Bitter Grey Ashes Chapter 3

I went home somewhat uncertain about the outcome of the whole affair. It felt very satisfying to be in control again, and the perspective of seeing the annoying little brat twitch and sneeze at my whim was appealing but, on the other hand, I was now bound to spend three days in her company. I decided to think about it later, and made haste as the sun was already setting over the sand dunes at the horizon.

To my great relief, the next morning came cool and windy as the last vestiges of the first seasonal storm made it from the seacoast without evaporating over the hot sands that stretched from the tip of Calim peninsula to the feet of the Marching Mountains. Even here, at the very northern edge of the great desert, the five endless months of summer drove both mind and body to the edge of exhaustion, and melted one's brains into a mass of quivering jelly. Hardly a state appropriate for studying magic. Heartened by the favorable weather I chewed on a piece of bread, gulped down my weak tea and went to find Chyil, who was up and about before sunrise as was his habit. He looked at me unhappily blinking at my request, then gave up with a sigh of resignation and beckoned me into his studio, where he dug out Lazarus' bag of scrolls and a fresh bottle of ink.

For a few moments I could hear his complaints, then everything but my work faded from consciousness, and became a background noise to the rustling of old parchment and scratching of my quill on the virgin white pages. As I sorted through the scrolls, I noticed to my confusion that unlike Lazarus's texts in the book of spells that were written in well worded clear Common, these consisted of strings of arcane symbols that bore no meaning to me. Row after row of strange pictograms, concentric rings, pierced with multi-headed arrows, roaring magical beasts, and even astrological symbols filled the crumpling yellowed sheets, and my head began to spin as my eyes looked in confusion at these forbidden treasures of the arcane. I would have despaired at the impossible task, cursing my fate that had cruelly stripped me of the knowledge needed to break the puzzle, when my eyes felt on one of the parchments marked with a sign of red eye. I now recognized some of Lazarus's private marks as he scattered them generously through his writings. That scroll also had a small lens of polished crystal cast in silvery metal attached to it by means of a leather string.

I grabbed it and brought it closer to my eyes. Immediately it began to glow, the symbols marching across the page like dutiful ants, forming row after row of glittering lines of text. Still, the full meaning of the spell only came to me when my hand snatched the crystal almost on its own volition. The scroll flashed bright and crumpled into fine dust, leaving me stunned and breathless, with a blissful idiotic smile of triumph playing on my face. It was my first serious breakthrough today, and only later did I realize the full importance of it. I've read and recovered to my memory the most basic of the arcane essentials - the Read Magic spell. I grabbed my quill and carefully recorded order and wording of the incantation, noticing to my further astonishment that my hand was writing in an affluent and elegant script of an unknown language. And yet, I knew it by heart as I was easily reading line after line of my own writing. I tried to write some nonsense on a piece of scrap paper. My hand drew 'Nae saian luume' and I blanched as I tore it into smaller and smaller pieces. It had been 'too long' indeed...

I was so shaken after this little incident that continuing work was out of question. I sanded the page generously from the jar Chyil kept on his desk (the refills were always handy), and sat there idly, thinking of life's futility and new selection of pains that surely awaited me tonight, then with a sudden yelp jumped to my feet - the sun was already at its highest point, and I was running late.

When I reached the familiar stone Mirriam was still there, fuming and bristling like a wild cat. Her thick braid was coiled around the fingers of her left hand, and her incredibly white teeth were biting in on it in impatience. She was wearing another flashy, embroidered vest, this time it was purple with pink trim. The girl gave me a look of mixed chagrin and disgust, but was somewhat pleased by my flushed countenance.

"Bloody ashes, elf-boy! Do you think I am your bound slave or a pet? The only reason I did not leave half an hour ago was because I wanted to tell you in your face what a miserable piece of refuse you actually are!"

"I am quite amazed at your consistency," I interrupted her mockingly. "Was I mistaken or you did call me names again?"

