My name is Soliana. I am from Athkatla, Amn.
My name is Soliana. I am from Athkatla, Amn.
My name is Soliana. I am from Athkatla, Amn.
My name is Soliana. I am from
Is it? Am I?
How strange. I feel that to be true more than I know it. I seem to know very little.
I don’t know how I ended up in Amn. I don't know how I ended up in this thrice-damned desert. I don't even know where I how I learned all these... things, which my body seems to remember far better than my mind. How to keep out of sight, walk without sound. Dodge an arrow, parry a blow. Pierce a gut and slit a throat. Who taught me all this? Why can't I remember? And why does it feel… comfortable?
Athkatla. It feels real. It must be.
I remember the towering domes and spires of Waukeen’s temple.
The sprawling shops and stalls of the Promenade.
The scent of incense and spices.
The clink of coin in a merchant's purse.
The glimmer of a noblewoman’s diamond ring, the soft swish of her satin cape.
Dogs barking, hawkers shouting.
The hustle and bustle and occasional jostle.
I also remember the muddy streets, the thatched roofs.
The squalor of the River District.
The smell of urine and vomit and desperation.
The clink of coin in a beggar’s bowl.
The glimmer of steel in a dark alley, and the soft beat of a failing heart.
Drunkards yelling, children crying.
The silent wail in a homeless mother's eyes.
I see both worlds in this town too, this Ephia’s Well. At night, I am even reminded of the storm-lanterns and the long shadows they would cast.
My memories are like those lantern shadows, dancing and flickering. Mocking me.
But my name is Soliana, I am from Athkatla, and I’m bloody well going to find out the rest.
What a day. As if all this memory business wasn't enough, now Erevan has begun playing tricks on me, too. My nemesis has become my sister!
(Good one, Erevan. I should've known this is how you'll make your presence felt even in this forsaken desert. But I'm getting ahead of things... let's start from the beginning.)
Not too long ago, I found out about a decent sword for sale. At that time, I still had just those worn old blades I was keen on replacing, so I jumped at the opportunity. Alas! It was sold already! Imagine my [smudged text] disappointment.
I asked the merchant and got the buyer's description, though not the woman's name. As it happens, a bit later, while out at the Gate of Roses, I saw just such a woman with two pretty blades drawn. Aha. So I asked her about the sword, and she confirmed that yes, indeed, she was the devil that stole from me my rightful soon-to-be-property. Well, I was very magnanimous about it and offered to buy the sword at a higher price than what she had paid. And what was her asking price?
Five-hundred. FIVE-HUNDRED! For that... meat cleaver! Outrageous! I would have none of it, obviously – I informed her of my dissatisfaction and took my leave. [further smudged text]
Here ends Act I.
Act II is actually just a short interlude. It involves me bragging about a brand new sword I'd just found in a troglodyte lair. Dear diary, remind me never ever again to enter a troglodyte cave without a million potions of you-know-what, but oh my, that sword made it worth it – and just as I was returning to Ephia's Well with my companions (who had turned out to be quite strong and capable, note to self), what do you know, my nemesis appears out there in the desert with companions of her own. And so I had the wonderful opportunity of informing her not-too-discreetly that her recent purchase had just been downgraded in desirability because, ah, look at this beauty here. I can still see in my mind's eye the shade of green her face acquired there and then. Reminded me of those troglodytes, ha-ha. Oh gosh, how vain I can be, but I can't help it! Swords are my thing!
The first scene of Act III is set in the souk, where I found yet another pretty sword for sale by another merchant. This time, I got it first, and revenge is sweet – my nemesis enquired after the very same sword only moments later. My lust for vengeance thus satisfied, I decided to stay and chat with her, because after all, she seemed to share my fighting style and appreciation of quality weaponry. I was intrigued, wasn't I? Apparently, she is a native of the desert, whatever that means – perhaps she comes from a community of nomads? I have a hard time imagining anyone living out there permanently, so I must admit, my respect for her increased immediately.
I invited her to a friendly sparring duel in the Krak, and let's make this short because it was not glorious: she bested me. No two ways about it, even if it was because of my own silly mistake. I'd promised to show her my purchase if she won, and I did – along with the troglodyte sword – and she expressed her admiration with suitably envious undertones. Hmm. Okay. I was really a touch bitter about losing. Now get over it, Sol!
And then came the thing I am slightly baffled over. Maybe that is why I decided to describe the preceding events in such detail. I still cannot quite wrap my head around it.
She presented one of her swords to me as a gift.
It was not the one I had wanted to buy, nor anything I had ever seen before, but it was imbued with magic and it was beautiful. And she showed me another one just like it, which she kept for herself and said that now we have sister blades, twin swords, one for each of us. And she said that... we'd be sisters, too.
Why? Why would anyone do that to somebody they knew next to nothing about? A thousand thoughts and feelings flashed through my mind just then. My first thought: Is this sword somehow cursed? Is that it, she wants to rub salt in my wounds? But her smile was so childishly bright, so sincere and naive. Not a trace of subtlety. So my second thought was, does this human girl not know how easily trust is broken in this world, how words too often turn out to be just words? Has she never been let down, betrayed? Does she see in me something I am not? (Do even I know what I am and am not?)
But that beaming smile would not waver; it only grew in the face of my dumbfoundedness. I had no choice. How can you reject such child-like trust when someone offers it to you? Maybe it was the novelty of it, or maybe I am more impulsive than I would like to think. Or maybe... just maybe, I saw something in that smile that I'd have been an idiot to refuse help in a place like this, where nobody survives alone for very long. And I could learn something from her swordsmanship, too. Yes, that must be it.
Her name is Shamsa. I guess she is my little sister now? Erevan, watch over her when I cannot.
Bedridden. Must be somehow related to the venom those spiders injected in me. It was an expedition of epic proportions, I’ve no regrets, but looks like I’m paying the price now… there’s only so much that a girl can take. (Which is a fair bit more than the two northern brothers realise, but still.)
At least I’m able to write. I’m not used to doing nothing for days on end.
