The New Life

Co-written with Velania Kalugina.

---

In the hazy late afternoon light, as the shadows draw long, even a raven standing on the front stoop casts an exaggerated shadow across the threshold of the Temple of Selûne. Velania, who is preparing for tonight’s service, turns out of curiosity at the flash of movement in the corner of her vision, and meets the raven’s beady, black gaze boring into her.

“Well, hello there, little friend!” she says, then crouches down not far from it and extends her hand gently. “Are you hungry? I can fetch you something from the buttery.”

The raven caws once at her and then flies away. She steps out to the entrance — perhaps it was merely startled — but as her gaze follows the bird’s flight path, she spots Zola milling about in the plaza outside, kicking at pebbles.

Velania’s face breaks into a soft smile and she leans in the doorway of the temple, arms folded in bemusement. “Zola! What are you up to, lingering outside?”

The drow stops pacing. The raven lands to perch on a public bench behind Zola, though Velania’s view of it is quickly obscured by Zola moving towards her to talk to her. “Oh! Hey Velania!” she says, seeming to have been caught off-guard. “I was, um… Well… my friend wanted, ummm… wanted to meet you!”

“Oh, how nice!” Velania says with a grin, though she glances about the plaza, bemused that Zola seems to be alone.

The two share a hug and Zola continues speaking. “Yeah, he’s got a favour to ask of you, and I told him you’re on holiday and nobody should bother you, but he says it’s… important…”

“Of course,” Velania replies. “If I can help, then I’d be happy to.” She studies Zola’s face, trying to read her. “Tell me when and where you’d like to set it up — I can be flexible with my time.”

“Oh, right here is fine,” a deep voice behind Zola says.

Sitting on the bench is not a raven, but rather a familiar dark elven man, dressed in a tailored black suit, a sleek black cane planted in the ground between his feet.

Velania’s eyebrows rise momentarily — it is as much surprise at the man sitting before her as it is for his sudden appearance. For a barest fraction of a second, her gaze flickers out of curiosity to Zola, who looks almost equally surprised to see him there, then back again. She stands in the temple porchway and inclines her head respectfully. “Lord Jaezred. A pleasure to see you again. Would you like to come inside?”

“Please.”

---

Jaezred Vandree stands over 6 feet tall with broad shoulders, long, silken white hair pulled back into a ponytail, and obsidian skin. His stride is confident and relaxed — despite the importance of whatever matter Zola spoke of, there seems to be no urgency in his body language. The gaze of his crimson eyes, framed by a strikingly handsome face of high cheekbones and a square jaw, roam around the temple chambers in a watchful, discerning manner, their intensity reined in by an ever-present playful smirk on his lips.

Velania leads the two drow through the main hall to a large, comfortable side-chamber — not the smaller, more intimate place where she has sat with Zola before, but a more formal and spacious room. The decor is austere but the room is pleasantly cool and subtly candlelit, with a beautiful golden glow glancing off the far wall as the sunset streams through the window. She gestures to the armchairs. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. We shan’t be disturbed in here at this hour. May I offer you both some tea?”

“Ah, excuse me, venerable priestess— May I call you that? It is the customary mode of address for clerics in my homeland.” Velania nods her assent to the honorific. “Miss Oussviir here has told me that you are quite fond of tea, so I have brought a rather exotic blend for you.”

He reaches into his frock coat and procures a small, black leather pouch, which she accepts with a gentle smile. “That is very kind of you, Lord Jaezred.” She opens the pouch and passes it in front of her face to catch a hint of the aroma, before closing it again. “I’ll be back shortly.”

The aasimar is gone from the room for a few minutes, and returns with a tea tray of glowing blue tea, including some small pastries and fruit. From his comfortable position in the armchair, Jaezred notices that she looks ever so slightly flustered. She is blinking faster and her breathing is slightly elevated, like she has just been steadying herself emotionally while out of the room.