"And how am I supposed to call you when you are almost an hour late!" she almost spat in my face. "Who do you think you are? The Pasha himself? It is the first time ever that a boy had made me wait!"

"I imagine it is usually the other way around," I answered sardonically shrugging off her insults. "But since I am here on your request," (she almost choked), "What? Do you think you are doing me a favor? I can leave right now and send you back to your mother's house."

It was not a particularly hard session for after the morning exercise my mind was quick and my fingers moved almost automatically through familiar patterns. To give her some justice, Mirri was an excellent subject, as she was sensitive yet patient enough to withstand the long pauses between periods of activity, and even showed timid interest in workings of the spells. I took it with a grain of salt, of course, as I never believed that one of her kind would be intelligent enough to comprehend what I was doing. As a reward I performed some minor tricks, summoning a mouse for her to cuddle and than changing it into a small bat that she let go with a squeak of delight. Females are easily pleased with showy displays, yet I have to admit that her attention was flattering, and that the last thing I expected from our time together was a sense of familiarity, and even certain camaraderie that we shared by the end of that first meeting. As she sat there on a rock dangling her feet and relentlessly bubbling about every trivial thought that visited her pretty little head, I again experienced vertigo, and a strange memory flash.

I saw a face, pale and hungry, with eyes of dark indigo tinted with red, and a black mane of wild hair; plump scarlet lips pulled back to reveal sugar-white sharp canines and a flash of a smile as she, whoever she was, looked at me attentively over her shoulder. Who was that woman in my past? And why did my heart throb painfully at that memory, as if a cold hand squeezed it in a slow grip?

The girl was standing very close. Too close for my comfort. And her black eyes reflected genuine distress. I jerked upright as if hit in the face.

"I will survive. I have a slight headache - that is all. It is time for me to go."

I squirmed uncomfortably. "And please don't call me boy again! If you have to address me, you can at least use my name!"

Women. There are always complications with them. I knew it in my heart of hearts. Now she is going to invent an exciting story, and make me into some sort of dark romantic hero. The reality was so much smaller, and probably dirtier. Whoever I was - I had no past. No family, no relations, and no friends. If one did not count the notorious company of strangers who had abandoned me on Chyil's doorstep a few months back. He was always very careful when he talked about them, careful and more than a little nervous - as if he himself did not understand how he had gotten involved into this mess.

At first I had not pressed the old man for information simply because I had been so dazed and miserable that I could not care less. Now that I started to awaken, I developed my own theory, which I did not share with him given that he always mentioned those people with great deal of awe. I was almost sure I had been taken by them and left to die after they had drained me of all the information that they needed. That I had survived was their mistake. A mistake that would have dire consequences for them. Now that I had something valuable to my name again as my magic was returning at astonishing speed, I intended to use it to discover who I was, and perhaps to deal with whomever was responsible for my condition.

I went through the rest of Lazarus's package next morning after surviving another session of screaming nightmares. This time it was about crimson eyes in the night, and a marble pool that was slowly filled with blood of my dying body. I shrugged it off as another weird fantasy of my tortured brain. My work was a medicine that made me whole again after that misery. Studying mornings away became a habit, and I thought with some distress of what I was going to do tomorrow, when I would run out of new scrolls, then returned to my explorations. There was one more fundamental divination spell to learn, it was called Detect Magic, and granted ability to sense enchantments on unanimated objects, and two offensive spells that I copied with enthusiasm - a spell of Sleep and a spell of Magic Missile. Then it was time to go meet my exuberant disciple again.

She was resplendent in cherry-red silk that made me scowl. I wondered privately if she chose her vests according to some special pattern, or it was a random pick. Not that it mattered, since every one of them clashed violently with the color of its embroidery and made her look a bit like a walking fruit bowl.

"By Gods, aren't you cheery today, Jon-Jon!" were the first words out of her mouth.