While I’m not too keen on doing battle against spiders of that size, I’ve always thought they’re such beautiful creatures. Fast. Silent. Lethal. Alert. Perfect predators, in other words. It occurs to me that spiders are like cats in many ways, only more… chitinous. And leggy. And, um… eye-y. And, of course, venomous. Too bad I didn’t get to harvest any of that venom.
That makes me realise: cats would be more perfect if they were venomous, too. I’ve managed to surprise myself – I really thought cats were perfect already! I was wrong.
(Another thought: Would I be skinned alive by my fellow Tel’Quessir if they could see inside my mind? ”Look at her, she’s practically a drow, isn’t she!” Well, no, I’m not, I just admire efficiency in all things. Not that I give a goblin’s arse about their thoughts anyway.)
More importantly, though: I was delighted to finally get to fight alongside Shamsa! She’s really a sight to behold with her swords. She called my swordsmanship ”dancing”, and I like the thought, but really, that word describes her own style much better. I wonder if she told the truth when she said she’d just studied the creatures of the desert… I need to ask again about that. Surely she must have had a mentor of some sort.
It strikes me that I’m now much less preoccupied by memories of the past – or lack thereof – than I was just a short while ago. Is that a good thing? I don’t know. I can’t see myself staying in this place for any longer than necessary. The heat is oppressive, and by the gods, this accursed sand just gets everywhere.
But merely thinking about that smile gives me a sense of calm. I’m no closer to understanding why, but maybe that’s okay. For now.
Erevan, thank you for keeping us safe. Please make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid out there.
Ever since I awoke in the desert, my reveries have been different. I’ve never had much control over the memories I revisit in the first place, but now, besides being patchy and incomplete, they can be weirdly distorted and disconnected.
Some of them are like familiar melodies played out of tune.
Some are like moth-eaten garments with gaping holes here and there.
Some are drawings where a detail that used to be there has been erased and replaced by another – at times conspicuously, at others less so.
Some are panorama paintings cut in half and joined seamlessly to a completely different one.
I might see a shadow walking past in broad daylight but not the person casting it, for example. Or see a bird singing but hear a child laughing. I might step in the Five Flagons but find myself in the Copper Coronet, or stare at a crowd of people whose faces are blurred or blotted out. And so on.
It is not always like that – I’d probably go mad if it was! – but it’s annoying nonetheless. Disconcerting, even. And it makes reverie less restful than it used to be. Nowadays, I have to spend almost as long in it as humans do sleeping, and when I wake up, there is often this nagging feeling that I missed something crucial, some hint that could have unlocked a closed door.
Every now and then, when I’m particularly tired, I am tempted to actually fall asleep. To lose myself in blissful unconsciousness. But then I might dream, and the thought of that terrifies me. The one time it happened before was quite enough.
On a more positive note, my fever is slowly abating. I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two. There’s a stray cat in the souk that I’m a little worried about – it was terribly malnourished when I first saw it, and I don’t know if anyone has been feeding it in my absence.
Full of strays, this town.
I remember now where I got my training.
It came to me in a flash when I remembered him. Funny how one face could be the key to so much more... But then, he was my mentor, the only one I knew by name. To me, he represented an entire organisation. So this is how it works, then? Very well. I shall look forward to discovering more keys.
I suppose I should be shocked, but I'm not. After all, how many options were there? Deep down, I must have known it already. I just wasn't comfortable with the thought.
Am I now? I don't know. What does it even matter? It does not define me. I am free to forge my own future. And my foreseeable future is here, in the middle of nowhere, in a place where nobody has probably even heard of [smudged text].
Maybe what worries me is that I might want it to define me? To find meaning in it, a purpose – an identity? Does this place hold another kind of promise for me, another kind of future?
It is too early to say. But perhaps not too late to hope. And more than anything, I hope to GET OUT OF THIS BLASTED HELLHOLE
I had a quarrel with Shamsa last night. It was awful. I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help myself after she But I will not be rehearsing grievances here, she apologised and that's that. And I was being childish anyway. It was embarrassing.
Still, can't say I'd be particularly looking forward to meeting that Isab
Really, she deserves a better friend, a better sister than me. She'd probably abandon me without a second thought if she knew what I'm really like. I can never tell her. I have to start thinking about a story for when she eventually asks... I doubt she'd buy amnesia forever. I wish I hadn't remembered! Then I wouldn't need to lie. I could have really, truly started anew.
But if you pretend hard enough to be somebody else, maybe you can really become somebody else? Maybe make-believe can... make believe?
My head hurts. Swinging swords is so much easier. I think I'll go kill some worms.
If I'd written this journal entry a couple of nights ago, I'd probably have begun with:
That greedy little LEECH, I'll hack her bloody head off with her own axe and soak it in an acid pool and have the skull turned into a necromantic chamber pot, and then, when I get fined again by another janissary, I'll exhort them to smash the skull to smithereens because by the gods, it is a vile, VILE thing indeed.
Or something along those lines. Can't rightly say because I was feeling very inspired just then, but now, I'm quite calm already.
Actually, I should thank the wench. It is owing to her actions that I got to see another side of Shamsa. A very surprising side, in fact. I never knew she could be so... ruthless. That cold, simmering rage? For a time, I thought I was looking in the mirror. I am wondering, now, how much I really know about my swordsister.
So much for the whole "hey let's try to be nice" project. A leopard can't change its spots, I guess. Am I bringing Shamsa down to my level, instead? That would be comforting. I would no longer have to worry about her judging me.
Erevan, you know I'll never forget you, but I need some more tangible help now... Please don't get angry at me if I say a prayer or two to the Wroth, Urazzir. There are a few things in his tenets that strike a chord with me.
Do not allow a wrong to go unanswered. Curse your enemies. Do not leave grave misdeeds forgotten. Stone the sinners.
Finally met Isabella. She's a personality, to be sure.
Cordial. Pretty. Acts like a proper lady – maybe she is one, for all I know.
Confident, but never once arrogant. Knows exactly what she wants and how she intends to get it. The sort of person who easily gathers others in her orbit. (My swordsister is definitely in her constellation.)
I can't quite see her the way Shamsa does, though. That kind of confidence is a strength when you do things right, but it can just as well become a fatal weakness. And it seems to me she is much more talented as merchant than as politician. Too upright for her own good. Too idealistic.
