Azure Bonds

13 Shadowdale

After inspecting his maps Akabar had assumed that Alias had overestimated the time it would take to reach Yulash. Her experience of the roads north, however, proved more accurate than the parchment image of the land he had purchased in Suzail. On his map, the road from Shadow Gap to Shadowdale passed through clear terrain, but in reality the land was quite different.

The route twisted out of Shadow Gap, and approaching the dalelands it climbed and descended numerous hillocks. Akabar found the land pleasing to the eye. Sheltered from the Great Desert by mountains, the Dales were nothing at all like the barren Stonelands to the south of Shadow Gap. The hills were lush with greenery and wildflowers.

On the third afternoon outside of Shadow Gap, a storm lost them half a day’s travel. As they cowered in a vale beneath their waxed tarps, the sheet of black water falling from the sky was broken only by flashes of lightning.

The next day the rain continued, but with only half the ferocity. Horses, supplies, and clothing drenched, they took a quick vote. They decided to push on to Shadowdale rather than sleeping on wet ground again, even if it meant riding all through the day and night. Dragonbait abstained.

With the coming of night, the rain let up, but the moon and stars remained hidden behind dark clouds. They all shivered with damp and fatigue, but they pressed on. Just as the dawn light began to highlight ominous purple clouds with red streaks, they crossed the ancient bridge spanning the Ashaba River and looked out over Shadowdale.

The town of Shadowdale was the southern entrance to the region of Shadowdale. Olive rambled on about the myriad legendary adventurers who had come from Shadowdale or had made it their base or who had retired there. She had never been there herself, she admitted, but Shadowdale was mentioned in more ballads, lays, and drinking songs than any other city in all the Realms.

As they passed the Tower of Ashaba, Olive tugged excitedly on the mage’s robes, insisting he take in the sight of the off-center spire with its landing decks for aerial mounts.

Alias rode on without stopping, too tired to take in the sights. She had been here before, and the only sight that interested her now was a bed in The Old Skull, Shadowdale’s inn.

Still, it was a relief to find the city standing and not a burned out shell. She hadn’t been back for seven years, ever since the Swanmays had disbanded, but she had many fond memories of the town.

As they’d crossed the river, she’d spotted two new temples. Otherwise, nothing had changed since the time when the Swanmays had rescued Alias from servitude in Westgate and smuggled her north.

Alias had been the youngest of the seven women who made up the Swanmays, and a thumb-fingered fighter. If not for the shielding of the other members of the company, she would have been skewered in her first battle. But she’d grown into a seasoned swordswoman within three seasons, while the company earned its living guarding caravans through the Elven Wood.

The group had broken up over a foolish argument concerning a worthless man, and each member had gone her separate way. Alias found that she still cared enough about them all to wonder what had become of them.

Naturally, Alias had been closest to Kith, since they’d been closest in age. Kith had been a very beautiful young girl—so lovely she’d made Alias feel awkward and plain. Kith had been like a sister to her though. They’d even pricked their thumbs and become blood-sisters. Alias used to plait Kith’s long, silky, chestnut hair and Kith had taught Alias to read and write. Kith had received her magical training in Shadowdale, from the river witch Syluné.

Maybe I’ll visit Syluné before we leave here, Alias thought. If she can tell me her former pupil’s whereabouts, I might look Kith up after I put this sigil mess behind me. It feels wonderful to remember something so fully. I can remember it as clearly as though I’m reading it from a book. I only left the Black Hawks a year ago, but their faces and names are fuzzy. Somehow, though, returning to Shadowdale has brought back all my memories of the Swanmays.

“An excellent reason to visit here, even if it weren’t on the way to Yulash,” Alias muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” Akabar asked, pulling his horse up alongside Lady Killer. Olive, on High Roll, and Dragonbait, leading Lightning, clomped far behind.

“Nothing,” Alias replied. Just for a while she wanted to keep to herself the joy of these clear memories. Akabar could not possibly understand, and Alias didn’t want the memories belittled by someone else’s indifference.

The Old Skull had not changed a bit. The stalwart building of timber and stone still rose three stories high, its upper levels lined with windows.

The smell of smoke mixed with damp clay and fresh-baked bread attracted Alias’s attention to the building next to the inn. She remembered it was the shop of Meira Lulhannon, a potter and baker. Funny, Alias thought. I don’t remember noticing the smell before. Not that it’s unpleasant, but still, you’d think it would stick in my mind.