She sits down and clears her throat a couple of times before speaking. “Lord Jaezred, I understand from Zola that you were instrumental in helping a friend of mine recently.” Her voice trembles a little as she starts speaking, though she strives to regain her composure. “Sorrel and Silvia are dear friends of mine, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness…”

Jaezred freezes in his seat; it is clearly written on his face that he does not know how to respond to this unexpected display of emotion. Zola sitting beside him has likewise a stunned look on her face,

“Ah, well, I owed Miss Darkfire a favour…” he replies rather stiffly.

“Well, I cannot imagine what kind of favour earns such an act. But still, I am incredibly glad that you were able to help bring her back.” Velania’s eyes flash with the merest hint of silver, and she looks at the learned gentleman earnestly. She presses her palm flat against her breastbone. “You have my deepest thanks.”

“…Of course.” He looks her up and down thoughtfully. “Would you like to hear how we managed to do it?”

“I would — very much. Sorrel was less sure of the arcane nature of this process. Only that they needed the most skilled people to help.” She exhales heavily with her eyes down, and when she appears to be centred again, she looks back up at Jaezred with a steady gaze.

The smirk slowly returns to his lips.

Jaezred regales Velania with the fantastical and emotional tale of Silvia’s resurrection — the ritual in the forest at dawn conducted by a wizard, a warlock, and a druid, the journey across celestial plains and discourse with the three angels, and Veridian’s wish. His deep baritone voice is smooth and pleasing, like chocolate to the ears. Zola, despite having heard the story before, listens as attentively as she can muster with wonder on her face.

Velania listens to Jaezred’s recounting calmly and intently, although there is a focused frown across her brow throughout. Despite her demeanour indicating that she finds this subject painful, it is clear she is still enraptured by his honeyed words, and she nods and responds to various details as he speaks. “You have treated with the gods, Lord Jaezred. And she has the divine call of destiny upon her. I cannot speak to that other than to say you have done something truly remarkable. I’m grateful that you were able to lend your aid. Thank you again.”

She sips her Witching Court blue tea and savours the subtle combination of salt and liveliness on the palate, nodding appreciatively. Then she holds her teacup quietly for a moment, her gaze resting casually between her two guests. Zola reaches forward and gives Velania’s hand a reassuring squeeze, flashing a timid smile at her. Velania squeezes her hand back and gives her a grateful smile. She blinks at her sister, and sensing some uncertainty in her, she turns to face Jaezred.

“It was my pleasure to help, venerable priestess,” says Jaezred. “However, I now find myself in a situation where I require your help. Will you hear me out, priestess?”

Although there was curiosity at this unexpected visit at the outset, it does not show in Velania’s face now. It is as if the honorific Jaezred used has summoned her wisdom and authority into the moment. She meets his gaze evenly. “Of course. How can I be of service?”

His expression adopts the seriousness that now defines the atmosphere in the room. “I believe Miss Oussviir has mentioned to you the necromancer who has been terrorising the Witching Court.” Zola sits up straighter, perhaps an attempt to look serious too, though the motion appears a bit stiff. “I have a close relationship with some people in the Court. They have reason to believe that she has now shifted her attention to the Dawnlands. This, combined with all the recent news of undead trouble… The undead are upon us, venerable priestess — of this I am certain,” he finishes grimly.

Velania purses her lips. “The news of this necromancer is indeed disturbing. The shockwaves from the last invasion have barely subsided, and here we have another incursion on our hands. I shall, of course, be placing myself at the disposal of the higher-ups of the Dawnlands. Is there anything you request of me in particular, Lord Jaezred?”

“In the High Diviner’s absence, you are in charge of one of the two great temples of Daring Heights. You have your finger on the pulse of the community, priestess; there are many who listen to you.”

“And who is also on holiday,” Zola interrupts him. “Velania, please don’t feel pressured to do anything. You still need the rest.”

