the Zhents at Darkhold won't be pleased to know that their name has been falsely used. I will have to be wary for Zhentish agents in the coming months...

I think I now have time to deal with that old codger Gorion, and his little whelp. I will have to inform my men that I'll be gone for the next few weeks.

Weeks turned to months, and days stretched into weeks. Where is our mad Xzar now, I wonder?.. Aye, you have stirred quite a bit of hornet nests, brother. But worst of all, you have stirred myself. Worst for both, you and me. Are you feeling it now? Or have you felt it before? The diary is strangely empty... neglected, until the final page.

? of Eleint, 1368

No time to write... Things have not gone completely as I have planned, but I must still be able to salvage the situation. Bethphel is on the move to Baldur's Gate. If I could maneuver the whelp to Candlekeep, then I would have the perfect scapegoat for my plan. My mortal "father," Reiltar, is there to meet with the Knights of the Shield. He has been blocking all my attempts to escalate the hostilities between Amn and Baldur's Gate, and these meetings will only serve to smooth relations. I must rid myself of them all and assume control of the Iron Throne myself. I cannot allow petty business and monetary concerns to interfere.

Terribly sorry, "father," but my true parentage calls and you are in my way. I shall be sure to instruct the dopplegangers in the exact manner Reiltar should die. I think a garrote would be perfect for the task.

Always so cold and calculated, how did you let it slip, brother? Such a fitting vengeance... only it could not have helped against a burning pain. Unless you have stomped the ashes down. I have been thinking... how could Tamoko love you? How could anyone fall in love with a monster you have become?

Perhaps, you have not always been that way. Perhaps, you have a chance still. With Tamoko... Cythandria did not love you, she didn't care if you destroyed yourself along with thousands of your victims, as long as she could profit from it. She came after your diary too, for what purpose I know not. And it is her blood on the pages. Dying, she called Tamoko a traitor, a vengeful loser. But she was wrong. Tamoko is the only one who still believes in you, brother. No matter what your so-called acolytes say.

Two diaries, side by side. One soaked in blood, the other one in tears. At least, they're mine... Or maybe, one day, someone will try to read my diary covered with blood as well. Only, whose blood is it gonna be, then?

Author's Note: Sarevok's diary is based upon its counterpart in the game, with only minor modifications on my part.

What am I supposed to feel, looking down from what could well be the highest point of my life? Today, I thwarted assassination of two Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate. Today, I defeated my worst enemy, bringing all his plans to ruin. Today, I was bestowed the highest honors before the Grand Assembly, the nobles still shaking in the knees after all they had seen.

For today, and for the first time, I stood against Sarevok face to face... and sword in hand.

Why is it then that I feel loss in the hour of my triumph? My road to success has been paved with the suffering of others. Tempering by pain for a Bhaal's offspring's heart? Gorion had to die to harden it and make me stronger. Garrick gave his life to wake it up, to make me feel again. Yes, Imoen, it started with guilt.

Now it was Viconia's turn to leave. Though not forever. "Just pray for me! And go... and let me do my part."

Will we ever meet again? Like a blinding ray of light is the hood falling off from over her dark face. "A drow?! A drow!!!" Shrieks of the crowd, and a hurried stomping of armored feet. The guards forgot about us, and about the particular invitation they were told to look out for. We got all the distraction we needed to sneak into the palace. Even a moment to look back. Just once.

...And then I saw them. Together... and for the first time, they were splendid in harmony... A selfish lout Edwin may be, but this was the only love he'd ever had. He wasn't about to let her go. A splash of colors into the face of the crowd. A stunned stupor, breaking into a wail, as the drow, the target of their righteous fury, disappeared into thin air... only to be replaced by an elaborate illusion of a giant spider. The crowd falling back in terror. A menacingly looking guard in heavy armor, suddenly turning into a squirrel and running away. Obviously inconvenienced by a tiny helmet strapped over its suddenly long nose.

May they get out of this alive! But Quayle was smiling at the colorful display by his usually withdrawn and contemptuous colleague. "Why, you never know when they're actually learning!"

We left the circus behind, and slipped into the palace. Inside, there was a different kind of show. Myriads of candles from the giant candelabras were working wonders to build sparkling fire within the diamonds, so richly displayed by the gathering of nobles. Their owners' eyes were harder to ignite. Dull and suspicious, easily disturbed by whispers behind their backs. Lies of Amnish evil intrigues and rumors of Zhentarim involvement, gruesome details of Duke Entar's murder and the hopeful glances toward the only man they believed could save them. The man born to rule. To lead them in a war. The man whose eyes shone like fires of inferno, yet whose words were steady and measured like steps to paradise.