When there are spineless thugs all around you, standing straight usually means breaking your back.
But I don't see why I couldn't be along for the ride, if given the opportunity to. We'll see how long she lasts. If she does fall, I'll just have to make sure Shamsa and I don't fall with her.
One day, she said. Think about it for one day.
I said I wouldn't have to, that I'd thought it all through already. But that may not have been entirely true. I've been mulling this over ever since we parted ways in the souk.
Oathseeker Soliana. Hah. How unlikely that sounds – a part of me wants to just snort at it and scream that I'm deluded. Who am I fooling? I don't believe in what they believe. And they'd see through me right away even if I tried to claim that... I know Shamsa would, at any rate. Dung doesn't become gold no matter how hard you try. And that goes for all the other little dungheads in this town and every other town in existence. We're a permanent layer of reeking brown shit on the few nuggets of gold trying to shine from underneath. Like Shamsa. Like Isabella. We foil their hopes at every turn with our corrupting touch. That's probably why I got so angry at that Kesandera wench – I could see she was full of shit, but she was trying to hide it under a badge and a uniform. The nerve.
And now you're thinking of doing the same? Really, Sol? Why don't you just admit what you are and at least retain some integrity?
That's what one part of me says. Much of the time, I'm tempted to listen and give in. But there's another part, too. A smaller one, but more insistent.
It's saying that I don't need to become a true believer right away. That maybe I don't need to believe in lofty ideals and high-minded talk at all, if I believe in the people. Maybe what matters, in the end, is who you associate yourself with and what you strive towards, regardless of how badly you're bound to fail. Maybe a glimmer of hope and a bit of humility are enough where real faith cannot take root.
Humility? What's that, Sol – you learned a new word?
Yeah, maybe I did. "Humility" originally comes from a word meaning "earth". And even reeking shit, when buried in the earth, can help create new life.
Killed my first dwarf a while ago. And second and third and... I forgot how many exactly. Tough buggers, and really not very hospitable at all. I was using my new gladii, which are apparently of dwarven make. That's called irony, right?
They're really very good swords. Very, very nice. Just touching that cold, hard steel is enough to tingle my spine. Cheers, fellas, and rot in peace.
We didn't find the mead Halfdan and Ulfrik were craving. Poor boys. But the journey itself was lovely! I'd never been on a mountain like that, and it was a refreshing change after weeks and months and I don't know how long in this blistering desert. The brothers seemed to think so too – Halfdan lingered a while in the freezing wind on that long suspension bridge, a silly smile plastered on his face, and they were overjoyed about some sun lotion they found. Honestly, I could use some too.
I bet Tormod liked it as well. Tormod Redmane, the gentle giant – he's also from somewhere up north, but I don't really know much about him. I find him a little hard to read. But he seems kind, and there is something about that boisterous laugh of his that reminds me of Shamsa's smile. Maybe it's the sincerity? No wonder those two get along so well.
Me and Shamsa were coming up with nicknames for all three of us, the kind we'd get if we ever became infamous enough, and my final suggestion for Tormod was Tormod the Crimson Bear. He seemed to like it. Although something like Crimson Fury would probably sound more awe-inspiring. Crimsonbeard would be the most truthful one.
Shamsa then? She could be Shamsa the Dunecat or Shamsa the Black Cobra. Both are fitting, but I'm not entirely satisfied; I think I can do better. I'll need to think on it.
And me? How about Soliana Dwarfslayer? But some stuck-up dwarf was already harassing me in the Krak just yesterday, there'd be no end to it if I was a Dwarfslayer too. Maybe not a smart choice.
We did also kill orcs. Soliana Orcsbane? Why not. There was actually something oddly... satisfying, about slaying those orcs. Like I'd been wanting it without knowing it. Could that be related to some memory I've yet to unlock?
Soliana the Amnian Amnesiac! That's it!
The firsts just keep coming, don’t they!
First time in Qadira. First time in Frostport. First time in Banafsi. And actually, already the second time in Kha’esh, which I’d completely forgotten to write about – that’s where I first met Isabella.
And here I was thinking, we’re in the middle of an unforgiving desert with no way out. Turns out, there are many ways out to several less sandy places. That’s immediately a huge plus in my eyes. Like, woah, this new world might not be so bad after all.
Where to begin…
Qadira. The first time there was just passing through on the way to Frostport. But on the return journey, I got to explore a bit. There’s this tavern there that really reminded me of the Copper Coronet, in all the bad ways. Hah, well – I guess some good ones too. Good times. Really, I got all nostalgic, just wanted to sit down and watch the riotous drinking and listen to tipsy old men and women singing to their heart’s content. I mean, I’m not used to that many pirates in one place, but besides that… familiar stuff.
Can’t spend too long in a hole like that, though, if you want to get out in one piece and with all your belongings.
Banafsi was in the same climate but much more, how to put it… reputable, I suppose. That, too, in all the bad ways. Besides the merchants, the people there seemed to have little else to say beyond don’t do this, don’t do that, don’t go there, and hey you, foreigners are definitely not allowed there. What a bunch of humourless kobolds. But you know what, I’m going to forgive them all of that because by Erevan’s tricks, that city, even just the dockside where we were allowed, was so overwhelmingly beautiful. The lush trees, the white marble structures, the flickering fires at night… All that alone makes me want to visit again. The marketplace had some really interesting wares, too.
But then, Frostport. Now that was an experience. Athkatla could have light snowfall in wintertime, but this was something from another world. All that snow! I used to like snow, actually, but when you couple it with that merciless wind… it felt like my blood was going to freeze in my veins. Suddenly I understood why Shamsa was so terrified by the prospect of having to spend increasingly long periods of time in Frostport, what with Isabella’s ambassadorship and all. Me, I wouldn’t mind the occasional visit – the food was hearty and drinks plentiful, courtesy of Isabella of course – but even I would have to stay pretty darn close to the fireplace most of the time. And unlike me, my dear sister is used to a desert climate. Oh, Shamsa, you poor, poor girl…
Tormod and the brothers, on the other hand, they seemed right at home. No surprise there. Maybe Shamsa could delegate most of the Frostport business to these thick-skinned northerners? I’m sure they’d savour every moment. Well, except for the fish. The relentless onslaught of fish. Poor Karl seems like he’s hit his limit already, and I mean in both senses of the word. But fish seem to be the lot and burden of every Oathseeker…
Which, by the way, against all odds now includes me too. And that’s okay – I can handle the fish part. Because the final first I’m going to mention today is this:
For the first time since losing my family, I feel like I might have one again.