“But can the venerable priestess truly rest easy when the Dawnlands is yet again under threat?” Jaezred counters. He turns back to Velania, the full intensity of his crimson gaze boring into her as he leans forward. “I know the people and the land are still suffering from the scars left by the gith invasion. I know living in this place can sometimes feel like fighting an unending tide of battles. But who will stand up for us if not ourselves? Therefore what I ask of you is simple, priestess: warn your flock. Beware the woman in blue, the lich who walks amongst us. Beware the corpses who rise from their slumber all around us. Only you can stop the dawning of the undead age.”

As he utters the final line of Grougaloragan’s prophecy, he pulls out a scroll of parchment — rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon — from inside his coat and places it on the low table between him and Velania.

Velania nods quietly and frowns, glancing from the scroll back to Jaezred. “There is a lot of information to unpack here. But first, it would be remiss of me to allow your description of my position here at the temple to go unanswered: even in the absence of High Diviner Vuzehk, I remain but a servant and an acolyte at the temple. There has been no process of selection or appointment, and I take my cues from Acolyte Melissa, who has served here far longer than I.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with Melissa. She’s… something of a family friend. So I know she’s not a priestess like you are.”

“Nevertheless…” She shifts in her seat slightly. “…I would not want it said that I stake any claim of authority within the temple, Lord Jaezred.”

“Of course,” he says with a dazzling smile. “Perhaps it is better put that you are a caretaker of the temple in the High Diviner’s absence.”

Velania weighs this clarification up and nods reluctantly. “One of several. And second to that clarification: I really am no inspirational speaker. Of course I do preach, but far more regularly, I help people examine themselves, their mental and physical wellbeing, their emotional state, their spirituality, their faith.” She looks at him evenly. “Put simply, my service to the Moonmaiden lies more in listening than leading.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, leading isn’t quite the right word for what you do, but I fail to see how what you’ve described to be different from inspirational speaking. You give advice to the flock who come to you, seeking guidance and purpose, do you not? It is not as loud as preaching, yet godly all the same.”

“It is… a little different. And I say this not to deny your request, but merely to qualify any expectations you may have. I would not wish for anyone to assume I am some herald of Selûne. My guidance encourages one to look within for answers, rather than for me to deliver them…”

He looks at her with bemusement at first, but then smiles understandingly. “Of course, priestess. Forgive my presumptions. It seems your church operates a little differently from mine at home. But nonetheless, I believe you and I are still able to work together.”

She nods with a look of understanding, appearing more relaxed. “Indeed, if I can help, it would be my privilege.” She places her hands on her knees, deep in thought, and contemplates carefully before continuing. “Who is this woman in blue, Lord Jaezred? Is her name known, and what do we know of her thus far?”

He gestures at the scroll of parchment in her hand, which she unfurls. On the page, there is a semi-coloured charcoal drawing of the woman in blue — a young human with fair skin, a coquettish face, peculiar black eyes, and shoulder-length red hair tucked under a blue hooded cape — and a name next to it: Novan Pendarvis. There are further drawings to her right: what appears to be a noble family crest and iterations on the design.


And finally, at the woman’s feet, sketches of dark-coloured gemstones, the size of a closed fist.

Velania studies the sketch and the annotations. “Novan Pendarvis,” she reads out loud, as if to capture the power of the name. Then, almost to herself, she ponders, “What do these gemstones signify?”

“These gemstones are her creations. They draw negative emotions from their surroundings and send them to… somewhere. We do not yet know what her plans are exactly. We suspect it has something to do with a phylactery. They are warded with a spell that dispels the gem’s magic entirely if disturbed, so if you ever come across one of these, it’s best to leave them be and alert me.”

“Understood.” She nods. “A lich walking among us is indeed a thing to be deeply wary of. May I also ask, Lord Jaezred, what are your thoughts on the prophecy itself? I believe it mentioned a king as well as a queen. Is there any sign of him, thus far?”

“Not that I have personally heard. However, I do believe the recent small spike in undead activity in and around the Dawnlands to be a precursor or sign to this undead royal couple. A herald, if you will.”