In the bright light of the giant candelabras, only one man was speaking from the podium. And his newly forged crown was bursting impatient rainbows out of Grand Duchess Liia's hands. Sarevok was in the spotlight.

You spoiled your own triumph, brother. You should have stopped when Slythe and Krystin failed to show up, casting a cloud on the sun of your fate. Like shifting shadows that lurked, the nobles closest to the Dukes suddenly turned into dopplegangers. Was it that hard to feign surprise, brother? Before you, I knew only one man who could so deliciously stumble in his words.

They broke out of their hiding like hungry lions pouncing on their prey. Six shimmering shadows, hastened with evil incantations. Precious little time we had to hurl ourselves into their path. More time was won by Belt and Liia. A mighty warrior and a skilled mage, the Grand Dukes were not so easy to get. Magic met with magic, and claw with sword. Shar-Teel, Alora, Quayle. Everyone has had a hand in the fight. And Sarevok? He found my eyes... that's when he stumbled.

The true victory is decided in a contest of will. When eyes lock in a deadly block of ice and fire. Razor-sharp memories drinking their own blood to build up resolve. When the torrents of hate and courage wrap around each other to tighten in a knot impossible to unravel, it only takes a simple truth... and a single folly to cut it open.

He met my eyes, and then he knew I had the proof. He didn't even bother to call the guards to arrest me, a vain enterprise. Instead, he went for a kill... You have learnt only one half of our father's lore. You should've stayed your sword, brother.

Like a dormant volcano erupting in fire is the Blade of Chaos in the hands of his Chosen. Like a hurricane is his approach. Men were ripped to shreds, anything standing between us torn to pieces. Cut down like living grass under the sickle of death... Our eyes were locked, my sword ready to meet his. But in my mind, only Tamoko's desperate plea, "Please, let him live!"

At the last moment, a little man broke invisibility behind your back, and a quick teleportation spell whisked you away. Along with you, away went vengeance. He may've thought he was saving you, but surely you know you'd lost already. You did it to yourself, brother. What worse punishment could you have ever met?

It's over. Today, I found Eldoth in the palace. All but mopping floor before me with his own tongue, he was, groveling for forgiveness. Piteous fool! I used to crave for the hour I'd cut his guts out. Alas, his blood would only soil my sword. For the likes of him, I have one bit of wisdom left to share. To the tune of his own...

When dreck is up, you take the hint.
That spitting square up the wind
Betrays yourself. It's time to clean
       The mirror that you have within.

Hell! Let him live... if he can.

Tamoko is gone. She didn't follow us into the palace, and now I can't find her anywhere. If she's with Sarevok, wherever he may be hiding, good luck to her! I have a bad feeling, though. Alas, it seems she might still need our help.

The city has been abuzz ever since the tragic happenings in the palace. The late hour doesn't help it any, for the city's magical lanterns light up the streets in a bright, relentless light. Vengeance is painted on the faces... Duke Eltan was found and brought home. Viconia and Edwin were vindicated in the eyes of the Dukes, though they are nowhere to be found. Rumors are running like wild fire about a drow and an evil wizard on the loose... Sarevok's diary was read and placed under lock and key. It is not certain if it would ever be needed for a trial. The orders are to bring him back dead or alive. More likely dead than alive. That is, if I know my brother.

And if dead... the enemy's corpse shall not be shown to be crowd. There was another entry in his diary, the one I didn't want to dwell on before. Yet with each new sleepless night, I'm reading it over and over in my mind. What's gonna happen to my body when I die?

10th of Tarsahk, 1367

I have found an interesting passage in a dusty manuscript. A nameless monk was trying to understand the more obscure parts of Alaundo's prophesies. He came pretty close to the answer...

My father's essence is strong. It takes over mind and body, leaving no crack in the soul unfilled. What then, in death? It appears that, whenever an offspring of Bhaal dies, the divine essence seeks a way out. For it cannot die! It leaves the empty hulk of a mortal body, burning it out in a wild surge of power. Finding its way to the planes far too removed to contemplate with words, even be they Alaundo's.