"Thank you I am well," I replied sourly. "And since you are bound to invent something even more horrific if I ask you to drop that latest nick you've just invented, I forgive it too. I suppose I should be grateful I am not an elf-boy any more."

"I thought you'd like it!" Mirri beamed at me ignoring the hidden jibe. But the twinkle in her eyes was a bit too innocent to be genuine. So, the brat was more intelligent than she wanted me to believe. I decided to keep it in mind when dealing with her in the future, and doubled the workload I assigned for her today.

By the time we were done with all the cantrips she was sweating and cursing me with names far worse than her first piece of frivolity. We decided to take a well-deserved break and she sprawled on her belly at the very lip of the flat stone that overhang the trail, chewing on the bunch of grapes and spitting seeds on the heads of unsuspecting lizards that dwelt in the cracks of the sun-baked wall. I politely refused her offering to share the fruit and placed myself a few paces away, crossing my feet and easily slipping into a meditation stance, whilst wondering at the strange buoyancy of my body that remembered its poses better than my brain remembered who I was. I had a feeling I used to spent hours doing this particular exercise, since it provided a perfect position for relaxation.

But as soon as I tried to take a deep breath, and drift away from my companion's incessant string of trivial pronouncements, whereas pretending to listen to her blabber, we were interrupted. Since I was trying to concentrate on the ambient noises of the desert I was the first to hear the steps. The man (and somehow I was sure it was he) was walking lightly and lithely down the trail, without making any effort to conceal himself. In fact I had a distinct feeling that he was trying to make his approach as noisy as possible, for he was whistling a merry little tune, and talking to himself. Suddenly Mirri gave a little cry of surprise, and sat up from her sprawled position, smiling like a cheerful toad, and waving at whoever was approaching at his leisurely pace. I could not see him yet, as she was closer to the edge but I felt a little annoyed. I had no doubt it was her fiancée, who decided to make sure nothing 'inappropriate' was going on, and braced myself for a meeting with infamous Thunder (or Thick as he was known before Esamon's sudden disappearance).

But the face that showed grinning above our rocky perch was not Farheed's bearded countenance. It was young, good-humored and sported the same set of round eyes, pink lips, and a shock of wavy curls as that of my female companion. In fact, they looked so much alike I groaned in horror of sudden revelation. It was cruel, if extremely funny joke of Mother Nature. Mirriam was more than a handful, but now I had to deal with two sets of her!

"What are you doing here, you slimy newt!" Mirri greeted the newcomer enthusiastically. "Jon-Jon, say hello to my twin brother Kessen."

The boy hauled himself up the rock and stopped still, looking at me curiously with his head slightly cocked to one side, rather like a desert running cuckoo, or other quick and agile bird of that sort. I inclined my own head in a way of greeting but otherwise stayed silent letting him decide when to interrupt the uncomfortable silence that ensued. After all, he was the one who created the commotion by interrupting my work and I was not about to give him the advantage of speaking first. Kessen looked at me briefly and switched his mercurial laughing gaze to his sister.

"So, Mirri, you've been hiding here all along with your new eh … friend?" He sounded uncertain despite the advantage of his standing position, whereas I was still sitting comfortably with my back to the warm stone. I noted with satisfaction that I would be at least a head taller if I stood up.

"We were not hiding!" Mirri said anxiously, suddenly alert to the hidden meaning of this innocent assertion. "What gave you the idea? I told you he needed me to help him practice his magic."

"Well, I am not sure what kind of magic he was practicing on you," Kessen was definitely embarrassed, even though he could not stop himself from making this rather distasteful joke. "But Farheed summoned me this morning and asked to tell you privately that he is not happy about it. One of his goons has been following you around, and when he spotted you sneaking away with the elf a second time…"

I felt blood rising to my cheeks and laughed sharply. Kessen (who did not look me in the eye during this little scene) blinked and quickly lowered his gaze. He was a nice looking youth, a little taller than his sister, with a thin dark line of a first mustache gracing his upper lip in the local fashion. Their father was a Nelanther islander, and they had inherited his bolder, sharper looks and reddish hair. The tint was especially noticeable in the brother's shorter curls that were gathered into a ponytail with a pleated cord. The boy was wearing same practical brown leathers as most of the locals, but his belt was of a fine quality, adorned with delicate silverwork and an expensive knife-sheaf strung on the side.

