Марк Энтони - Crypt of the Shadowking

Caledan and Mari sat at one of the inn’s freshly scrubbed wooden tables. Between them rested a small package which had been delivered earlier along with a sealed parchment scroll.

Mari deftly broke the wax seal and unrolled the scroll. Caledan watched her face carefully as she scanned the words on the page. Her hair glowed with a deep, rich hue in the sunlight streaming through the door, and blooms of color touched her cheeks. In the weeks since they had fled from the destruction of the crypt, she had already regained much of her strength.

“It’s a missive from the Harpers,” Mari said, rolling up the parchment. “From Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall.”

“And?”

“ And this is for you,” she said, pushing the package toward Caledan.

He looked at her questioningly. Her smile was mysterious. He sighed, swallowed hard, and undid the leather ties that bound the small parcel. He upended the pouch over his hand. A small, silvery object slipped out.

It was a pin, wrought in the shape of a crescent moon encircling a harp.

“Congratulations, Harper,” Mari said.

Caledan stared at the pin in amazement. At most he had expected a word of thanks from Thantarth for helping Mari complete her mission. But this he had most definitely not expected.

“Here. You wear it,” Mari said wryly, when it was clear all Caledan was going to do was stare at the pin. She carefully fastened the symbol of the Harpers to the shoulder of his new slate blue tunic. The pin glimmered brightly in the sunlight, a twin to the one that adorned Mari’s forest green jacket. Caledan laughed and took Mari in his arms. The two embraced for a length of time that might have seemed improper were they not alone.

Suddenly the sunlight that spilled through the doorway darkened. Caledan looked up in surprise to see a hulking shadow standing in the open door. The shadow took a step forward.

“Tyveris!” Caledan exclaimed. “It’s about time you came by for a visit.”

The big loremaster smiled, pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles up on his nose. “Things have been busy at the city lord’s tower,” Tyveris said, joining the two at the table. He sighed ruefully. “ Really busy.”

Caledan laughed. Tyveris was working as an advisor to City Lord Bron, helping to plan the restoration of Iriaebor. It was a position Tyveris had taken reluctantly. After leading the victorious battle in the dungeons, the big loremaster had become nothing less than a hero in the city. The day following the battle the citizens had called for Tyveris to enter the High Tower as city lord. It was a job he did not want. He was a priest, and perhaps even a bit of a warrior still, but he was most certainly not a bureaucrat.

Luckily for Tyveris the old city lord, Bron, was discovered that same morning locked in a small, hidden chamber in the dungeons beneath the tower. Though pale from lack of sunlight and weak from over a year of confinement, Bron was still a man of considerable presence, and the cityfolk were overjoyed to see him alive and well.

However, despite Bron’s reappearance, a significant number of citizens still called for Tyveris to take up rule. It was Bron who had proposed Tyveris accept a position as his advisor, and the loremaster, realizing he had little choice in the matter, had agreed. Everyone in the city was thereby made happy—except Tyveris, but apparently he did not count

“You’re looking almost respectable today, Caledan,” Tyveris remarked, eyeing Caledan curiously. Caledan had finally traded in his worn black leather traveling gear for newer, less unsavory attire, and he had even taken to shaving regularly. However, much to Mari’s chagrin, he still hadn’t given up his road-worn, faded blue traveling cloak. He had to draw a line somewhere . “Nice pin, too,” the big monk noticed.

“Thanks,” Caledan said, almost surprised at the pride in his own voice.

“I thought you might like to know that the last of the Zhentarim from the dungeon have been sent in a caravan to Darkhold,” Tyveris told them.

“I’m still not certain that was such a good idea,” Caledan remarked with a frown. “Why give the Zhents their own warriors back? We may have to fight them again someday.”

“Bron didn’t want them filling up the dungeon indefinitely,” Tyveris explained. “They’re a rather dangerous bunch to have hanging around, and, what’s more, they eat a lot. Besides, Caledan, I think you know how the Zhentarim treat those of their number who fail them.” He drew a finger meaningfully across his neck.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Caledan admitted.

Jolle came into the common room after a time and joined them, and not long after Estah returned from the market. Pog and Nog squealed in delight at the sight of the big Tabaxi Chultan and immediately scrambled to their favorite perches atop his massive shoulders. Kellen sat quietly at the table, though he did flash a brief smile at Caledan and Mari. Caledan reached out and tousled the boy’s dark hair.

My son, he thought, as he did numerous times each day. Kellen was still a very serious child. Caledan supposed he always would be. Yet somehow being raised by Ravendas had not left as great a scar on Kellen as Caledan would have imagined. The boy had about him an air of gentleness that made folk forget the odd things he sometimes said.

He looks like Kera, Caledan suddenly realized. The resemblance was clear, in the line of his jaw and the fine shape of his nose. Indeed, he looked far more like Kera than he did his mother, Ravendas.

Tyveris stayed for supper, and for a time the common room was filled with laughter. Their mood saddened only once, when they drank a toast to Ferret, but even then they couldn’t help but smile at the recollection of the thief. “Would that there were as many men in the world as full of greed as Ferret,” Caledan said as he lifted his mug. Everyone knew exactly what he meant.

Finally the shadows began to lengthen outside the inn, and Tyveris bid them all farewell, promising to return soon. He stepped outside into the gathering twilight.

“There’s something I need to do,” Caledan said then. “Something I’ve been meaning to do for a while.” He stood and threw his multi-patched cloak over his shoulders against the cool onset of night. Estah, her eyes sparkling, nodded in approval.

“Come back soon, Father,” Kellen said, holding Caledan’s hand tightly for a moment before running off to entertain Pog and Nog.

“Yes, come back soon,” Mari said softly. She stood on her toes and kissed him fleetingly.

“I will, Harper,” he said gruffly. “I promise.”

Caledan retrieved Mista from the inn’s stable. The pale gray mare tried to nip his shoulder as he saddled her. Apparently she felt she had been neglected of late.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Caledan said in mild annoyance. “I’ve been rather busy, you know.”

Mista snorted. Apparently she cared little for excuses. However, despite her surly mood, she allowed Caledan to mount, and soon the two were making their way through the streets of the Old City.

Iriaebor was a much different place than it had been when Caledan had first ridden across the bridge that gray, rainy day in late winter. Free of the oppression of Ravendas and the Zhentarim, the cityfolk had set to the task of restoring their city. Streets had been swept clean, buildings repaired and painted, wells dredged so the water ran clear, and stains scoured from the city’s stone walls.

Of course there were some wounds that would take longer to heal. Willowy saplings now grew in gardens where ancient oaks and ash trees had once stood, before they were hacked down and burned by the Zhentarim. But scars such as these only served to remind cityfolk how much their homes meant to them and how valuable their freedom really was.