I told her. I told her the truth... about myself, about my past.
She didn't judge me. Not with a single word.
I can't believe it. I don't understand. Alright, so maybe I didn't have much of a choice at first, but later on I did, and I made that clear to her. I chose to participate in exploiting, hurting and killing other people so that a select few could lead an easier life. It was not just survival, not like the things she had to do out in the desert. She must realise that.
I did it because I wanted to be good at something I knew I could be good at, never mind that maybe I should have sought to put my skills to some other use. I did it because I wanted to belong, wanted to be accepted, never mind that maybe I should not have sought acceptance from just that lot. To hell with other people, let them suffer, if only I can get an approving nod and a pat on the back – that is how I thought, whether I was aware of it or not.
I knew I could have got those things in better ways, too. I knew that what I was doing was wrong. Why did I not care?
I suppose I feared the unknown. I wanted to feel in control. I did not want big changes. I wanted to stay with that which was familiar and comfortable. And I was fine with others paying the price.
I explained that to her, in fewer words maybe, but I did. She knows the deal. So why does she not care?
The way I see it, there are two possibilities.
One is that she forgives me and wants to give me a new chance, a new beginning. It's a pretty thought, and if it were someone like Isabella, I might buy this explanation. But Shamsa... Every time she is reminded of Kesandera and my brief spell in the cage, I can see how her body tenses and eyes darken. I can see her just seething with fury inside. The same thing happened only recently on a job when I was struck down by a gnoll warlord and Shamsa thought me gone. I did not see it happen, obviously, but afterwards she told me how she'd disemboweled the warlord in a fit of fury, slaughtered it like a beast after it was already dead. I could just imagine that in my mind.
That's my sister. No, she does not forgive. So the second option?
She is like me. And now I am the one whose acceptance is sought.
But it goes both ways, doesn't it? What did I write above? She didn't judge me. It matters to me too, it matters to me immensely. What is that called?
You hold someone in the palm of your hand, and they trust you not to ball that hand into a fist – but you know they have that same power over you, and you trust them likewise. You could crush another person with just a word and a look, like you were the most powerful sorcerer in the world, but you are equally vulnerable to them. Is that what sisterhood is like? Or is there another word for it?
And why, why is that vulnerability so addictive?
Poetry competition last night. That was another first.
I almost did not attend because Legate Sol Auk? What kind of a theme is that? Yeah, I get it, he’s a disliked politician and people needed to make fun of him or just vent their frustrations, but… I’ve seen enough solauks to last me a lifetime. Maybe even an elven lifetime. Although for some reason I get the feeling that this elf ain’t gonna live to ripe old age.
I don’t want to make fun of solauks, not really. I just want to forget about them. Pretend there are more good folk around. I’m so fortunate to actually have a few such people around myself now.
Hopefully the next poetry contest’s theme is about drinks. I could imagine writing about blur or Baze’el Blue.
But I don’t mind writing another poem about Sol Auk if it gets me another five-hundred dinars. You get plenty of both blur and Baze’el Blue with that. Cheers, Legate!
[The paper of the following journal entry is marred here and there by several small, round water stains.]
I remember. It all starts to make sense now. I need to start writing down my memories... I don't want to forget again. It will take time, but this is too important.
This is who I am.
MEMORIES: THE HOME THAT WAS
Waning light filtered through verdant foliage in hazy hues of green and gold. Mighty oaks and regal elms cast shadows that were slowly growing longer, but the warmth of a late summer's day lingered on. The forest was as yet unbothered by encroaching darkness: at this time of the year, the air was thick with the scents and sounds of teeming life until late in the night.
It was home.
I could not say where exactly our backyard ended and the woods began. In a way, this whole corner of the Wealdath was a backyard to us and the rest of the village. I was sitting cross-legged on the grass, supposedly reading a book; but actually it was the swifts darting overhead in masterful displays of aerial acrobatics which had grabbed most of my attention. They had once again arrived at summer's threshold and punctuated the days with their shrill cries, dancing in the air with unmatched speed and grace.
Would that I were someday so fast, so beautiful in my movements, I thought. It would never happen by reading books. Why did father make me do this? "The History of Tethyr", written by some old man I had never heard of. Not even a Tel'Quessir but a human. I sighed and closed the book. If I really had to read, I would much rather have chosen those tales which mother used to read to me and my sister as bedtime stories, the ones about the sword heroes of old. They had captured my imagination in an instant, and it could be that I had gushed about them a little too much... because mother picked other stories nowadays. More "educational" ones.
While I mused on this and lamented my fate, Saida came out on the veranda, hands behind her back and a mysterious look on her face. Big sister had been acting weird all day – she had run off to the woods first thing in the morning, locked herself in father's workshop right after breakfast and remained there since, not coming out even for lunch. Only now, at dusk, did she deign to appear.
The plan had been to do something fun today. She had promised. My simmering annoyance suddenly boiled over.
"Well, there she is. Off to the woods again, are you?"
"No. I already got what I needed," she replied with a glint in her eye.
I tilted my head and shot her a petulantly quizzical look. That made her break into a smile, which I now realised she had been withholding.
"Soliana... I have a gift for you," she said with the barely suppressed delight of one who had got their hooks into you and was keenly aware of it. I lifted an eyebrow, but she simply stared at me expectantly.
Of course. She needed to be cajoled. That was my sister – infuriating as ever.
Heaving a long, resigned sigh, I said with the expected theatrics: "Please, Saida, my dear sister. Curiosity kills me. I cannot take it anymore – please, I beg of you, have mercy and either show me what you have or put me out of my misery."