"It looks like we have to interrupt our little exercise," I said quickly jumping to my feet, and making a show of dusting my clothes and gathering my belongings, which consisted of my notes, the book of spells and a water flask. I felt very tense but was doing my best to conceal my anger. "Good day to you both. Mirri, I believe your brother will safely deliver you to your home."

"But," she started in distress then stopped at my raised eyebrow. "Is it really done, Jon-Jon? You will give up the third meeting and forgive me?"

"I did not say so," I raised my chin stubbornly. It gave me strange pleasure to see her expressive face go through a whole spectrum of emotions. I watched her almost hungrily, wondering how one so young could have such intense feelings, and display them so openly. She flushed with embarrassment and some stronger, deeper disappointment; then an anger of humiliation by her brother's idiotic pun was added to the mix, and finally her distress at being forced to break her given word when she was almost out of the trap concluded the display. "I did not say I will forgo the third time," I repeated savoring every word and watching her reaction. This whole situation was her fault after all. "But since your brother says we cannot continue I think we should part our ways without finalizing the deal!"

"I did not say we cannot continue!" Mirri cried angrily. I watched unblinking, enjoying the agony of her indecision. She turned to him. "You've told me I have a year to consider Farheed's proposal, and that he only needed me to behave as if we were engaged so that he could convince father's old crew to support him!" she yelled in Kessen's face. "And now he is acting like he owns me!"

I stored the information in my memory, remembering the way she had flung that engagement in my face at our first meeting.

"But Mirri," the boy muttered backing away from her, and giving me a chagrined look, "you cannot mock Farheed so openly. He has a reputation to maintain. Nobody is forcing you to marry him. It is as we discussed it, remember? Within a year, either Father is going to be back, or Farheed will feel secure enough to break the engagement. And what came over you anyway? I thought you hated the elf."

"By the Gods!" she cried out tugging at her braid forcefully, then yelping at the self-induced jolt of pain. "Are you both set on driving me mad? I am not having an affair with him," (she blushed again, and I smiled at her embarrassment as she invited it), "and since I promised Ma I’d apologize, but Jon-Jon would not accept it, I had to agree to come here for three days! Can't you understand?"

"That is what you say now," the boy shook his head stubbornly, "but a few days ago you made me hold that sheep for you while you were …" he bit his tongue and looked at my coif.

I smiled acerbically. "Pray do continue. No need to stop on my behalf. I saw both of you on the roof, remember?"

"Jon," Mirri finally wailed with an expression of utter misery on her face. "I already said I was sorry! Why are you behaving like a…" she looked for a word "like a wicked child?"

"You promised never call me names again," I said in a neutral voice. The spectacle was entertaining but by now I was getting tired of this brazen display of emotions. Plus she had managed to score a point with that last insult. I was behaving childishly by allowing myself to enjoy this game too much. "I shall see you tomorrow, if you choose to come. Same place same time. After that you can consider yourself free of any obligations towards me." I nodded stiffly, and left them to settle their differences on their own.

My mood was gloomy and fretful as I walked down the trail back to what at the present moment was my only home. I was inviting unnecessary complications by agreeing to that last assignation. There was no need for it at all, since I had finished all I wanted to do with her today. I was being childish and unreasonable. But strangely enough, it felt good. Thus, I savored the satisfaction of my petty revenge, as she did just a few days back.

