“How fares yer father?” Garavin asked, speaking for the first time. He nodded at Meisha. “And what have we here?”
“Garavin Fallstone, meet Meisha Saira,” Kall said. “She just tried to kill me.”
“Probably won’t be the last time,” Morgan predicted.
The Harper remained silent, her eyes darting among the new arrivals. Kall went down on one knee next to the druid, who was examining his father. “Can you break the enchantment?” he asked, addressing both Cesira and the dwarf.
Cesira shook her head. There’s magic about him, but whatever the source, it’s long spent. The marks it left on him can’t be erased with more magic.
Garavin nodded agreement. “Take him back with us. We’ll make him comfortable, and ye can stay with him, Kall.”
Kall wiped the fever sweat from his father’s brow. “No. I can’t be there when he wakes up. Seeing me put him in this state. He believed I was trying to kill him.”
You can’t mean to leave him here, said Cesira. You’ve been waiting three years to save him.
“Balram’s gone,” said Kall. “My father is no longer in danger from him. He’ll be as safe here as anywhere else.”
“And yerself? What will ye do?” asked Garavin.
Lost in thought, Kall stared down at his father’s face. He remembered the violence in Dhairr’s eyes during their sword fight. “I’ll go back with you,” he decided. “Gods willing, when my father wakes up, he won’t remember any of this. He’ll go on as before, when I wasn’t here.”
“How?” asked Laerin. He took in the damaged fountain, and the garden showing further signs of neglect. “The house mirrors your father’s condition. “How long will Morel be able to survive lying vulnerable among the merchants of Amn?”
“Longer than he will if I remain,” Kall said. “I’ll come back after, to salvage what I can.”
“After?” Morgan asked, but surprisingly, it was Meisha who answered.
“After he dies,” she said quietly, wincing when Morgan tightened his grip on the stiletto.
Kall nodded. “When that happens, all that is Morel will pass to me. I can rebuild from its ashes.” He regarded Meisha warily. “But only if I know my father will not go prematurely to the grave. Will your death be my only guarantee of that, Meisha Saira?”
“If the lass tracked down your father, she might be able to aid ye in tracking Balram,” said Garavin. “Might be a shame to be killing her.”
But can she he trusted? Cesira asked.
“I can speak for myself,” said Meisha sharply. She stared at Garavin, at the symbol around his neck. Kall couldn’t imagine how, with a blade at the back of her neck and enemies boxing her in, she could focus on the object so completely.
“If I help you, you’ll see that Balram pays for his crime?” Meisha asked, her eyes finally moving from the pendant to Kall’s face.
“Whether you help or not, Balram will die by my hand,” said Kall. “I promise you.”
“Then Dhairr Morel is safe from me,” said Meisha. “You have my word.”
“We’ll be watching to see you hold to it,” said Morgan. He took his blade from the back of her neck.
Dhairr stirred, murmuring in his sleep. Kall backed away. “It’s time to go,” he said, but he lingered in the garden with his father until the others had gone. He put his father’s dull blade next to him by the fountain, so he would find it when he woke.
“Forgive me,” he whispered as Dhairr twitched in the throes of some agitated dream. “I failed you, but I won’t fail our family. I’ll come back. I’ll restore everything Balram took away and send him to the Nine Hells for what he did to you.”
“My son,” his father murmured. Kall froze, but Dhairr’s eyes remained shut. His struggles slowed, and he slept on, peacefully.
Kall turned away, and saw Cesira silhouetted in the doorway to the garden. She said nothing when he moved to join her, and neither looked back as they walked from the house.
Tossing in feverish dreams, Meisha curled unconsciously closer to her campfire. She needed the warmth. She was back in the cold, back in the Delve. Was it calling the fire that had triggered the dream? No, Kall’s friend, the dwarf, had done it.
The dream always started the same way—as memory. She could recall every detail with perfect clarity.
The child Meisha huddled in a sullen ball on the floor of the cavern. She stared into the firepit, feeling only a vague sense of unease she could not explain. She’d felt it ever since Varan had brought her to the Delve. It had been three days, but she already felt she’d spent a lifetime out of the sun.
“Are you so determined to be angry with me?”
Varan’s voice echoed from the tunnel, but Meisha did not turn to face her teacher. Flames beat down on her shaved skull; heat from the fire made the mud covering her chest crack and crumble. The heat reminded her of highsun in Keczulla, during the markets. The mud had protected her skin from the burning sun, but she didn’t need it now—in the dark. She missed Amn, missed the smell and color of the crowds. The Delve seemed unnaturally quiet. Varan preferred it that way.
“Do you imagine, in all Faerûn, you are the only child ever to have been deprived of something—a home, loved ones, a dream?”
Varan sat across the pit from her, his robes pillowed beneath him on the cold cavern floor. Their hem still dripped wet from the water whip spell she’d used on him. “Though you’ve been blessed with none of those things, Meisha, you have a great gift slumbering within you. I am offering you a home—food and shelter, education, and power. What child would deny such a dream?”
Meisha met his eyes across the pit. Flames surged up between them, the fire reaching the ceiling. Varan never flinched, though the girl swore his beard was singed.
When the fire shrank away, the wizard sighed. “Very well, I concede the battle. Jonal will study water. Fire shall be your element. I cannot deny that flames match your nature. Fire’s inherent power will help you survive, until you embrace it for the right reasons.”
“What reason is there for hurling flame, except to kill things?” The little girl sneered.
“When you’ve completed your studies, you will have the answer to that question,” said Varan.
“And when I’ve finished, you’ll let me go?” Meisha asked, watching him closely.
“Of course. You are not a prisoner here. The apprentices walk around as they please. You may do the same, but there are rules,” he cautioned her. “You’re not a Wraith anymore. You will wash the mud from your body and let your hair grow in, though perhaps you’ll wear it short”—he rubbed his bearded chin as he regarded her—“to keep it from being singed. Yes, I think that will do. The Delve is my home as well as my fortress, and the caverns are secure, within the confines I’ve mapped. For your own safety, I ask you not to venture past my wards into the outer caves.”
“What’s out there?”
“Things you’re not ready to see, little firebird,” he said.
Meisha bristled at the childish nickname. “I can take care of myself.” She looked away and caught movement from the mouth of one of the tunnels.
A small figure stood watching them—a dwarf in dented plate armor holding a large battle-axe. The handle of the weapon was broken, rendering it useless, but the dwarf clutched the remaining piece as if his life depended upon it.
“Varan—” but as soon as Meisha spoke, the dwarf vanished.
Varan smiled. “Did you see something?”