Velania frowns thoughtfully. “What has she done so far, this necromancer? And do you have an understanding of why she has moved her activities from the Witching Court to the Dawnlands?”

“Up until a couple of months ago, she’d been operating stealthily in the Witching Court, leaving those gemstones of her in places where tragedy struck in the past, to harvest the lingering misery from them. But then she realised that her work would be made much more efficient if she was harvesting active suffering. Thus she progressed to creating suffering — torturing humanoids and nature spirits and having the gems absorb their emotions.” Jaezred pauses to calmly sip from his cup, letting Velania absorb the information bit by bit. “From this knowledge, I’m sure you can infer why she is now interested in the Dawnlands. As I’ve said, the people and the land are still hurting from the scars left by the invasion. Oh, and as an added bonus… Do you see the symbols there, priestess? She has magically marked members of the adventuring communities with the second and third symbols. They are protective contingencies for her — should a marked individual confront the woman directly, they might find their power sapped somehow. I know only two people currently who have been marked, but there may be more. Warriors are likely to be branded with the second symbol, spell-slingers the third — that is my theory, anyway.”

Zola turns her head away at the mention of the marks.

Velania studies the symbols with a renewed fire. A muscle tightens in her jaw when Jaezred mentions marks and brands. Her eyes flick to Zola subconsciously, as she considers how much Zola might be comfortable with her sharing of their experience being branded by the Heralds. Some part of her appears to measure the situation differently, and she returns to a neutral expression. “You’re correct, there’s more than enough suffering here to exploit, Lord Jaezred. And speaking of exploitation…” She pauses a moment, frowning at the table in front of them and her empty teacup. She appears to be thinking through. Reassessing.

After a pause, she looks up at the handsome, immaculately dressed man sitting opposite her. Her voice is gentle, but measured, and somehow the tone of her voice seems to acknowledge both the drow, even though she regards only Jaezred. “I am always wary of prophecy as a manifestation of faith. I have witnessed enough prophets to know that — as people — they are as flawed as the next person, regardless of the veracity of their proclamations. And there is the constant danger of unclear words being misused… sometimes accidentally, sometimes willfully. Is that not true?”

“It is true enough. I myself do not know well the seer who gave this prophecy — an ancient crystal dragon who lives in the Sunset Spines, apparently — but it is the same one who told us about the dragons’ weakness, the scales under their wings. It was crucial to securing victory against the gith invaders.”

“Interesting.” She nods at this with a sense of solidarity, acknowledging Jaezred’s role on the battlefield not far from her on that dreadful night. It is evidently an angle that has a powerful effect upon her. A vulnerability, a crack in her armour she is powerless to defend. She stalls, deep in thought.

“I know what you mean about prophecies,” says Jaezred. “I have read the histories of foolish men and women who project their own meaning onto prophecies. A wise man once said, ‘Prophecy will bite your prick off every time.’” He gives a short chuckle. “We have to be careful, yes indeed, but at the same time, there is little reason to doubt Grougaloragan’s good intentions towards the Dawnlands at this point. And those reasons diminish with every new undead that shows up around here.”

She clears her throat. Twice. “Lord Jaezred. Of course I would like to… I would be willing to help.” She frowns ever so slightly at the correction, and from this it is easy to read her inexperience at negotiation. “As I said, I am no herald per se. Were High Diviner Rholor here, I would seek his counsel at once. But perhaps instead, I would take this to Councilor Archselon. She is certainly a hub of operations, in the absence of… of so many Council members.”

The drow lord frowns. “Why do you doubt your own abilities, venerable priestess?”

“Doubt them?” she asks in a flourish of pride and denial. She checks herself and sighs quietly. “The truth is, I do doubt myself at the moment. A lot has happened recently.” She looks up at Jaezred with wide, cool green eyes. Paradoxically, the more vulnerable her words make her, the more powerful her gaze becomes. “I’ve… I’m still recovering. I’m going through a period of reckoning with myself.”