I was restless that night, and at first my nightmares blended into an incomprehensible blur of short broken sequences. Finally, the instruments of torture and the metal cages faded away, and I found myself walking down a rope bridge suspended amongst the branches of tall, magnificent trees, towering two to three hundred feet above the distant green of the forest floor. Around me lay a city built of living wood; its delicate webs of ropewalks, suspension bridges, and balconies railed with gilded metalwork looked more like rainbow light crystallized into solid matter than a labor of mortal hands. I had never imagined such a sight possible. It was breathtaking, yet in the dream I did not pay much attention to my surroundings except to notice that many of the tree trunks and bridges were blackened and scorched with recent fire. Tears stung my cheeks at the sight of this sacrilege and my heart was heavy with sorrow as I reached the spacious treehouse at the end of my path. I opened the door, fervently wishing that I did not have to go inside, then braced myself and walked in.

Lady Nyonin is dying. She lies in her chamber day after day, and her once tall and slender frame now looks like a shrunken carcass of a mummy. Her hands are terribly thin, covered in loose layers of yellow skin and her haughty, beautiful profile is sharp and fragile against the white satin of her pillow. She is not eating and barely taking any water, even though I bring her favorite foods and the Queen had sent her best healers to the bedside of the elderly elven woman. I am not certain if Ellesime still considers Nyonin her responsibility or it is one of the futile gestures of grandeur dictated by her royal blood. The Queen's authority was badly shaken on that fateful day, when the sky was raining fire and tears ran like water through the streets of a crumbling city. Afterwards they wanted Ellesime gone; there were even rumors of her resignation. Too many had died that day, and yet the old woman survived. I wonder if she herself realizes how unlucky she was.

"Ryndeth, are you still here?" her voice is bright and fragile like fall of an icicle.

"Yes, Mother." She is not my mother, and the bond that was forged between us by my love for the one she borne in her womb was severed on the day that my heart was turned to ashes. But I will not tell her this, since it would not mean anything.

I stay silent. There is nothing I can say that would bring relief to either one of us. She knows it herself.

"It should not be happening like this," her whisper is like a rustle of dried leaves in my ears, yet it fills the chamber with the intensity of a magic incantation. I wonder if she is using her inborn talent of compulsion. "I want to see my children before I pass, Ryndeth." The old woman is drawing on my name as if it gives her power over me, and I shiver unable to break her spell.

"Your daughter is dead, Nyonin, as well as my unborn child." Yave had bled to death in my embrace as the Tree burst into flames, and I still remember how she quivered as the warmth of life trickled out of her cooling body.

"I am not speaking of Yave," the old woman's face turns harsh and rigid as one of the idols in the Elder’s Grove. I know this look; it used to give me shivers when I only started courting her daughter. Lady Nyonin Ithilnien, the head of the ancient Moon elf family, the Elder of Mistwinter clan. She is the last of them now, since her grandson was stillborn, and her two remaining children are not likely to survive her. Nyonin did not approve of me at first. Their lineage and her son's elevated position made my humble roots undesirable even for the youngest of her offspring. Yet at the end she accepted me with the usual tolerance of her people that made me feel even more rustic and uncouth.

"Who are you to tell me this lie, young one?" Nyonin's hand grips mine with frightening strength. "Come closer, Ryndeth. I know you hate my son, perhaps rightfully so. Forgive me - I have no time for your pain. My wounds are equally deep, this sickness is eating at my soul, and as I waste away so does my connection to Arvanaith."

"You've brought it upon yourself, Nyonin," the words are out of my mouth before I can close it shut. "You should not have lingered here when your time had come."

"There is no need to remind me of this." Her eyes are steel grey in the deep shadows of her eye sockets, but her face looks like that of a corpse long dead.

When the weave of the city's mythal anchored to the Tree of Life was unraveled the lifeforce of the Tree that sustained its weaker inhabitants was siphoned to feed the dream of the one who believed himself to be a living god. The lives of the sick and the elderly were sniffed out like candle flames, followed by that of pregnant women and smaller children. No newborns will be blessed before the statue of Angharradh this year or the next, the school and gymnasium will be silent as no small hands will open the doors of the empty classrooms. The city's heart is broken.