The Old Skull’s innkeep was Jhaele Silvermane, a pleasant, motherly woman who had joined the Swanmays for more than one evening of strong tales and stronger drink. Alias remembered that when she’d last visited the inn, Jhaele’s son had grown sons, so Jhaele had to be at least in her late fifties by now. Her hair was grayer and the lines around her eyes deeper, but otherwise she looked just as Alias remembered.

If Jhaele recognized Alias she gave no sign. Alias, for her part, did not feel up to rehashing the good old days until she’d had ten hours of sleep and had cleaned herself up. So, from beneath her sopping hood, she asked if the Green Room, the Onyx, and Warm Fires were available. In The Old Skull, each room was decorated differently and given individual names, a custom that had, unfortunately, died out in more civilized and overpopulated regions like Cormyr.

Jhaele informed her that all three rooms were vacant and ready for guests. She gave Alias a curious look as she led the party to the third floor, no doubt wondering if she was a previous patron.

Olive grumbled about the inordinate number of stairs in human buildings. Even Dragonbait puffed and growled some. Alias didn’t care, though. To her mind they’d rented the best rooms in the house.

Alias claimed Warm Fires, a room with three separate hearths, all blazing merrily. Akabar choose the Onyx, with its white carvings. Ruskettle sniffed at the wilderness scenes on the tapestries that completely covered the walls of the Green Room.

“This will do in a pinch,” she declared, sprawling out on the bright yellow bedspread, and promptly falling asleep.

“Her room has no windows,” Akabar noted to Alias as he closed her door. “Keeping an eye on her comings and goings will be that much easier.”

“You don’t say? That’s just the reason the leader of my first adventuring group always reserved this room,” Alias explained. “We had two sleight-of-hand artistes.”

Akabar grinned. “If I’m not here when you wake, I’ll probably be speaking with the sage Dimswart recommended.”

“Fine.” Alias nodded sleepily.

“Pleasant dreams,” he wished her.

“Pleasdream,” Alias mumbled, closing her door.

With Dragonbait already curled before the largest hearth, snoring deeply, Alias stripped off her clothes, wrapped the bed coverings around herself, and crawled onto the goose down mattress. She was awake only long enough to note the rain had started again, a steady drizzle which lulled her to sleep within minutes.

When Alias awoke, the rain had stopped and the sun was low in the western sky. She rose leisurely, stretching and yawning and wriggling between the warm sheets, luxuriating in what nine silver pieces a night could buy.

Finally, Alias sat up and looked around. Her clothes were spread before the blazing hearths. Dragonbait’s doing, Alias realized, but where’d he taken himself to? she wondered.

The warrior yawned, stretched, and padded across the room, collecting what she would wear. From two floors below came the rythmic thumping of people dancing. The locals had already begun their evening festivities.

She pulled on her leggings, stiff from drying. Instead of an ordinary tunic, she chose from her pack a new robe, something made from wool dyed a turquoise color. Its long sleeves tied around her wrists, hiding her arms completely. Tonight she would forget her problems for a few hours if she could.

Dragonbait had already polished and dried her armor, but she was sick of wearing it. Tonight she would forget her profession, too. She wouldn’t even bring her sword, not even peacebonded. She didn’t need it for feasting, drinking, singing, or dancing. Besides, she was known in Shadowdale. No one here was an enemy.

She slid her remaining dagger in a boot sheath—only because daggers could be used in games, she told herself. She made a mental note to purchase another, to replace the lost one, but promptly forgot that, too. Akabar will remember, she thought with a grin.

Alias knocked on the mage’s door. There was no answer, so she went down to the taproom alone. Olive was already there, holding court for a roomful of locals. Dragonbait sat at her feet. The halfling held her hands to her mouth, fingers spread and curled in imitation of fangs and then opened her arms wide. Alias realized she was recounting her battle with the kalmari.

A sudden anxiety swept over the swordswoman. The foolish halfling might babble about the sigils. It hadn’t occurred to Alias to forbid the bard to mention them. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she scolded herself. Did she think she could rely on Olive’s halfling sense of propriety?

Tonight of all nights she did not want to be identified as a marked woman, a magnet for danger.

“Your friend spins quite a tale,” a mellow voice beside her commented. “How much of it is true?”

Alias turned toward the speaker. He was an attractive man, clean-shaven, well-dressed, with the lean body of a fighter. The only ornament he wore was a ring of red metal, inlaid with three silver crescents wrapped in blue flames. He had the smooth polish of the Dale’s nobility, polite, but not stuffy, yet Alias could detect a trace of a western accent. He almost, but not quite, lost the “h” when he said the word “how.” He’s from Waterdeep, Alias thought.