“Reckoning?” He shakes his head. “With all due respect, venerable priestess, we’re all going through shit. We are all suffering. But you — you are much stronger and much wiser than you think. You walked into the Nine Hells to help save the High Diviner. You took a final stand against the gith in Fort Ettin. And even after all that, you still helped my friend Miss Oussviir here out of the darkest time in her life.” Zola turns to him surprised. “Sister Melissa— Bless her heart, but she didn’t do that, you did. So is it any surprise that when people seek help in this temple, they look to you? How much longer will this temple remain leaderless, Velania Kalugina? How much longer must the flock brave the wolves alone, without their shepherd? When will you stop staring at your feet?” He suddenly pulls himself back, putting up his gloved palms. “I get it. You didn’t choose to be a herald. You didn’t choose any of this to happen to you. It’s not fair, none of it is. But we didn’t choose to be terrorised by an undead menace!”

In a single vigorous motion, Jaezred rips the leather glove off his left hand, and Velania sees the Pendarvis symbol marked in black on the skin of his palm. He then leans forward and clasps her hands in his, his crimson eyes brimming with full, unreserved intensity as they bore into her green ones. “Priestess. You and I stood next to each other in Fort Ettin, and we said to the gith, ‘This far and no further,’” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet but powerful. “Will you not stand with me again?”

The priestess sits with her visitor in close proximity, and her eyes widen as she is momentarily taken aback at the extent of his passion. Yet she does not retreat or take space away from his speaking. She meets his charged gaze with her own — a tranquil intensity. Zola, meanwhile, seems to have been stunned into silence by his speech.

Velania pauses when he finishes speaking. Then she manoeuvres her hands to turn his marked hand palm up. She studies the symbol, holding his hand in hers. It is a surprisingly intimate gesture. “Nobody should ever have to bear the mark of another without their consent,” she says quietly. “I am so sorry she has done this to you, Lord Jaezred.”

She sits back, hemming for a moment, before speaking in an elevated tone. “Well, I would very much like to study this mark for a moment more. But perhaps I ought to adjust the light, and in the meantime, perhaps we could all do with a top-up?” She glances about, as if thinking, before her eyes settle on Zola. “Sister, might you be able to put another kettle on? You know where everything is, don’t you?” Her tone is jovially apologetic.

“Sure thing,” Zola says, and with some reluctance gets up from her seat to head for the door. She and Jaezred exchange meaningful, lingering glances before she disappears behind the doorway.

Velania promptly reaches for a wine bottle on a sideboard, sets it down on the table between her and Jaezred, and snaps her fingers. A mote of light appears on the neck of the bottle, casting a small, localised focus of light between them, gently oscillating between the blues and silvers of moonlight.

She speaks in a lower voice, with just a hint of briskness. “I will help you, Lord Jaezred, though I am still working out the details of how. Much though I do not appreciate being told to ‘stop staring at my feet’, I will acknowledge that you are very perceptive to have said that, and it only makes me uncomfortable because it is often true. However, what has persuaded me best is this: your sincerity.” She nods at him with an eyebrow raised, just slowly enough to convey that there is a degree of reproach in her statement.

He puts on a sheepish yet mischievous smile, reminiscent of a child who is being scolded but does not regret what he did. But before he has time to reply, she nods to the temporarily empty seat next to him, then looks at him carefully. “Might I ask, what is she to you?”

He arches an intrigued brow. “Miss Oussviir is a friend, of course. I befriended her mothers first, and then her. We just seemed to run into each other often.”

She nods to this. “I love her to death, but she is prone to falling for men quite recklessly. Particularly men who don’t appreciate the power they have over her. I would be extremely reassured to know she found herself in the care of someone who sees the warning signs early and is kind enough to know how to keep her safe from… hurting herself.”

His jaw falls open and his eyes light up in rapt fascination. “Oh… I see. Sounds like there’s a story there.” He frowns, thinking for half a moment. “I know she had a hard time after coming back from the Hells. I’ve been through six circles of the Hells myself, and it can certainly be too much for the uninitiated, but… did something else happen whilst you were there?”