Nyonin should have died with all the others, and begun her last journey through the shadowed planes to Arvanaith, the blessed realm in the care of the Seldarine. Yet she had stayed behind, unwilling to tear herself away from the lives of her doomed children. Whatever dark ritual she had performed to delay her passage in that most desperate moment, it had sustained her through the agony of the Burning and the untying of the mythal. Now she is paying for it, as her lifeforce leaks out of her bringing about her True Death.

"I know what I did," she rasps through the dried crack of her withered mouth. "And I know why I did it. I have to see my son once again before I go."

"You know this will not be allowed, even if he regains consciousness," I bristle with sudden anger. "The Elders traveled all the way from Evermeet to heal him, so that he survives his trial. Your daughter sustained less damage, since she was on the ground holding back the Queen's guard with the help of her unnatural Goddess, yet she refused to see you."

The shock of finding out that her ambitious older daughter turned to worship Kiaransalee, the drow goddess of the undead, had been a lesser blow than the downfall of her glorious son. Still, the old woman's face freezes as the cruel and senseless words tumble out of my mouth.

Terrible pity seizes my heart as a single tear dribbles down her shrunken cheek. I drop to my knees at her bedside, hiding my face in her bedcovers.

"Please forgive me, Yaaraerea," I manage to say through the violent sobs that shake my entire body. "You are still Yave's mother. I should not speak to you like this, even if I wish both of your other children had never been born."

"You were always a weakling, Ryndeth," she whispers listlessly, while her yellow claw of a hand caresses my head. "Yet, Yave cherished you, for whatever reason. Perhaps I loved her less than she truly deserved - yet loved her I did, as she was my youngest, most fragile child. Bodhi was always the sly one, praying on other's weaknesses and worshipping the strength. Perhaps I was too forgiving of her ways but it does not matter anymore." She gasps violently and her whole body shudders from a sudden fit of dry coughing. "I…. I am afraid I will not last long enough to see him once more," She mutters, and her hand suddenly grasps at her breast, as if trying to remove some hidden object. "Swear to me on Yave's grave that you will honor my last wish, young one. I have nothing left to hold me on this Plane and I feel my soul being slowly drained into that deep dark vortex of oblivion."

I raise my head, shaken at her last words. It would never enter my mind to disregard the wish of the One dying the True Death, still my lips tremble as I repeat my oath after her.

"Good," she whispers in my ear, drawing me so close that her hot, acrid breath reaches my cheek. "Now take this," she squeezes a small object into my hand with both of hers. It is a very small pouch of black velvet, tied on a leather cord. "It is the Selu'kiira of the Mistwinter clan. Give it to my son. Do not try to wield it yourself for it will surely drive you mad. I had received it from my own grandfather, the last of the Mistwinter High Mages who had given his life defending Myth Drannor. I could not wear it since my magic never was strong enough, but all these years I waited and delayed my own departure to Evermeet to ensure that my son receives it when he comes of age. He is the only one who would be able to talk to it, though now it may never come to be. I cannot take it with me, and it should never be touched by anyone not of the family."

She turns away from me, waving me to go with a last listless gesture of her wasted hand.

"But you must surely understand that they would never let him live, left alone have this in his possession!" I cry in despair. "He is a criminal of a kind that was never born to the Tel'Quessir before. And even if they let him live I swear I shall take his rotten life in exchange for Yave's and my son." The old woman stays silent. "And what should I tell him if he survives, and I would be allowed to see him before his second death?"

I awoke abruptly and lay with my eyes opened wide, staring into the grey light of predawn. The dream explained nothing, yet left me even more devastated than my usual throng of horrors. I did not know these people. I would never see them in real life. They were nothing. It all meant nothing. But when the sunrise finally came, it felt as if it were a death sentence reversed.

Chyil was already making fire in a red clay fireplace when I entered the kitchen.

