Book VIII, Part 1 (2nd post)
Thick rafters of ancient blueleaf braced the vaulted ceiling of the Foyer of Knowledge, a comfortable chamber warmly decorated with thick carpets, wood paneling, and lushly padded furnishings. Twenty bookcases lined the walls, and a dozen continual flames set in decorative brass lamps added a merry glow to the long shafts of afternoon sunlight that entered through the narrow windows high along the walls.
Two figures looked up from a pair of comfortable armchairs along the wall as Cylyria entered, and rose as she crossed the room toward them. The Harper bard now wore a silk half-robe in a soft blue color, but underneath the hem of the garment the frayed leather of her traveling boots was clearly visible, and as she walked the patched knees of her trousers peeked out as well. She carried no obvious weapon, but those who knew the Harpers knew that for many of those uncanny folk, their voices and their bare hands was often armament enough against those who would seek to do evil.
Cylyria took in her guests with a warm smile despite her weariness. These two looked worse off by far, clearly having just made a long and difficult journey of their own. The gnome looked older than his years, his shoulders hunched as though he expected a sudden attack even in this place of comfort and ease. And the woman... Cylyria had never met Dana Ilgarten, not in person, anyway, but she instantly recognized the look of someone who carried a heavy emotional strain. Cylyria had known enough pain in her own life to know it in the face of another. Outwardly the mystic wanderer looked calm, composed even, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried within.
“Welcome to Twilight Hall,” Cylyria said, making her voice warm and comforting almost as a reflex. “It is good to see you both, to meet in person at long last.” She gestured toward the seats, and took a stool for herself from a nearby corner and brought it over to them. Calloran started to protest, but she waved it off and seated herself facing them.
Calloran sat forward at the edge of his chair, which was one of several in the room built to comfortably accommodate one of his stature. For a moment, Cylyria was reminded of a dear friend of hers, another adventuring gnome she’d known... a decade ago, it now was. How quickly time slipped past, she thought in an idle flash.
“I’m glad we were able to catch you,” Cal said. “I understand that things have been... busy... ever since... all that happened.”
“Yes,” Cylyria said. “And I fear that we will see darker times ahead, here in the West.”
The gnome raised an eyebrow. “Then the rumors are true? The Lords’ Alliance has voted to go to war?”
Cylyria grimaced despite herself, but then smoothed her features. The habits of the Harpers were hard to break, and she had to remind herself that those here were friends, proven allies in the cause that she had spent her entire life pursuing. With a sigh, she nodded. “Yes, for once, rumor treads the same road as truth. I have just returned from a conclave gathered in Elturel, and despite some dissent, the consensus was that the events of this last season cannot be allowed to pass, despite the claims of the Zhent leadership that this war was not of their making. We still do not know what plots occurred, what inner cabals developed between the Cult of the Dragon, these demon-worshippers, and the Black Network, but the damage that they unleashed upon the Western Heartlands, that cannot be denied.”
The gnome leaned even closer, but Cylyria noticed that Dana was barely listening to the conversation, as if she could not muster enough interest to pay heed to this grim news.
“I trust you understand that what I say here remains within these walls?” When the gnome nodded, she continued, “Even as we speak, a strike force travels to the High Forest, to one of the known enclaves of the Cult of the Dragon. The Harpers contributed a number of powerful agents to this cause, including your friends, Lariel and Gorath.”
“So the half-orc was restored? That is good news indeed.”
“Yes,” Cylyria said. “The High Priest of Lathander was persuaded to help us by the nature of Gorath’s deeds, and the dire need against the foe against which he gave his life.”
“If he wasn’t raised just to die once more,” Dana said, interjecting her first words into the conversation. “The Cult is not an easy adversary, we learned, and even one dracolich...” She trailed off, a troubled look creasing her features.
Cylyria kept her own expression smooth with an effort. “Indeed, we know well the dire threat posed by the Cult and their monstrous creations. But while the undead dragons are powerful, they can be destroyed, and even one of their foul outposts laid waste is a great victory in our struggle.”
Neither of the adventurers responded, and after a moment, Cylyria continued. “This putative expedition is important, but the more significant thrust will strike at Darkhold itself. The events of the last season have convinced the leaders of the Alliance that this blight on the landscape of the West cannot be suffered to remain any longer. Our reports indicate that the Zhents have not reinforced the keep; it seems that they are not prepared to risk open war so far from their main base of operations at this juncture. By Midsummer an army the likes of which the Western Heartlands have not seen for over a millennium will be on the march, gathered from the diverse city-states of the region, from as far away as Waterdeep itself.”
“Will General Goran be participating in this expedition?”
“Indeed, Iriaebor was among the forefront of those committing to the common cause—understandable, given what they’ve already been through—and the new shining star of the west has personally stated his intent to see this through to the very end. While he will not have full command of the army, his presence, and his role, will certainly be significant.”
“Troubled times, indeed,” Cal replied, finally leaning back in his chair with a tired sigh.
“I would ask your aid in this cause, even with all that you have already done, but I suspect it is something else that has brought you here to Berdusk.”
Cal nodded, and Dana flinched and stiffened, as if someone had pressed a cold, clammy hand to the back of her neck.
“I assume that Lariel told you our grim tale,” Cal said.
“Some. Enough to know that it is a sad story indeed, even for a bard who knows many such accounts.”
“Indeed. What we know... what we know is only bits and pieces, still. Delem was bound up somehow in what was happening with the war and the demon-worshippers and the invasion of the Vale. One of their leaders was a cleric we knew, a former follower of the god Mask, now apparently a servant of the same Prince that holds our friend’s soul hostage in the Abyss.”