The aasimar looks at him with a curious smile. “There is indeed a story. The telling will be difficult for her. But it might do her good if you asked… in the right time and place. I hope you understand what I’m getting at, Lord Jaezred? I’m not simply sharing gossip for the pleasure of it.” Her smile intensifies. “She dotes on you. I assume you can see that.”

He nods, pursing his lips. “Of course, priestess,” he says solemnly. “And I truly appreciate your agreeing to help us. Now, did you really intend to examine this mark or…” He shoots a cheeky grin at her.

Velania merely returns the grin and sits back in her chair. “It is rather entertaining, scolding you.”

Jaezred visibly bites back a flirty reply, in spite of the desire in his eyes, plain for her to see. Her smile in return is certainly playful, though not clearly flirtatious. It rather resembles a head teacher reprimanding a favourite pupil, as if she is saying I know you’re spinning me a yarn but I’m not going to sit here and work out which bits are true.

Now the sun is fading, the undulating moonlight glow of her cantrip continues to subtly fill the room. She switches back to her previous conversational tone, anticipating Zola returning any moment. “I did see this other symbol. On a warrior by the name of Leonida. Just so you know. Anyway, it is as I said: I am truly sorry you have been branded by an enemy of both the Dawnlands and the Court. I was lucky enough to be present for Queen Nicnevin’s ascension, and it would be my honour to help the people of the Witching Court once again, however indirectly.”

“Oh yes, I’ve spoken to Miss Leonida regarding that. She doesn’t seem concerned about it in the lea…”

His voice trails off as Zola glides into the room carrying the tea tray, fragrant smoke billowing from the cups. “Freshly brewed tea, just as you ordered!” she chirps, offering the tray to Velania first. The priestess beams gratefully at Zola, and holds a fresh cup of the brisk blue tea in front of her, relishing the aromas.

“As I was saying, I’m glad to hear that you are keen on helping me, priestess,” continues Jaezred, “and remember that it is not just the people of the Witching Court that you will be aiding, but your fellow Dawnlanders too.”

“Of course. My concerns lie with the immediate care I must provide to this land, but know that the Witching Court is also dear to my heart. I regret that I have had so little time to visit. But I care very much about your people too.”

Zola goes to offer tea to Jaezred as well. He thanks her in Drowic Elvish and with a wink, yet she keeps her gaze on Velania, a worried frown forming on her face. “Are you sure about this, sister?” she asks. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to cut your holiday short for this…”

Velania reaches forward, beckons for Zola to lean over, and takes her hand. “Dearest sister, I can help but ensure I am looking after myself too. After all” — she slips into Elvish and quotes a well-known historical poem — “I am watched by the gods and walk a path carved by angels, and beside them shall I stand… I promise I’ll listen to myself. Will you trust me on this?”

“For they are my brethren; from their spilt blood I was born, and their kin-love nourishes me,” Jaezred says, completing the verse.

The side of Velania’s mouth curls as she glances at Jaezred, impressed. Zola’s gaze moves between the two of them, still brimming with concern, but finally, it settles on Velania and she gives a single nod as heer hand squeezes Velania’s affectionately.

Velania replies to Jaezred as she holds Zola’s hand. “The poet. I’ve been re-reading her, since discovering Je’Sathriel’s true identity. It is but part of the path before me.” She places two fingers upon her breastbone. “The ancient call of blood is strong.” She looks to the warrior grasping her hand, and with the merest hint of moonlight in her eyes, she returns her friend’s gaze. “But I will be watching out for myself, as much as I watch out for you. I’m touched that you worry about me, sister.”

There is a pause in the room, broken by Zola wrapping her arms around Velania tightly. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she murmurs hoarsely in the aasimar’s ear.

“Well, priestess,” Jaezred’s voice interrupts their moment. “I do believe it is almost time for service. We will be attending, of course.”