Must that mean, then, that Bhaal himself is coming back, reassembled piece by piece through the death of his children? No, the god is dead but his power is there, waiting for a will. For my will... Time for the new Lord of Murder!

Almost a year ago, I hunted down and killed one of my siblings. He was weak, and groveling before me in his final hour. I didn't know if I would feel anything at all when he died. And I kept crushing his throat with my gauntleted hand, waiting for the moment... It didn't come until his body hit the ground. Until it disintegrated in a turbulent stream of sparkles, some rising to the heavens, yet more seeping down into the cracks of hell.

I expected them to flow toward me, but I must still be right. I did feel more than mere satisfaction.

The Lord of Murder consumes his children. Would I too feel your death, brother? Oh, how I wanted to feel you die on the end of my sword! Just days ago... But what is vengeance now? It cannot bring back a life, can only take away a lost soul. Tamoko taught me that, her path must be the right one. She's the lifegiver.

Lifegiver?! You'd need our help, Tamoko. When the Flaming Fists find you with your lover, whither shall you go? No, we must find both of you before anyone else does. The thieves in the guild say they know of a place where Sarevok could be hiding. An ancient city, in ruins and long since forgotten. A city of the watchful dead, where no living soul has been known to set foot and come back alive. Is that your "secret place," brother, that you mention in your diary? If so, it is time for me to pay a visit.

I would have come alone, but alas... they won't let me go. Kivan comes to my side like a shadow. He's found us, for we're going where his quarry must be waiting. One of the few desperados still faithful to Sarevok, Tazok the half-ogre will surely be found with his dark master. He's got nowhere else to go. And so is Angelo. Only, I cannot read Shar-Teel's mind.

The spirit of vengeance... must it always follow me? Should I forgive, there are others. I cannot hold them away. But not everyone is driven by it, either. I'm standing now, framed by ghosts. Kivan on the left, and Kagain on the right. What kind soul released the dwarf out of eternal slumber, to find me in my hour of need? He's always been silent before, more so now than ever. Silence is the worst enemy when your heart turns to stone. It wipes out feelings. Given time, leaves no emotions... No feelings but one, and then it fills your heart.

Which one now lives with Kagain? In silence he came, in silence he follow. Always by my side, no matter what. No questions asked...

It has eaten through the very walls of the Durlag's Tower, etched the catacombs beneath Candlekeep, and is so strong and rancid here, in the Undercity. Oblivion. But it started in the nameless caves along the Sword Coast, with a hapless archeologist digging out an ancient evil. Speaking forgotten languages, it was. But everyone could understand at once what it wanted. And blood was poured on the ground like water...

Has this city fallen victim to the same kind of craze? When I stop to listen, my back to the wall, it seems I hear the slow dripping of blood, in every direction, and down my spine. I run away, and it turns into a rushing stream. No, there was never a lack of blood in this city's final hour.

Undercity, it is now dead, and truly buried. Its shadows have gone underground, safely away from the sun. Why still keep a vigil? Why guard their resting place if they are not to rest here ever? We're crawling through an endless maze, trap after deadly trap, and skeleton warriors are rising to bar our way. Why? Have their very circlets of power not rusted away by now, turning into dust? Whose doom are they guarding? And who is sending the mindless jellies to lick up every single drop of blood their weapons aim to draw?

The corridors are narrow, like veins or arteries in spasms of labor. Their salty smell resembling blood. Where is the fresh salt of the ocean, the cries of seagulls that I walked away from? Their mourning would've been a fitting music to my ears. A single gull has followed me here, and I recognize the wings. Mother!

"Fear not, my child... I'll guide your way." I'm here, mother. Warm like in a womb, with you around me. Is there a storm coming?

"Time to be born, child... Time to see the world. So lovely, so comforting." The maze is torturous, but I am calm and ready.

"Good, then. Now... Ah!! The pain!" A cut from a skeletal sword. Up and through the wings around my face. I'm looking through the blood, and I'm following.

"Don't look. I'm pushing... Why are you lingering?" There are many traps ahead.

"What... What is happening?!" So much blood. It cannot be all ours?

"I know... He wants you dead. I won't let him." Our enemies are falling.

"It is coming... Hold on! The end is coming..." A light at the end of the tunnel.

"My child... I love you so much. Remember me always..."