“Depends on what she’s saying,” Alias replied with a smile. “And how many drinks she’s had, of course.”

“Of course.” The man smiled back. “She says Shadow Gap is clear of the Iron Throne’s monster. If that’s true, the people of the Dales owe you thanks.”

“Oh?” Alias said. “Olive hasn’t explained how she alone defeated the monster with nothing but her quick wits and magical voice?”

A charming grin spread over the man’s face. “No,” he answered, “she admitted to relying as well on her prowess with a broadsword that once belonged to a barbarian god, a holy artifact of Tempus, or so we have been given to understand. Under the constant reminders of the creature at her feet, we have elicited a confession that you and the creature had some part in the affair as well.”

Alias smiled fondly at Dragonbait. Always where he’s needed most, which right now happens to be keeping an eye on the halfling.

“I get the feeling,” the man continued, “that besides making the halfling share the credit, there’s something specific the lizard-thing’s keeping the halfling from mentioning. Her chatter is the usual bard tales about adventurers, red dragons, elementals, and royal weddings, but in every episode there is some point where the creature nudges her and she changes course, so to speak.”

Alias had to force herself to remain calm. “We all have our little secrets, um … you haven’t told me your name,” she said.

“Mourngrym. Mourngrym Amcathra.”

“Alias.”

Mourngrym bowed his head. “On behalf of the people of the Dales, I thank you for ridding us of a fell beast.”

“Your thanks are graciously accepted,” Alias answered, bowing her own head modestly. Inwardly, however, she felt guilty. The kalmari was in the gap partly because of her. But she couldn’t bring herself to spoil the one little moment of glory due her by confessing the truth.

Something about Mourngrym’s official tone made Alias wonder just who he was. “Are you one of Lord Doust’s men?” she asked.

Mourngrym smiled. “I had that honor until last year, when the good cleric retired. Not that he was too old for the job, but he wanted to spend more time with his family. He lives in Arabel now.”

“Oh.” Alias hadn’t heard about that. Why hadn’t she heard about that? Something that important happening, in such an important place, it should have been talked about for months. She had to have known. It must have been lost with the memories of the last year. “Who is lord of Shadowdale now?”

“Me,” Mourngrym said, grinning.

Alias blushed deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I thought you knew. If there is anything you need, I’m sure we can provide it. In thanks.”

She had the lord of Shadowdale offering her whatever she needed, and all she could think of was her lost dagger. She wasn’t going to bother him with something that small.

Someone struck up a reel on a songhorn, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of a tantan. “How about a dance partner?” Alias asked shyly.

Mourngrym’s grin widened. He rose, offered Alias his arm, and led her to the center of the floor.

The reel was fast and lively, and Alias loved every minute of it. Mourngrym was a fine dancer, and it had been a long time since Alias had done something so frivolous. When it was over her partner led her to a chair.

“Not as easy as swinging a sword, is it? What will you have Alias, ale or wine?” Mourngrym signalled the waiter.

“Wine, please,” Alias panted. “I must have danced that reel a dozen times a night when I was younger. Of course, I wasn’t so lucky in my partners back then. There used to be a dearth of gentlemen in this inn, and Kith and I always had to dance with each other.”

“Kith?” Mourngrym asked.

“She was our mage” Alias explained. “Long ago I was with the Company of the Swanmays. We guarded caravans through the Elven Wood. We used to winter here.”

The waiter stood at Mourngrym’s elbow. “Ale for me, Turko, wine for the lady. Swanmays,” he repeated as Turko hurried off. “Yes, Elminster’s Tales mention them. Six women, all fairly hot-tempered, if I remember correctly.”

“Seven,” Alias corrected. “I was the youngest.”

“Wasn’t the youngest a mage?” asked Mourngrym.

“That was Kith,” said Alias. “She was half a year my elder. She studied under Syluné for a short while.”

“Yes, the witch mentioned her once,” smiled Mourngrym. “Not too favorably, as I recall, but spellcasters are a temperamental bunch.”

“Speaking of temperamental spellcasters, have you seen the other member of my party?”

“The Turmishman?” Mourngrym asked. “Aye, he came down late this afternoon and paid a lad a gold eagle to ask Elminster for an audience. He waited until about an hour ago, when Elminster’s reply came back. The message was—and I quote Elminster’s words—’Hie thy backside to my outer office and await there on my pleasure.’ So your spellcaster is probably pacing the tower floor right now.”

The waiter returned with their drinks.

“Good fortune,” Mourngrym toasted, raising his mug.