She put on a contemplative look, pretending to appraise my performance, and finally granted me her nod of approval. The smug grin that always got under my skin slowly melted into a radiant smile that transformed her entire visage. Now, there was only warmth and affection. That was my sister too, and it was why I forgave her every single time. I loved that smile.
Leisurely, she took her hands from behind her back... and made my jaw drop. What she presented to me, with both hands, was a sword. A practice sword, carved from wood, but otherwise looking like the real thing. She had even gone through the trouble of engraving the hilt with a shallow spiralling pattern, not only for aesthetics but to enhance the grip.
For a good few moments, I was too stunned to do anything but stare wide-eyed at her gift. But then, realising that this treasure was now mine, I reached out and gingerly lifted the blade.
It was a short sword made for thrusting, shorter than the ones I had seen at the local smithy. I learned only much later that wooden swords need to be short in order to handle as closely as possible to the real thing; otherwise, too much of the weight is on the blade and the sword becomes very unwieldy. In actual swords, the point of balance can be brought closer to the hilt by increasing the weight of the pommel, allowing for increased speed and precision. At the time, however, I was just happy to have some sword, even if it was not quite what I had envisioned my heroes and heroines using. It was still beautiful.
I felt my eyes welling up and blinked away the tears. What had I done to deserve this? It was not my birthday or any other occasion. I looked up at the gently beaming Saida who seemed to read my thoughts.
"Little sister, I know you've been wanting something like this," she said, bending down to my level and leaning on her knees. She was fifteen years older than me and a couple of heads taller. "I don't care what mother and father think. Who's to say you can't become the most famous swordswoman this side of Faerun? You show them!"
I pursed my lips and nodded, grabbing hold of the hilt and doing a suitably heroic pose in front of her. Grim determination and all that. Saida laughed.
"You know what? I'm going to make one for myself too," she continued. "A sister sword! Then we can practise together, and before you know it, all of Tethyr will know of the Silden Sisters!" She swept her arm in a wide arc, emphasising the extent of our future fame.
I felt all bubbly inside, ready to take on the whole world. It was already a dream come true, regardless of what would become of the Silden Sisters. I wanted to begin practising right away. And I would have, had father not returned home just then.
I caught only a glimpse of him before he entered the kitchen where mother was preparing supper. But that glimpse was enough to tell me that something had happened. Something was wrong. His face was ashen, and there was an emotion in his eyes – fear? shame? – that I had never seen before. Judging from Saida's expression, she had noticed the same, and we stepped on the veranda and tried to listen. I did not hear much, but I did make out three terrible words that unravelled our entire life.
Accident. Died. Exile.
The brilliant mosaic on the forest floor had turned crimson red. The setting sun was bleeding out its last rays and giving in to the shadows. That light, shining through the canopy of leaves in a changing array of colours, would remain but a fond memory.
It was the beginning of a long, long night.
What is a promise?
It’s words that are supposed to be more than just words. Words that coo in your ear: You can believe us, you can trust us, because unlike those other words, we’re real. We’re true. We’re transcendent.
I used to think that’s all bollocks. I used to think it’s just another method of persuasion, one that works on the naive types who buy into that sort of shit. Like romance, right? Romances are built on promises. I will always love you, I will always be true to you, you will always be the one for me… oh gods, that stuff makes me cringe. The first promise ever made was probably meant to soothe the jittering nerves of a starry-eyed lover.
But I see now. It is something more. It’s currency that you can use to buy trust if you belong to the Cabal of Promises.
It’s a funny one, that cabal. Everybody belongs to it by default as soon as they’re taught what a promise means, and they stay in it for as long as they don’t abuse their membership, which only has one condition: you keep every promise you make. If you wilfully break one, that’s it, you’re kicked out. You can then try your luck with folks that don’t know you’re kicked out, but everybody who knows it will not accept your promise-currency anymore. Then you need to include insurance, collateral. Your money is no longer good as is.
Why do I write this?
Because by now, I’ve already made six promises to Shamsa. And I think I better begin keeping track of all this currency I’ve been handing out so liberally. I don’t want it to lose its value. So here goes:
1. I must never leave Shamsa. She has made the same promise to me. We are family now. What that means is, this world is now my new home. Athkatla, Amn, all that is irrevocably in the past.
2. I must keep her on the right track. What that means is: if I see she’s about to fall into the same hole she helped me crawl out of, I have to warn her and do what needs to be done to protect her. My past must not become her future. She has made the same promise to me, to ensure I don’t fall again.
3. I can’t drink alcohol anymore until she allows me to. This is incredibly annoying, and I never got what the big deal was. But just today, she offered to accompany me to Kha’esh for drinks, so maybe this promise no longer holds? Isn’t that the same as permission? I need to confirm.
I made three other promises related to drinking, but that matter seemed so dagger and cloak that I best not write anything down here. Who knows, someday this journal might end up in the wrong hands. This note should be enough for me to remember. I really hope sister will give me a full explanation soon…
Six promises. It feels good. To be trusted. And needed.
Good thing she doesn’t know that actually, I got the heave-ho from the Cabal of Promises already a long time ago.
Alfred Delafosse.
Until a short time ago, I knew him just as "the chef". That guy who was the somewhat unfortunate recipient of most of our Frostport fish. It was a little funny, actually... for a time, I wouldn't dare to even bring up the subject with him. We were flooding him with fish and would've loved to have more customers like him. Cordial business relations, that's how I'd describe it, despite his occasional exasperation.
But then something happened. Koukol, that woman offering the fencing lessons, died. I didn't know her well, but apparently, she was very close to Alfred. Shamsa says she was taken by the Madness, the same thing that took those closest to sister herself. I haven't witnessed that so I can't fully relate, but it sounds horrible. Shamsa, she says it's forced her to kill people close to her, because there was no other choice. Because she had to put them out of their misery. It's one of those things she prefers not to talk about.
So Koukol’s death was one thing. But just a few days ago, there was another incident, one which led to Alfred's expulsion from the Balladeers and got him into serious trouble with the authorities. What's worse, he's got this... condition that puts himself and those around him in danger. So all in all, he seems to be very much on his own now. Alone.