In the hour of dawn, what gave you strength? When the death itself was holding me fast with its skeletal claws, how did you turn its gaze over? Through the beating of my heart, I was feeling new blood pumping in, from you. The blood of strength. The blood of life. The blood of giving. You gave your life over... to me. Mother.

One question I forgot to ask. Was it your choice?

"No, not by my choice you were conceived. Yes, by my choice you were born. He wanted you dead, you know. I think he was afraid..."

Why?! Not that, but why did you choose to die, rather than let me go?

"I gave you life. Your time shall come to do the same. Daughter."

The light at the end of a tunnel. It proved deceptive, after all. I was born into dread and gloom. Ruins of buildings so old, the stone itself was poking through the empty air like bleached bone. Is that what I was destined for? Is that what you died for to let me see, mother?

I used to have a hope, before coming to this place. In the maze, the doomguards were trying to kill us. Here, hordes of mindless skeletons wander around, paying little attention to our party. As if we were dead already...

I used to harbor hope that Tamoko would succeed. Just before leaving the maze, we found a body by the exit. It was still breathing, though it was hard to recognize the same wizard who "saved" Sarevok out of the palace. The poor man had no face left. The mask of skin was flayed away, though the lips still remained to whisper.

"What was my part, you ask? I was Sarevok's mentor, and tutored him in the blackest of rituals. If he were to succeed, there is no doubt I would be among the dead. But my name would live on in his wake. There are things beyond death if you die in the right fashion, and how could there not be a place in history for the architect that shaped the actions of the ascending Lord of Murder?

"You would not understand, you were born to affect the Realms. The rest of us must carve our own place by whatever means necessary."

The anonymity he attained must be punishment enough. But the man who did this to him could not be saved. We have seen the dead left by Sarevok along the way. We were not the first hunting party, it seems, that discovered his hidden lair. One group at least must've been sent by the Iron Throne all the way from Sembia. After his head, of course, but they were just as eager to add my scalp to their trophies. They didn't succeed, though we were much more merciful.

Alas, Tamoko... A wolf chased into the corner doesn't have any hope left, other than ripping the throats of as many enemies as it could before it was brought down. Even now, I can feel his resolve. He's near... Only, Sarevok is worse than a wolf. A wolf would not delight in torturing those who could be of no help anymore.

I hate to think what the beast could've done to Tamoko. If I were in a rush before to help her save him, I'm hurrying my breath away to save her now. If not too late... Why is it that whenever I think of her, I remember my mother more and more? They're so much alike.

Half-hidden by the ruins, a single building in the Undercity is barely touched by age. Its roof is bloody-red, its gates skull-crowned. The temple of Bhaal. A real, living, breathing temple. Kozah in the caves, or Bhaal in the Undercity. I know now, they are one and the same, in different languages, under different names. Calling for blood, always... The ancient evil is never truly dead, while there are still people willing to listen.

Sarevok must be inside, waiting for me to come. The walls stand between us, yet I can feel him. Hate, despair, anticipation. Never fear. A cornered wolf doesn't know that feeling. He only remembers the call of blood.

Bhaal's Chosen, a hurricane of death defeated. Sarevok is ready to kill or die. Along with him, Tazok and Angelo, and someone else. What is their hope? Why did they stay, when everyone else forsook their former master? Kivan is ready as ever to avenge his love. Shar-Teel is strangely silent. She doesn't meet my eyes. Angelo is her stepfather, there was a time she would have died for him. What lies within her heart now? Clearly, not a decision to turn back.

Kagain is steady at my side. His confidence is reassuring. Quayle is readying his spells and prayers. Alora is smiling, like a child. Thank you for your smile, Alora! Stay alive, we have the mother of all fights ahead. Never before were we so close to challenging Death within her home. Lurking behind these walls. Only one child of Bhaal, or none at all, shall step out alive. But should I even wanted, never both.

I came looking for Tamoko to this graveyard of hope? And I found her here. With the temple in plain sight, she stepped out of the shadows, katana in her hands. My brother proved he knows much of torture.

"Know that I'm sorry it came down to this. You have... you have done what you must, I suppose. And I tried my best.

Sarevok knows of my treachery. He has forsaken me, left me to die in your path. I must fight to regain his trust, our... hope. And so I stand before you, knowing that if I defeat you, he will continue his plans elsewhere, and I shall lose him. And if you defeat me, you shall go on to kill him. He will not yield to either of us. I have... I have no choice."

"There is always choice. Do not throw your life away, Tamoko."

