82—Be it ever so humble . . .
The group flees the Delve, and with an unspoken agreement, returns to their home amongst the drow of New Ithor. But the news upon their arrival is grim. Obuld Many-Arrows has, as feared, taken the absence of the dwarven hosts as his opportunity to seize territory, and his armies have punched a hole directly through the middle of the Silver Marches, sundering the territories in two. While Silverymoon and the West are still in contact with the communities of the Evermoors and High Forest, everything east of The Fork is thrown into turmoil. The Nether Mountains and the river complex called The Talons protect New Ithor and her dark elven populace for now, but nearly everyone expects to see orcish armies by the end of summer.
There is decidedly more celebration in the Far Forest than there was within the Silver Marches at this prospect. Arunshee’s drow are ready for a good war to help take their minds off the accursed sun, and like the drow, orcs prefer to fight in the dark.
The group rests and recuperates for three days, discussing the Night, and poring over tomes of arcane lore, attempting to find reference to the creature. What they find chills their souls—there is reference to the “mother of all hags”, or “eldest sister”. What they just defeated was an immortal being, and almost a goddess. Night hags as a race, Thelbar comes to believe, are reflections of the Night and those few like her, the true paragons of the lower planes.
“And what about the Night’s threat regarding the Baatezu?” Thelbar asks. “The threat rang true to me, although I cannot say why.”
“Maybe she’s just good at threatening people,” Taran offers. “Some of us are. And even if she did what she said she did, what do the Baatezu care about us? They can’t be in
that big of a hurry to throw away resources and lives trying to stop us. Besides, how am I supposed to get worked up about orcish armies or devil hordes when I’m already knee-deep in a living-dead goddess? If Obuld Many-Arrows or Asmodeus show up here, I’ll kill ‘em, but in the meantime we’ve got business to attend to.”
Taran’s boastful pragmatism wins the day, and the group determines that Ceredain escaping into the Realms is a more dire threat than King Obuld’s horde, or vague promises of some devilish retribution. Taran, Elgin and Thelbar will remain focused on the Great Delve, but Gorquen wishes to form an adventuring party of her own, and investigate rumors that a fire giant war-chief has taken Sundabar, and is using the dwarven redoubt as a staging point for further invasion. New Ithor’s drow (particularly the refugees from Maermydra) are in no mood to fight giants. Most likely, their morale, which would remain high against orcs no matter what the odds, would sunder and collapse against a giantish foe.
To ward off this potential threat, Gorquen swears to travel there and smash any giants she finds. She takes Ilwe and Khuumar along, pointedly leaving Nathe out of the affair.
And Nathe makes Taran pay for Gorquen’s refusal. During this down time, Taran begins to wish for the false security of the road, in place of the sure danger of his own bed. He wakes one morning to find that Nathe has sent several items of his furniture “away,” because, “I changed my mind about them.” When pressed (screamed at, threatened and sufficiently bullied), Nathe admits that she knew they were favorites of Taran’s, and that’s why she gave them out as presents to her other lovers. This is too much for Taran to bear, and with a rage not seen since . . . well, ever . . . Taran puts Nathe out of his life and out of his quarters, vowing to spill her blood should he ever set eyes upon her again.
Relived, Thelbar points out that not only will Taran be able to stop sleeping with a knife under his pillow, but he should find himself with more free time, and since every day threatens to be the last in Taran’s line of work, at least a small show of hedonism might be in order. This seems to cheer up the burly fighter, who spends the next several days stumbling drunkenly from place to place, singing dirty sea-chanteys he’d picked up during the long weeks upon
the Marrow Down, and assuring every drow who will stand still long enough to be slurred at that he is “through with that bitch for good.”
-----
Elgin takes his leave to return to his church in Suzail. A week passes as Elgin attempts through divinations to secure the goodwill of his god for the next phase of his adventures. He gladly reports that Lathander is pleased by Elgin’s companionship with the brothers Tar-Ilou, and tells Taran and Thelbar that they have a very high status in the eyes of their goddess and her immortal servitors. A status that seemingly goes beyond what might be expected even of such powerful adventurers.
This appraisal is highlighted by the arrival of an outsider—a beautiful elven woman who (the gossips and wags say) is going about
atoning the dark elves of New Ithor using the name of Ishlok! That anyone native to Faerun might use that name for Palatin Eremath stretches belief, and the fact that her
atonements are said to cure the sick and engender genuine reform in their recipients seems almost too good to be possible.
Taran and Thelbar discuss the matter briefly, and then travel to the woods outside the city where the woman is said to be found. What they find there is a majestically beautiful and radiant surface-elf, dispensing touches and kind words in Celestial to a crowd of admiring drow. When the brothers Tar-Ilou approach, the crowd parts respectfully, and the elf-woman regards them.
Thelbar, whose
arcane sight reveals that the woman possesses spellcasting skill beyond the mortal pale, suggests that his brother “
tread with care,” through their
telepathic bond. Taran puts on his friendliest smile, and Thelbar cringes at the sight.