Or he would be, if it wasn't for us.
Isabella sympathises with Alfred's plight so much that she suggested he seek membership. It will be decided today. Everybody's given their consent so it's up to boss and sister now.
Shamsa sympathises too, of course she does. Sister's heart is so big, sometimes I wonder how that small frame of hers can hold it in. I had a little row with her about that, actually, because sometimes it looks like she's willing to risk life and limb for another's sake too easily. I had to remind her that family comes first. I think she took the point.
Me, I sympathise too, I really do. Granted, I don't like it that we're putting ourselves in danger if Alfred does become an Oathseeker. Tormod's of the same mind there. And I doubt it'll improve relations with the factions he's managed to piss off. But they treated him unfairly, and all things considered, he seems like a good man. Besides being a very competent warrior.
The only thing is, he's a bit of a buffoon at times. He better keep his mouth bloody well shut about sausages and arses and all that lewd shit which I already heard a thousand times over in the Copper Coronet. Else my knuckles might just give his face another purple greeting. Fortunately, he did apologise, and it seemed sincere. That's rare. Most men never get over their egos to say sorry about something like that. So I'm willing to give him another chance.
The other thing he said, though. What was that about? Shamsa and me, us being "the most important people in his life now"? It came so out of the blue, I didn't even know what to say. That's just crazy – he barely knows me and he can't possibly know sister that much better either. I guess he really does feel lonely. Can’t think of any other explanation.
Me, Shamsa, Isabella... Tormod too, probably... we've all known how that feels like. So if he does become an Oathseeker, I think he'll fit right in.
Well, isn’t that embarrassing.
It didn’t take long after the previous entry for Alfred to ruin his chances of joining the Oathseekers for good. Whether the previous brooking accusations were true or not, he did commit brooking only a short while afterwards, apparently to save his life from some desert menace. So, he saved his skin but likely forfeited his soul, unless something can be done to remove his mark. What an idiot.
And all that because he insisted on going out there alone, to meet Amelie. Disregarding the advice and outright pleading of those he considered friends. And I thought I’m whimsical! That man is downright unpredictable – and dangerous. Isabella, ever the saint, hasn’t given up hope of getting his mark removed, but other than that, he’s a pariah now; nobody wants anything to do with him. He should be locked up, actually, but it seems he’s somehow escaped and fled the Well. My guess is he accomplished that, too, by brooking.
Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for Alfred. He’s probably had a considerable dose of bad luck too. I wonder if he did something to anger Gellema…
* * *
Two humans, a man and a woman, perished in the recent battle against an evil entity on the volcanic island of Hufaidh. I dare not even write down what that thing was; I’ve heard too many horrible stories about them. And not only did the victims lose their lives but their souls, too… Thinking about that makes me shiver. Somehow, I had thought that it would take willing cooperation with those beings, like what Alfred did, for them to gain a hold on one’s soul, but apparently at least some of them can eat souls like bread.
It’s too high a price to pay for protecting a home of rocks and sand – much, much too high. One’s soul is a thing of eternity. The stakes, by extension, are infinitely high. Given the choice, I couldn’t let my friends do battle against such monsters. I couldn’t bear the thought of one of them facing an eternity of oblivion… or worse.
This world is finite. All its joys and sorrows are fleeting, ephemeral. All of it put together means nothing at all when weighed against a single flash of eternity. All the mortal lives ever lived are worth less than a single soul, like a few grains of sand on a desert extending beyond the horizon.
And not one but two such beacons of infinity were destroyed only days ago. It goes beyond comprehension.
That begs the question: Is there anything in the whole wide world I myself would endanger my afterlife for? Anything at all?
A year ago, I would have called that a stupid question. Today, I still call it a stupid question. The difference is that today my answer is yes, there is, and she is with me now on a caravan to Kha’esh. We are due some much-needed rest before the election circus begins in earnest.
O Warad, watch over us and ward us from danger on the road.
Oh, Kha’esh… I would not have wanted to leave you behind…
What a lovely reprieve we had there! It wasn’t exactly relaxing, at least not the whole time, but the trip paid off in other ways. Not so much because of the place itself – we didn’t get to see any gladiator fights, we weren’t planning on buying slaves anyway, didn’t find any nice swords either, and I’m not a camel meat aficionado – but rather because it was far away from everything and still had everything we needed.
Food. Drinks. Silence. A cat and a warm hearth. And a beautiful sunset.
When I suggested going there, I didn’t even know that Shamsa also had a very good reason to take some time off and just rest. She had gone out to the islands with Apothar Cosine and the brothers for some job which, apparently, didn’t go well. I didn’t ask why. But she was injured, got a nasty wound on her flank… a really nasty one. It was a shock to see it. I don’t think it was fully healed even after we came back to Ephia’s Well.
I was a little upset that she had been careless or foolish enough to get herself in that shape. Might not have happened had I been around. But at least she’s still alive… I thank the gods for that. And though the wound will leave a permanent mark, it seems to be much better already than on the journey to Kha’esh when she was wincing from the slightest exertion.
But the journey left me fond memories, too… I was writing the previous entry just then. Shamsa was lying down on the bench, resting her head on my thigh, while I was scribbling away with the journal on my other thigh. She kept looking up at me as if I was doing something very mysterious, until eventually, curiosity got the better of her. I told her I was writing down my thoughts and feelings, emptying my head, and she seemed to find the concept novel.
Then she asked suddenly if she was in the journal. I’d been expecting the question but it still made me smile. I told her, of course – that she’s the main character. And oh, that look on her face… it was just priceless.
Easiest way to make someone blush? Tell them that you write about them, that you’ve been writing about them for quite some time. That needs no further elaboration. It already tells them that they have become a part of your thoughts, feelings, memories – a part of your world.
And it’s true, isn’t it?
The last evening, I was talking about the people I missed back in the old world. Mother, father, Saida… others too, whom Shamsa didn’t even know about and still doesn’t. Gesturing towards the vastness of the desert, she asked me if this was my home now. I think she wanted reassurance… because when we first met, I was still hoping to find my way back.