“Good fortune,” Alias agreed before she sipped the cold, pink liquid. She’d come to the conclusion that part of her curse involved not being able to enjoy ale. After her dream in Shadow Gap, she’d decided to try wine instead. The drink the waiter brought her was nowhere near as pleasant as the wine in her dream, but it was at least palatable and, with any luck, not so potent.

“Poor Akabar,” Alias said. “Elminster must be this local master sage he was so anxious to talk to. Akabar is so responsible, he’ll miss out on all the fun. I hope he isn’t wasting his time. Is this Elminster any good?”

Mourngrym nearly choked on his ale. “Elminster? You used to winter here and you’ve never heard of Elminster the sage?”

Alias shook her head. “That was over seven years ago. I take it Elminster is someone new.”

“Only as new as the Sunset Peaks and twice as craggy,” the lord of Shadowdale replied, giving her a strange look. “He’s been here forever. He’s the wisest man in the Realms. He’s the reason most people come to Shadowdale, though he doesn’t usually hire his services out anymore.”

Damn, damn, damn, damn! Alias thought. I’ve gone and spoiled everything again. How could I remember so much about this town, and not remember someone so important?

Alias lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid I have trouble remembering things sometimes,” she explained.

“Well, as you said, that was seven years ago. You were young, and young people don’t often take much note of old sages and their ilk,” Mourngrym answered kindly.

The songhorn began another melody accompanied by Olive on her yarting.

“I remember this song, though,” Alias declared. It was an elvish tune, but its lyrics were in the common tongue. It was about the Standing Stone, the monument erected to commemorate the pact made between the dalesmen and the elves of the wood over thirteen centuries ago.

Determined to put the awkward moment behind her, Alias began to sing, her voice clear and strong. The taproom patrons turned from the musicians to the swordswoman. Alias shifted her glance from one face to the other, catching the eyes of her audience, making them feel as if she sang for them. She spotted Dragonbait smiling at her, keeping rhythm with the end of his tail. The only eyes she did not catch were Olive’s. The bard bent over her yarting strings, apparently too intent on her fingerings to look up.

When she finished, the room burst into applause. Alias blushed and turned back to the table. What could have possessed me to show off like that? she wondered. She had always kept as low a profile as possible in towns. Now she was behaving like a child. For a moment she thought of the runes, but there was no tell-tale heat or light coming through her sleeve.

The songhorn player came up to her table. “Excuse me, my lord. Lady,” he addressed Alias, “do you think maybe, if you have time, you might give me the words to that song? They were just wonderful. Did you write them yourself?”

“No. I learned that song here, to that melody. You’ve never heard the lyrics before?”

The musician shook his head. “No, lady. I learned the tune from an elf, but he told me it had no words.”

“But I learned it here,” Alias insisted.

“Sometimes these old songs get lost if they aren’t written down,” Mourngrym said. “Isn’t that right, Han?”

“Yes, my lord,” the musician agreed.

“I thought it was a common song in the dalelands,” Alias said, growing a little frustrated.

“It will be soon, lady, if you tell me the words. With your permission, I’ll sing it from here to Harrowdale.”

“I’ll write them down later,” Alias promised the musician, “and leave them with Jhaele before I go.”

“Thank you, lady.” The young man smiled. “Excuse me,” he said, bowed to Alias, and went back to his stool to play more sets with Olive.

Alias looked up and spotted Jhaele just then. “Would you excuse me, Your Lordship? There’s someone I’d like to say hello to.”

“Certainly,” Mourngrym said, nodding. He watched Alias walk over to the innkeep, and then he turned to focus his attention on the musicians. The swordswoman was acceptable, he decided, a little addled maybe, but nice. From experience, though, he knew it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the halfling.

Alias went up to the bar, smiling at Jhaele. The woman smiled back, but still gave no sign of recognition, so Alias asked her, “Jhaele, do you remember the Company of the Swanmay?”

“Yes, I do.” The innkeep’s smile spread further across her worn features. “They were hell-raisers, that lot.”

“How many were there?”

“Well, let’s see, The two fighters, a pair of thieves, a cleric, and Kith, the would-be mage. Six in all. All women.”

“You don’t remember me?”

Jhaele stared at Alias for a long moment. “No, I’m sorry, lady. I can’t say that I do. The Swanmays would sometimes pick up strays, but none of them stayed in my memory, I’m afraid. I won’t forget you now, though. Your song was wonderful. I’m honored you sang it in my taproom.”

“But, Jhaele, you taught me that song,” Alias insisted.

Jhaele laughed. “You must have me mistaken for another, lady. I can’t sing a note. Never could.”