"You must! I stand before you. I block your path! I am an obstacle that holds you back! You will free... you will fight me!"

Reflected in her eyes, the same warmth beneath my heart stirred again. The hope is alive! So lovely, so comforting... It's been there all this time, and I never knew?! I'm not alone anymore. And neither is she.

"Who gave you life that you refuse it so? Your time shall come to do the same. Sister."

For the blood of life, if blood it must be!

"You... you are not so alike, after all. He wouldn't have hesitated for an instant. Perhaps... perhaps it's more than his blood that makes him the way he is. I have been a fool. Go! Your path is clear and I wish you well... My son I bear will thank you, too."

My son... What makes her so like my mother. And that makes me...

Lifegiver shall be spared the share of dead gods.

          Redemption for a daughter of Bhaal?

                    Even through a love betrayed.

                              I am carrying Eldoth's child.

                                        Ben-Oni, the son of my sorrow...

It was a slow walk across the treacherous floor. A lonely man, suddenly aged with grief. He tried to avoid the symbol of Bhaal, a giant skull sprawling in the center of the hall. To step on it was death, but even from the distance it was sneering at him. You are too late.

It took so long for him to catch her trail! Through the torturous maze, he prayed to Selune to let him scorch away all evil. Yet when he came in, there was neither good nor evil to smite. Alone amid the dead, his was a slow walk. He did not have to hurry.

The diary opened up with a sigh, its pages slippery with fresh blood. He started from the beginning, from the parting glance atop the tallest tower of Candlekeep, and into the future. He read about her goings in and goings out. About her feelings, from dark to light. About the people she met. And their fate...

He read about the silent dwarf, and he knew now that he followed her to the end. Kagain was now crumbled on the floor, having tried in the last desperate attempt to cover Bethphel with his own body. In vain... he was sliced in two by Sarevok's sword. He read about Kivan, and his plight of vengeance. He couldn't even see the body beneath his fallen enemy, but the ogre was dead. Deheriana could now rest in peace.

He read about Shar-Teel, and Angelo, her father. They found each other at last. Fighting together, back to back, oblivious to friend and foe. Trying to save each other, to the final breath. Alas, the enemy's spells were just as indiscriminate. As he came in, he saw a giant ball of fire engulfing the podium. Consuming two shadows. Sarevok's wizard, and a halfling piercing him with her sword. The spell went out too soon... and then there was silence.

The smudged paper was thick with fresh blood. He wasn't even sure if it was Bethphel's or Sarevok's. Likely, both. Mixed together, so hard to tell... They were lying next to each other, in their final, killing embrace. He saw Sarevok's body ignite as if with fire, flow out in a myriad of sparkles, as if his very essence was burning away. It went down through the cracks of hell. That did not surprise him.

But the strangest thing was Bethphel's body, still intact. Fearsome yet captivating, and beautiful, in death as in life. As if waiting for a miracle. The first kiss of a true love, or something else... And then his eyes fell onto the final page. And he understood...

Lifegiver has been spared the share of dead gods.

Hurriedly, he threw quick spells to test for signs in life within the dead body. Hardly believing himself, Dradeel the elf was praying to Selune for a spell of preservation. Thinking about life, and what it takes to give it back.

* * *

The night was ending, a long strip of gold cutting through the distant horizon. Atop the tallest tower of Candlekeep, a boy of fourteen years was staring toward the sea. A diary, caked with old blood, was resting on his lap. He read it all the way through to the first page, from the end. Yet his own cry still reverberated in his ears. And he knew that he was heard.

"So, that's how it all started," he thought. A seagull flew around the tower, crying. He wondered whose children it was looking for, when he was brought back to life by a cry from below.

"Ben! Ben?! Are you up there, little rascal you? Come down at once! Uncle Minsc and aunt Jaheira are taking you to a camping trip today, remember?"

He smiled, recognizing Imoen's voice. "I'm coming, mom!" And yet he lingered.

Hiding the old book under his shirt, he gave a long glance around. From his vantage point, he could see the entire Candlekeep crowding below, enchanted forest up and down the coastline, and the sea taking half the picture. That's how, he imagined, his other mother must have paid farewell to her childhood's keep. The sun was already high, how didn't he notice that before?

"Not a cloud in the sky, but I feel a storm is coming."

To read my ideas for the sequel, click here.

To read an alternate ending by Jay McIntyre, click here.