I replied with something Saida told me back when we were about to leave Tethyr. A worn phrase, I suppose, but true nonetheless. I don’t think it means that the desert is my home now, like Shamsa asked… but it does mean that it is where my home is now. There’s a subtle difference.
I could live elsewhere. I could leave behind the desert. Shamsa may feel attached to the barren landscape, the sand and its creatures, but the gods know I don’t.
And yet, if I did that now – if I left now – I would once again be homeless.
I don’t understand all that politics stuff. Never did. Too many players, too many motives, too many strands to follow. So from the beginning, I’ve trusted my friends who are involved in it – I’ve trusted that they know what they’re doing. Then I’d know too.
I have to know, now that I’m Voiced. That means I’ve some say in the politics here in the Well. It wasn’t cheap… 5,000 dinars, mostly from Isabella and the Oathseekers, although I spent a fair sum myself too. I’d like for that investment to mean something.
I guess it already did a little – the Purple League’s Zaniah won the election and is now Legate, as we’d planned and hoped. I don’t even know her personally. But Isabella does and that’s good enough for me.
I worry for Isabella, though. I’ve worried for some time now, but recent events…
I don’t know what’s changed. It seems like she is becoming more and more erratic, unpredictable. First she started drinking and caused quite a scene at the Krak, apparently. Had to be carried to her room. Now she’s resigned from her post as Chancellor of the Purple League and said some pretty nasty things about Sol Auk over the bellows. Not that I wouldn’t agree with everything she said about that stonefaced shithead, but it doesn’t seem good politics to me to be announcing such things publicly. Even I get that much. There will surely be consequences. For all Oathseekers, undoubtedly.
I admire Isabella’s moral character. She’s got spine. And a big heart, like Shamsa does. Shamsa saw it before I did, and I trusted her, and in that sense, it is that heart which drew me to the Oathseekers. I know it’s still there. Something has changed, but thank the gods it’s not that.
No, I think she is lonely. She doesn’t see the other Oathseekers much, and she has many political enemies in the Well. Few stand by her side for the vision of this place that she has. And of course… she misses dearly her lost daughter. Meryl, I think her name was. I saw her portrait in the Krak room while Isabella’s gallery was still there. She seemed so alive in that picture…
I couldn’t fault anyone for missing their dearest ones. I feel for Isabella, I do. She has suffered such loss and is under immense pressure from all sides.
I don’t know how she has lasted up until now.
I don’t know how long she will last still.
I don’t know what becomes of the Oathseekers if she does not.
She is like a mother to us, but I’m not sure if we’ve been good enough children.
Isabella is dead.
Tormod is dead.
Dreams are dead.
We were fools to think we could change a cesspit like Ephia's Well. Everybody's out for themselves. Everybody's full of shit. Sol Auk wasn't any exception to the rule, he was the rule.
Monsters without and monsters within, like sister says. The ones without are just honest, not double-faced demons. That's the difference.
This town doesn't deserve her. Neither did it deserve Isabella. They're too good for this world.
So why did we come back?
Are we searching again for diamonds in the dung?
She has abandoned me. She, too. She, of all people.
I couldn't keep her aloft, not when she herself no longer wanted it. She let go of my hand. She preferred to sink to the depths of her own darkness rather than keep struggling by my side.
Why? Why, sister? Why would you choose that?
Because it is a choice, it always is, no matter what. Don't give me that crap about tiredness. We all have our inner demons, but you never have to surrender to them. Not when you aren't alone.
You weren't alone. You had me. So why? Why did you give up?
Only one explanation.
I wasn't enough for you. All those words... they were just words. You probably never really considered me your sister, did you? I wonder if you even knew what it really meant.
I should've known better. There aren't relationships like that in this world. Or if there are, sooner or later they are cruelly taken away from you. Like Saida was taken from me. She was a sister to me, Shamsa. She never let me down of her own choice. Not like you did.
So wallow in your misery, then. Be pitiful, be pathetic, curl up and hide from the world. I don't care. I survive, like I always do. That's the one thing I know how to do.
I will live, I will thrive, and if it means accepting that I will only ever have my shadow by my side, so be it. There is solace in knowing at least that.
So hello there, shadow. What shall we do tonight?
This politics stuff isn't so bad after all. Lucrative, if you play your cards right – with minimal risk. I suppose I can be pretty satisfied with how everything turned out.
The best part is that I never lied to anybody.
I could've done better, though. Need to begin making rounds earlier. Need to develop my negotiation skills... not my strong point, really. I used to negotiate mostly with my swords.
Do you see, sister Shamsa? I'm thriving. I'm stronger than ever before. You made me too reliant on you. You made me weak.
I have better allies now.
Pointy-ears.
I hadn't heard that one in a while, surprisingly enough. Still gets under my skin for some reason. You'd think I'd gotten used to that already, in Athkatla... but I suppose it never stops feeling offensive when someone, with two little words, spits on you for what you are, what you have been and will always be.
There are more elves here than in Athkatla, certainly. But when you consider what some of the more prominent Awoken ones are or were like...
There's Sephidra and Naelin, with their noses turned up and tongues talking shit behind other people's backs.
There was Kythaela – dead now, good riddance – who by all accounts was a typical Banda bandit. She probably never even deigned to look at me.
And then there was Mythanar, who must've had the most oversized ego of any elf I've ever met. Except for Velan Volandis, maybe? No, Velan loses there too.
Such wonderful "cousins" I have been blessed with even here, in the middle of nowhere. Apologies, Ephia's Well, my apologies. I'm vividly reminded of the sun elves I had the displeasure of meeting in Athkatla. The wrinkled noses, the disdainful looks. All I can say is, the feeling was mutual.
But elves from Spring's Gift? They seem different.
I still don't know what to think of them – the story of their provenance sounds too incredible... but at least they seem nice. Narwen is nice, and the ones I talked with in Spring's Gift seemed agreeable enough too. A little suspicious of outsiders, perhaps, but that's understandable. Maybe they're the reason I don't encounter more prejudice in Ephia's Well.
I wouldn't blame Narwen, though, if she stopped being nice to me now. How could I be so careless?
But I was curious! Is curiosity a fault? There are so many secrets in this town, I just can't help myself sometimes... I don't think I need to feel bad for that...