Cylyria nodded. This she knew already from Lariel’s report, and the news had made quite an impact on the Lords gathered at the recent meeting. Rather than raise her own questions, though, she let the gnome take the conversation in his own direction, already suspecting where it would lead.
“We have a few clues as to the identity of this being, but we still lack the lore that we need to be certain. Thus we came here... Our friends are already at work gathering supplies and new equipment in the city, and we intend to be in Waterdeep by sunset this eve, and from there...”
Cylyria leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she clasped her hands together. “You seek more than a name.” She frowned, but her voice was soft as she continued. “You do know what it is that you are asking?” She looked up, but her gaze was fixed on Dana, not Cal.
“We will do what we must,” the younger woman replied, and there was no doubt in her voice, only an almost-frightening intensity.
“We know the dangers,” Cal said, and he shrugged in a way that seemed resigned more than anything else. “But as Dana said, a greater mandate drives us, and we cannot turn from this path any longer. Besides, we are not the first from Faerûn to begin such a dark journey, nor will we be the last, I fear.”
“Yes, I know of which you speak. But still... you and your companions have grown in power, there is no doubt. In the entire Western Heartlands, there are perhaps a few dozen with your abilities, and fewer that surpass them. But walking the Planes... the dangers out there, beyond the constraints of our world, those are greater than even the greatest challenges of the Forgotten Realms. And of all those strange and wonderful and terrible places, those alternative realities, the worst of them...”
She left the word unspoken, but Cal nodded. “We are not ignorant of the danger.”
Cylyria nodded. “I would do all that is in my power to turn you from this course. Your talents could be put to good use here, for threats both great and terrible stalk the Realms in this troubled time. But one of the things that we Harpers believe in is the power of individual choice, the freedom for one to choose his or her own path. Your story tugs at my heart, and I can understand the suffering that you have faced. I will lend what aid I can, though I fear it may be of little avail.”
“My advice comes in the form of two courses. Both are not without risks, but you have already shown yourselves to be no strangers to such.”
“Many leagues to the southeast, on the far side of the Giants’ Plain along the Dragon Coast, lies the harsh expanse of the Giant’s Run Mountains. This region is sparsely populated, at least by civilized folk, for it is rough and untamed, with all manner of dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows to catch the unwary. Within the fastness of these mountains is a sacred place, a shrine located upon a lonely mountaintop. Dwelling there is an entity known only as the Oracle. Little is known of this creature, save that it is a thing of elemental magic, what scholars call a weird. Such beings are rare, even here in Faerûn, where beings of extraplanar origin make frequent appearance among us.” That last comment contained a subtle emphasis, and Cal nodded, realizing that it applied to his absent companions.
“And this Oracle can help us?” Cal asked.
“I know not, or even if it would be disposed to aid you if it could. The weirds specialize in specific areas of knowledge, and from what I have heard, the Oracle’s realm of knowledge deals with journeys, both their beginnings and their endings. I can give you a map that will guide you in the right direction, but I cannot guarantee success.”
Cal nodded. “At this point, even a possible lead is a great help. And what is the second course you mentioned?”
“This option I recommend only if the Oracle is not able to help you. There is a place, a conflux among the Planes, a place where roads meet and trails intersect. It is a place of wayfarers and waystations, where knowledge can be found along with every other commodity that can be imagined by the wildest flight of fancy. Wonders and dangers coexist there... I visited there but once, many years ago, with my husband and some others who thought, in the way that young fools do, that we could handle anything that the world—ha, that the universe!—could throw at us. I still remember it as if it were yesterday...”
“What is this place?” Cal asked, after Cylyria had trailed off into memory.
The Harper cleared her throat as she fixed her mind back onto the present. “It is called Sigil, or by some, The City of Doors. Trails lead off from there to a thousand different realities, ten thousand, or maybe an infinity of possibilities. As I said, just about anything can be found there, including enough knowledge of the Outer Planes to fill a hundred libraries. If it comes to it, I can give you the information that you would need to plane shift there, as well as a few contacts that may or may not be of help. As I said, though, it is not a course I would recommend casually, as there are many surprises there for those unfamiliar with wandering the Planes.”
Cal nodded. “We appreciate the information, Cylyria.” He stood, extending his hand to the Harper. “Thank you.”
She nodded, and rose as well. “If you can delay your departure until tomorrow, I will have someone bring the map to the Giant’s Run, and the other information I promised, to your lodgings within the city.”
“Thank you. We’re staying at The Wandering Fool... appropriate, perhaps.” The way he said it, it was grim, rather than wry.
The Harper escorted the pair out to the stableyard, then returned to the interior of the Hall, distracted by her thoughts. The course that the four companions proposed was... ‘suicidal’ was the first word that came to mind. But the bard remembered other deeds that had sounded equally crazy when first proposed, carried out by a group of friends who had gloried in their prowess, five gifted individuals who had faced everything that the world could throw at them and laughed in the face of certain destruction.
Those days were gone, for her, recklessness replaced by deliberation, if the cause and the goals were much the same. She remembered her own husband, the pain of loss still fresh even after the passage of years. If he had been dragged a prisoner into the Abyss...
She turned to look back toward the window, where the afternoon sun was already drifting low along the horizon. Time was passing quickly, and there was much to do. Her weariness forgotten, Cylyria Dragonbreast strode with determination toward her quarters.