Velania almost leaps from hugging Zola. “Goodness, it is later than I realised! If you would excuse me, I must make a few preparations. I am singing, not preaching tonight. You will be most welcome to attend but please, you have a while before it starts. Do make yourselves comfortable here.”

Velania rises to her feet to bow to him with her hand over her breast. “Lord Jaezred.” She meets his eyes from behind a wall of formalities with a knowing gaze. “It was an honour to meet you properly. And a delight to learn so much about you today. And I do not take it lightly that you came to me. I shall help as best I can.”

Jaezred returns the bow. “Likewise, priestess, it was a pleasure to properly meet you.” He smiles an equally knowing smirk at her.

---

During the service, the silver and white walls of the Temple of Selûne are bathed in subtle shadows and softly reflect the candlelight. A mystic chant echoes from a hidden place within the temple, and by an impressive architectural trick, resonates and fills the hall as voices seem to emanate from the heavens themselves. It begins as a lone voice singing an ancient Celestial prayer, and is soon interweaving with two other high voices in close, overlapping polyphony. The voices move in a complex and evasive rhythm, three parts joined together in a sacred dance.

To Jaezred, it is a much gentler sound than the hymns to Lolth sung by her priestesses in their dark, underground fanes, yet equal in profundity, power, and mystery. He imagines one could be moved by it. Zola gets up from the pews to dance around the central altar, the skirt of her white dress gliding along the pale marble floor. At one point, she tries to pull him up from his seat to join her, but he declines embarrassedly, leaving her pouting. Though when it is time for the donation plate to be passed around, the drow aristocrat, the son of a high priestess himself, puts 10 gold pieces in the wooden plate — far more than any other congregant present that night.

The two dark elves bid their goodbyes to Sister Velania and take their leave, stepping out into the cool night air and soft symphony of crickets. They walk side-by-side in the direction of the Four Fair Winds in silence, until Zola speaks up.

“Did you really have to… obfuscate the truth like that?” she murmurs to him, though her gaze is stuck to the cobblestones under their feet. “You told me the woman in blue probably has nothing to do with the prophecy.”

“Interconnectedness makes for a compelling story,” says Jaezred, keeping his eyes looking stoically ahead. “A lie it may be, but what is a white lie in service of the greater good? Whatever that phrase means, anyway. If this can help in stopping Novan Pendarvis, then does it matter?”

The sword dancer does not answer him. He senses in her the conflict that has been broiling in her for the entire day, tossing her mind back and forth like a ship in a storm — torn between loyalty to a dear friend and reluctance to disobey the emissary of her sovereign Queen. It is an awkward position he finds himself in, holding this much power over this young woman…

He cannot quite tell why it makes him feel uncomfortable; most other male drow would bite at the rare opportunity to exercise power over a female. Perhaps it is Velania’s scolding gaze boring into him from the back of his mind.

Jaezred sighs. “I have something for you. From my recent excursion to Aeschira.”

Zola quickly turns her head to look at him, the mention of the city having seized her attention at once. He reaches into his coat and presents a thin, leather-bound book to her. She tries not to make a face but her disappointment is palpable even in the darkness. “Oh, thank you, my lord, but I’m not a big reader…”

“Open it first.”

Reluctantly, she takes the book and begins thumbing through the pages. Her amber eyes widen as they take in the various paintings and illustrations: of cyan blue skies and hazy grey clouds, of oddly-shaped houses made from wood and brick, of silver stars that form elaborate silhouettes of dancers and warriors around a yellow orb in a black sky, of alien-looking beasts, of a blinding white sun that looms too large over the earth.

“It’s a collection of artwork of the surface world by drow who have never been up here,” he explains. “A curious thing I discovered at the bazaar.”

Zola looks up from the book to grin at him. “Thank you,” she says, with much more genuineness this time.

He only gives her a solemn nod. They part ways when they head for their respective rooms in the Winds, and he finds himself relieved to have time alone to gather his thoughts.