Alias opened her mouth to laugh, thinking Jhaele was teasing her, but the sincerity in the innkeeper’s face unsettled her. She blushed and fled through the door to the kitchen. Jhaele looked after her, but the swordswoman ran out the side door into the night.

“Something eating at that one,” Jhaele muttered and returned to her chores at the bar.

The sun had just slipped behind the distant Desertsmouth Mountains, and the sky was a deep, dark blue. The night air was cold, but Alias was too furious to notice as she strode hastily away from The Old Skull eastward down the road toward the common and the river.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she growled. “I wasn’t some stray the Swanmays picked up! I was a member! For three seasons!”

It was one thing for this new lord, Mourngrym, to forget the tale of the Swanmays, but Alias had wintered twice in The Old Skull. She and Kith and Belinda had spent at least a hundred evenings in Jhaele Silvermane’s company. The innkeep had mulled wine especially for them and taught them bawdy songs about men in general and certain male adventurers in particular. And Jhaele had taught her the song about the Standing Stone.

“How could she forget me?” Alias whispered angrily. Her throat constricted as tears welled in her eyes. She gulped uncomfortably for air.

How can you blame Jhaele, when you don’t even remember Elminster? her conscience said. To hear Mourngrym describe him, you’d think this sage was a town landmark. I could not possibly have missed noticing him in a town as small as Shadowdale. And even if I had, according to Mourngrym I should have heard about him from people in the outside world. He’s supposed to be famous.

Maybe, she thought, Mourngrym was exaggerating the sage’s renown. Anyway, Mourngrym hadn’t been here seven years ago either, so how could he know for sure if Elminster was around then? Maybe these Elminster’s Tales that Mourngrym mentioned weren’t all that accurate. How could this Elminster mention the Swanmays and not mention me? How dare he forget me?

Having passed the dozen or so buildings in the heart of town, and exhausted by her tirade, Alias considered going back to the inn to sleep. Secretly, she hoped that when she woke up she would discover the disappointments of the evening had all been part of another bad dream. That’s about as likely as my tattoo disappearing in the morning, she taunted herself. She walked on.

She passed Tulba the weaver’s house. Next to it was a small, well-beaten path leading up to the side of the grassy rise known as the Old Skull. She could just barely make out a dilapidated sign by the path. It was marked with an upturned crescent with a ball hovering between its horns.

Alias stepped onto the path to inspect the sign more closely. Below the symbol, in the common tongue, was written, “No Trespassing. Violators should notify next of kin. Have a pleasant day. —Elminster.”

Alias’s eyes traveled the length of the path up to the hillock, where it ended at a ramshackle building perched awkwardly on the side of the rise. It was a sort of tower, but so many additions were built against it, cluttered with further additions leaning against or built on top of them, that it was hard to pick out the original structure. However, a spire of solid stone reached at least three stories higher than all the more recent constructions. Thick vines of flowering kudzu covered the tower and additions.

Alias remembered every other building she had passed, from Lulhannon’s pottery to the weaver’s, but the path and the sign and the building were a blank. Alias had never seen them before. Ever. Not once in the thousand times she’d traveled this road. It was possible to miss a sage—he might have stayed inside all winter to protect himself from the cold—but she couldn’t have missed this building.

The path could have been beaten hard in a year, the sign could have weathered to look that old in seven years, but the building was ancient. Kudzu grew like crazy, but it would have taken centuries for its vines to grow so thick and high.

Maybe there were more trees here before, blocking the view, Alias mused. But then, wouldn’t I have seen it from the top of Old Skull? I scrambled up there often enough with Kith.

With a surge of excitement, Alias began to wonder if Cassana and company wanted her to forget Elminster for a good reason. Maybe he could tell her more about her sigils than Dimswart. With a new determination, ignoring the sign, she strode up the path, planning to join Akabar as he waited on Elminster’s arrival.

Reaching the building, she knocked loudly. She waited several minutes but there was no reply, even though lights could clearly be seen glittering in the upper windows of the tower. Certain that someone was within, Alias called out, “Hello,” and knocked again even louder. A shadow went across one of the windows. Several minutes passed, but still no one answered her or came to let her in.

With just a trace of embarrassment, Alias tried the doorknob, but it would not turn. She tried other doors, and even a window, but found them all held fast. With a huff she spun about and marched back down the footpath.

At the road she turned east and walked down the left-hand fork of the road that followed the River Ashaba south. “I’m going to find someone who remembers me,” she declared. “Syluné will remember me. She didn’t know me well, but she never forgets anyone.”

In her haste she was oblivious to the shouting that came from the tower behind her.