“Ho there, wanderer,” he said in a rich, deep voice. While she silently fumed, she hardly noticed a man come down the road behind her until he sat next to her on the log. It was not only the lack of knowledge that tore into her. Her hands clenched harder on the letter, scrunching the parchment in her bitterness. He had some indication they were to be attacked, even before receiving this letter, but had done nothing to help. Rather than answering her questions, the letter made it abundantly clear how little she actually knew. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover.Ī fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point. They know of the first, but not the second, though I know it will be of little comfort this night. I urge to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. Hassan has already lost her own and Vandal’s were stolen the month before. The other side will move very soon in the Sword Coast.
There is only so much that may be done.ĭespite my requirement to remain neutral in such events, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point, I fear.
We have done what we can for those in our care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner once foretold, and certainly not within the proper time frame. The time is short and there is much to be done. She unfurled it with trembling fingers and read the spindly handwriting. The gold seal was broken but Thalia could still make out the symbol stamped into the wax: a wide crescent moon on its side with its points up and an oval over the crescent gap. A change of clothes, more tasteless provisions, a black satchel that contained components for casting spells labeled with magical script in neat vials and cushioned glass bottles, parchment, quills and ink, and a money purse with well more than five hundred gold coins, the last of his life savings.Īnd, as she suspected, a letter, hidden in a tube. With one last look over to Imoen, Thalia unbuckled the bag and took it into her lap, sifting through the contents as impersonally as she could bear. She placed a gentle hand on the worn leather. She still hadn’t opened it and now, with Imoen trying and surely failing to hunt, it might be a good opportunity. Thalia shook her head and continued to pick at the food. “I shall return with proper food,” she announced loftily before setting off into the tall grass, where rabbits rustled and bounded away.
She picked up her bow and took an arrow from her quiver. Their small camp just amounted to their packs half-open around a fallen log they sat on as they ate lunch. “No wonder you didn’t catch that rabbit,” she said meanly. “We only stopped because you insisted,” said Thalia. It was a far cry from Winthrop’s kitchen. Bundled together neatly in cheesecloth, Gorion had packed hard cheese, rubbery dried apple slices, jerky that could be used to hammer nails, and a few roughly torn loaves of coarse dark bread. Imoen gave Thalia a hard look as she bit vengefully into her dry bread. “Why don’t you go hunt us a rabbit, then?” Perhaps if she cried, if she discussed it with Imoen, if she cursed at the trees and screamed at the sky then perhaps the crawling, anxious pit in her stomach would heal. Another, smaller part of her tried to let her mourn. Tthey needed to put as much distance between that clearing and them as they could.
The unwelcome, thuddy beat of her heart assured Thalia that she was still alive, still functioning. While these strangers weren’t likely to know anymore than her about these events, the Inn could at least provide somewhere safe to rest. Thalia grunted when required.Īll she could focus on was the Friendly Arm Inn and her vague, decade-old memories of Gorion’s half-elven friends. She made comments on the fluffiness of the wolves’ pelts, the adventures they would soon have, and the fanciful names the bards would call her. Imoen had gathered herself together and returned to her effortlessly cheerful self. By the late morning, the sun beat down on them with an unseasonal heat.