But I really do need to up my game. Yeah, that's what I need to do.
Lost five hundred dinari playing against that thrice-damned dealer at Glaziers'. Five fucking hundred! That little cunt!! He cheats, I bloody know he does! I know that game, though by a different name, and I'm good at it! I never lost that much back in Athkatla, I think? I mean, at once? And I had some pretty good lucky streaks too.
May he burn in the Nine Hells, that son of a stinking goblin. What a stupid game anyway. I'm never playing it again.
Nicked a few things from the charity chest and sold at the souk. Cut some idiot worminger's purse. Hunted a few worms myself too, although gods, it's humiliating. That all put together, around two-hundred maybe? Some way to go, still, before I've covered my losses. Bloody hells. Killing those meleks helped me recover some of my self-esteem.
Chatting with Gale helped, too, I suppose... he's not bad, for a pirate... a little like Karim. Cocksure of himself and his skills, boasting all the time, but I guess that's part of the role...
I don't know, I was pretty high on that mizzar stuff when we talked, though. What did he say? He tried really hard to flatter me, didn't he? Yeah. Well, it feels good too, in another way. I'm not without my vanities.
Darn good stuff, that mizzar. Why didn't I try it before? I should go to Elossi's again, soon...
By the gods, that outfit I found at the souk is just absolutely fabulous...! Who'd believe it's just enchanted linen! So beautiful, and yet so comfortable and practical... perfect for any adventurer, really, but even more perfect for my slowly but surely growing wardrobe.
That snakeskin pattern might draw some disapproving looks from the most zealous lizard-haters, but honestly, who cares. Anybody with half an eye for beauty will forgive me immediately. The rest can go on looking and smelling like orcs.
I'm in love with the colours too. Black never gets old, sure, and I'll keep my old leathers, but they're a little conspicuous sometimes. Not to mention hot during the day outside the Shade...
When I wear this and draw my blades and coat them with venom, I'm pretty much like a snake myself, am I not? Such beautiful creatures they are. I'm told the pattern is that of a desert asp, so... Soliana the Desert Asp...? How's that sound?
Maybe I'll ask Gale. About that too. At Elossi's.
He's dead.
He's dead.
Why does this keep happening to me? Why can't the people around me stay alive a little longer? The careless idiots! Is it so bloody difficult?!
Silly girl. You've learned this lesson already, haven't you?
Maybe I haven't? Keep that wall still, won't you, while I bash my head against it?
Why do you care anyway? Did he mean something to you, Sol?
Yes? No. I don't know. He was kind to me, but... no, not really. He could have.
He could have. He didn't.
Yes. And he shouldn't have, right? Because I've managed to learn at least something. They have made me wiser. They have taught me the uncertainty of everything. What's the word? Transitory. Everything is transitory.
Trust nothing and no one, Sol. Depend on no one. What remains is real.
I know... I know. Nothing, no one. It's just hard to really absorb that... I have to harden myself more.
Yes.
So what now?
There is no 'what now'. There is only 'now'.
Mizzar.
Yes.
Wine.
Yes.
And then I'll go kill a few things.
Yes.
Another election, another legate. Boops deserved to win, but that isn't saying much. Her campaign didn't have enough money. I suppose she trusted in her fancy plans to do the trick, trusted people to actually care about her brain and commitment. How naive.
Dumball seems idealistic too, very much so. But I observed two main differences between him and Boops. One: his supporters had money and offered it; hers didn't. Money talks, bullshit walks. Two: he's a foul-mouthed jerk; she isn't. Yet, at least. Politics seems to reward creative dung-slinging.
Such high hopes they have for this new legate, the fools. It's going to be entertaining, watching their disappointment. Watching their dreams turn to ashes by the lure of money, power, and respect. It's only a matter of time.
But I won't be there to whisper in their ear, I told you so. That would be pointless. I'll be there if I can, yes, but I'll be whispering something else... turning that disillusionment into faith in nothing. Faith in now. Faith in what you sense, what you feel, the craving and the satisfaction... the immanent. The only kind of faith that will never be let down.
They will be pleased. Such is the irony of idealism. It provides a never-ending supply of disillusioned converts to my new liege. I should know, I'm one of them.
It occurs to me that I've all but forgotten Erevan by now... how fitting. He forgot me; I get to return the favour.
Drug-dealing is hard work, I'll say. Yeah. Not at all what it's made out t High setup costs, low margins, and even then, a cut goes to the Powers That Be. I won't get rich this way. But then, I also won't get arrested, because with a couple of pricey licenses it's perfectly legal in the Well. I'm a Proper Respectable Businesswoman now.
The best customers are the craziest ones. Like that Gaskar fellow. He'd probably eat the stars from the sky if they were given to him. Actually, I think he said so. Without the 'probably'.
I had to try some of that dirt to know what I'm selling, of course. It doesn't look like much but damn! Feels good! Invigorating! I felt like... I don't know... immortal? For a few minutes. Would I chomp some in a pinch? Oh yes, definitely. Would I use it for recreation? No, I'll leave that to the gaskars. Me, I'll stick to mizzar. Mizzar, my true love...
Maybe if I get really bored someday? Doesn't seem likely for the foreseeable future.
Praise Them Between Stars!
So what kind of men do you like?
A simple enough question, wasn't it? I wonder if he honestly expected a simple answer, too. So many things came to my mind then. But none that I could say out loud.
Why? Because I can't appear weak. In my trade you can't afford to, especially as a woman – it'd be suicide. Surely he must see that? He has the privilege of doing that without anybody walking over him. He can open up about all that emotion stuff and wax lyrical and it'll just add to his bardiness. Go him.
It does make me envious, of course. When did I last get to chat freely about such things without fear of how I'd be perceived? When, and with whom? I don't even remember. I might have been able to with Shamsa, before... everything. But that's in the past now.
I could've mentioned a few superficial things, but then I would've appeared superficial, and oddly enough, I didn't want that either. Apparently I care a little about what he thinks of me?
What I really would've wanted to say was
As if any of that matters. I don't have the luxury of thinking about this shit. Why did I even begin to write this?