The elf-woman smiles bemusedly at this, a subtle gesture that nonetheless sweeps through the crowd, provoking murmurs and excited whispers in the spidery drow tongue. “I request your patience,” she says to the brothers, in a tone suggesting that perhaps
she is the ruler, and they the subject. As Taran and Thelbar watch, she
blesses and
atones several more drow, before finally moving over to join them.
“The Tar-Ilou,” she says by way of greeting. “It is an honor to meet you. Many lives have you served my queen, and much has been said about you.” The woman bows deeply, provoking a clumsy attempt at a courtly response from Taran—the first his brother can recall seeing.
“I am mother Talendiira,” the woman says. “First born of Palatin Eremath, the goddess reborn as Ishlok. I am her chosen, and her prophet. I have awakened from a long sleep, and I see that many troubles await us.”
Taran smiles shyly, “Trouble is kind of my specialty,” he admits. Then bragging, he adds, “starting it and finishing it.”
Thelbar closes his eyes in a brief moment of exasperation, then says, “Allow us to feast and host you, milady. New Ithor is yours, and here you will be as our queen.”
“I require nothing,” Mother Talendiira replies. The comforts of the flesh mean nothing to me. Where there are trees, I have a home.” She smiles then, a radiant and unforgettable thing.
“That’s easy, we’ve got a sh-tl-load of trees,” Taran says. “Take your pick.”
“Mother,” Thelbar says, anxious to change the subject. “Do you know what we are about?”
“Of course,” she replies.
“Then tell us about Ceredain—we do not know how to proceed with her.”
A moment passes. “The
pasoun is her only release,” she says. She regards the brothers for a moment, then touches each of them lightly on the forehead, saying, “You have a great place in hosts of our Mother, the spike in the heart of our enemies.”
Taran seems to perk up at this, and replies in the same ritualistic tone, “May all our enemies tremble before our bootsteps.” Then he adds, “Well, really these other guys’ bootsteps—I’m silent.”
Mother Talendiira focuses her sight on some undefined space beyond and behind the heads of the Tar-Ilou. “A cloud hangs over you,” she says.
Thelbar leans toward her. “Could it be removed?”
“Yes,” she says wistfully.
“Could you remove it?”
“I would not undertake that journey,” she says apologetically. “The Mother hides you to protect you. You have been blessed with a unique gift; you are her champions, her living proxies. But within the
pasoun, even proxies must have free will. Our mother seeks nothing, needs nothing—for when you have no home, there is no place to defend, save your own soul.”
“Mother, your words are wise,” Thelbar says. “Tell me, how might we bring the
pasoun to Ceredain?”
“I do not know.”
“We mean to contact the one we knew as Alvodar, her priest.”
“I know this grief,” she admits. “Alvodar mourns the death of belief, and it drives him to hatred. Many fiends are made in this way, but if he does not cross over, it is possible that his anger will subside over time. Beyond that, I cannot give you any insight. It falls to you to determine how you must proceed.”
Talendiira cocks her head for a moment, as if listening to the wind, then she nods slightly. “I have something for you,” she says to Thelbar. “Do you know the name of Almus-Re? He was a great prophet among the First Gods of our people. He was widely revered, and spoke true visions.” The lady hands Thelbar an ancient rough-bound book. Bound with an unidentifiable bark, the small tome radiates faint abjuration magic.
“In here lies the words that poisoned the hearts of the Elven gods,” she continues. “Almus Re spoke of our mother’s coming, and where there had been trust, suspicion was sown. You have wondered why our mother was betrayed by those who should have held her most dear—this is why.”
After thanking the lady, and leaving her to finish her work among the drow of New Ithor, Thelbar and Taran return to their quarters and carefully read the otherworldly tome. It is a religious text describing the mythic life of this prophet to the gods, thick with moral instruction and symbolism. It describes the creation of the first pantheons, and the eventual division between Good and Evil—the creation of the lower planes is given particularly detailed treatment.
This religion, while unfamiliar, does seem related to the worship of Palatin Eremath, and much of the book’s content is repeated by the goddess’ holy teachings. However, to Thelbar’s keen mind, one passage in particular stands out as having a different (and more ancient) author than the rest of the text. Nestled within a series of short allegories attributed to Almus Re is the following:
Almus Re speaks the Unmaking to the Gods
There is place where no time exists. Gods to be born, gods to die, all dwell there. It was our beginning and it will be our end; it is a great and delicate veil, and yet none may pass its touch.
But I have seen one there who moves freely through its confines, unfettered and untouched. She is one who carries Creation and she will rise against those who do not. When she comes, she will bring with her the end of all gods. For as she held birth between her legs she will carry death in her hands. She is great and terrible, our Beloved, our ending.
“Well, well,” Taran says. “I can see it now—all the gods thinking about dying for the first time, checking out their sisters and wives, wondering if the woman next to them was the one who was going to do them all in! Funny.”
“It strikes me as tragic,” Thelbar says, closing the book.
“Well, yeah,” Taran admits, “but tragedy is funny.”
