Over the mastiff's shoulder, he could see the satyr grinning cruelly, arrows still embedded in its back. It walked calmly past the unconscious Elisandrya at the base of the column to stand over the aasimar, pinned beneath the dead weight of the mastiff. Quinsareth watched dully as the satyr drew back the string of the black longbow and stared into his eyes down the arrow's shaft. Nauseated, the aasimar contemplated the creature's bright blue, almost human eyes, and would have laughed had he the strength for such cynicism. Those blue eyes widened in surprise, though, as the satyr's bow arm went limp and he hissed a scream. The satyr turned and Quin saw Elisandrya gripping the bloodied arrow jutting from the fiend's wing joint. She yelled viciously as she plunged her curved blade through its chest.

The satyr gazed at her in shock and fell to his knees, slumping back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling above. Eli staggered over to Quin to shove the mastiff's body from his torso, but he was already slipping away, unconscious, lost in the bittersweet memory of a child's game.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The storm churned in the sky, growing wilder and more concentrated over the rune-covered tower. Those below ignored its fits and rages, oblivious to its lightning and waves of rain. Talmen and his followers carried out the commands of Morgynn in the name of Gargauth. The wizards and priests continued their labors, transforming the tower into the focal point of the tempest, while Morgynn retired above, as close to that chaos as possible. Resting her head on her crossed arms on a cushioned divan, she was warmed by the dying embers of a brazier close by. She had brought with her across the Lake of Steam many of the luxuries she'd found in Innarlith. Apart from these amenities, the chamber remained unchanged, surprisingly intact and structurally sound despite the many years since it had last hosted guests. The bones of Jhareat's combatants lay unmoved save for those that had cluttered the center of the room. Those had simply been shoved aside, enlarging the piles that lined the walls. The chamber was unnaturally quiet-the sounds of the storm were allowed in only when Morgynn permitted. As she rested, only a comfortable breeze passed through her wards on the window. All was still except for a single dancing shadow that flitted across the floor and walls. The dagger spun in the air, diving and rising again. Each graceful move sliced another red line across Morgynn's lower back. She had been careless and angry in dispatching the hunters and chided herself for the brash attack. Her scars were nearly complete once more, cloaking her body in the Weave, which she wore more securely than clothing on her skin. Slowing its macabre work, the dagger inscribed one last rune like a signature, connecting the lines of the spell in a seamless knot of dormant power. It descended to rest between her shoulder blades. Morgynn sighed as she released the dagger from her will. The scent of cinnamon wafted from the cooling contents of the brazier, a spice she had grown fond of in Innarlith. Her eyelids fluttered as she stared at the tome in front of her, trying to put to memory those spells she would need in the coming days. Sleep came at unusually inopportune moments for her, stealing upon her waking mind and weary body after days of constant activity.

She loathed that sleep and the dreams she relived over and over again.

Stones marked the edges where walls had once stood, a perimeter of ruin identifying the grounds of a nameless fortress. The herds did not approach the site, instinct carrying them far away from the ancient scents of magic and death. The Nar tribes typically ignored such places, leaving them to outsiders and adventurers foolhardy enough to enter. In the center of the ruin, a great pit stared like a black eye at the winter sky. The Well of Goorgian seemed unfavored by light, whether from sun or torches. It held the darkness of its own past in an ebon iris that would not fade, even in death. Deep within, Morgynn traced loving hands across the inscriptions of Goorgian as the priests of the revived Order of Twilight excavated the tomes and secrets of their ancient progenitor. "Twilight comes to wake us," she whispered to herself. "Is it prophecy? Perhaps dogma?" The questions echoed in her mind, making her hungry to understand all of Goorgian's mysteries and madness. Hushed voices drew her attention to those behind her, laboring to shift a stone slab that had been carefully fitted in the wall. Letting it crash to the floor, they stared in wonder at the artifacts buried in the rectangular hole. Morgynn knew these priests considered all that they found to be relics of an ancient order, sacred and holy. She saw naught but the magic and power she might wield and learn. Her eyes fell on a small wooden box carved with profane and cavorting figures. A wooden bowl bearing the same designs, stained with ancient blood, and a dagger sheathed in a scabbard of human skin also drew her attention. Before she could even wonder what secrets these objects held, noises rang through the stones above, a deep pounding rumble as if an army passed overhead on the surface. She needed no spell of seeing to know what had come. Time had been against them, but Morgynn had never thought the day would come. It seemed shame and mercy had not stilled the spirit of her mother. Kaeless Sedras had arrived-with Lathander at her side and faith in her vengeful heart. Artifacts were abandoned and secrets were left to collect dust as the Gargauthans assembled to dispel the disturbance.

Morgynn calmly waited until the halls were cleared, collecting herself and her spells. Talmen walked ahead of her but far behind those more zealous to defend the pit with their lives. The battle was joined in the upper courtyard as the Gargauthans rose from the depths of Goorgian's Well to defend their sacred ground. Even the upper courtyard was far below the opening to the surface, such was the state of the ruin and the destructiveness of Goorgian's last moments. The Gargauthans acted quickly as the Sedras made their way down. Undead, controlled by the priests, slowed their enemies some, but the flames of dawn the Sedras brought with them reduced those shambling puppets to ashes. Morgynn's mother fought at the forefront, wildly swinging a heavy mace that burned with a divine light inside the cavern. Profane magic shriveled limbs and left tribesmen breathless and dying, fodder to be animated and sent back at their comrades. So, too, did the spells and prayers of the Sedras decimate those before them. All the while, between one kill and the next, Kaeless called her daughter's name, searching for the doomed girl she had brought into the world, determined to erase the stain of guilt she bore with each day Morgynn still breathed. Morgynn watched and listened from an alcove near the collapsed gate that led further into the ruined interior of the keep.

She had no intention of satisfying her mother's desire to confront her. She was no longer the young girl her mother had rescued from the savage Creel. She was a woman and would choose her battles. The conflict between the Gargauthans and the Lathanderians was of no consequence to her, so long as she survived their fervent clash. The priests of the banished archdevil had been helpful to her, but were by no means integral to her destiny. She would keep them so long as they were useful or leave their smoldering bodies to rot in the wake of her mother's rage. Yet something within her responded to Kaeless's demanding calls. Whether the rebellion of youth or the need to proclaim once and for all that she was not her mother's daughter, she felt compelled to answer. The need felt almost primal in its urging as she watched men die screaming and smoking under the bright weapon in her mother's hand. It would not be enough to destroy the righteous woman who'd birthed her. Kaeless needed to know, needed to understand.