"You are up early today, Jon," he observed mildly without interrupting his task. "How was your night?"

I shrugged off the question. My scull was encased in the tight metal circle of throbbing headache, and the cold heavy lump in my chest did not feel like a living heart. It did not matter.

"I've noticed," he continued as he filled the old copper kettle with water and hanged it on the hook over the small fire, "that your dreams became worse lately. I expected as much."

"Why would you say so, old man?" I asked idly. Not that I cared much about his opinion on the matter, but his nagging persistence required some reaction.

"You have been as careless and arrogant as only you can be," the old priest observed simply. "And you did not listen when I tried to warn you. You succeeded in recovering some of your magic lore in a matter of few days. I thought you would punish yourself harsher for this little victory."

"I don't know, Jon" Chyil blinked at me unhappily, "you should ask yourself, I suppose. Most of the cases of amnesia that I know of were self-induced." He opened the cupboard pulling out the teacups and cutlery.

"And how many of these have you seen before?" I sneered at him skeptically, "one, maybe even two? Or did you have an epidemic of sudden memory losses here, in Amkethran?"

"Before I was sent to this humble place to build a new temple and spread the word of my spirited, beautiful Goddess, I had served in the Ilmateri temple in Calimport." Chyil answered with quiet pride.

"What? You have been a priest of Ilmater?" I looked at him amusedly. "That sure explains your proficiency in healing arts, but why? Why suddenly decide to appease a new deity? And the goddess of wealth and prosperity no less," I added sarcastically. "That was quite a change after the god of runaway slaves and dead beggars!"

"My mother used to say that two wrongs will not make one right, but three lefts may," Chyil answered with an apologetic smile. "After Waukeen's sudden disappearance in the Time of Troubles, there was a crisis of faith in her Church. Many of the weak-hearted had left, leaving it shattered and forlorn. After meeting one of the renegades and listening to his embittered words full of bile and venom, I prayed to the Crying God day and night, and received a revelation. I was to lend my support to the missing Goddess in her time of need."

"Bah - compassion on a divine level!" I chuckled humorlessly. "It is nice to know I shared your obliging generosity with a goddess, no less. Sorry for not being as imposing as your first charity case. An amnesiac like me is certainly no match for real divinity. Well, what are you going to do now that she is back in her full glory? Find another semi-divine sufferer to worship?"

"Your bitterness does not help the healing process," he noted matter-of-factly. "I think you should try to break this pattern of working yourself to half-oblivion, lashing out at the ones who are trying to help you, and then punishing yourself with more nightmares."

"This is really not of your business, old man," I snapped rising to my whole height. "And this idea of my dreams being caused by so-called self-punishment sounds ridiculous, if not outright senile! You have no proof it is my own doing. You know nothing of me, you know nothing of what I must do to regain my memories!"

"I may know next to nothing of your past," Chyil agreed suddenly, "but I can see enough of your present character to make a well-founded guess. You are bound on self-destruction. And I am not going to sit back and watch you damage yourself further after I've spent three months on pulling you step by slow step out of the pit of despair you had dug for yourself.”

"Do you think you should try to find the people who had brought you here and force the truth out of them?" He asked suddenly.

I recoiled at this sudden question - my first instinct was to deny everything, but then I thought better of it and nodded my confirmation.

"I imagine it is time I showed you something," Chyil said after a short pause, "it may not give you answers, but will certainly make you think. And I am sure you are very good at thinking. Yes, I hope I am doing the right thing by trying to engage your mind when I cannot touch your heart."

He put down the loaf of bread that he was slicing, and beckoned me to follow him into his quarters. The only piece of furniture in there that I had never seen opened before was a heavy metal-bound chest in the corner. I always assumed it was where he kept his cashbox and the temple archives. Indeed, when he opened it I noted a pile of old legers and a number of packages wrapped in a half-decayed cloth. But the thing he pulled out of the very bottom and spread on his bed for me to examine, was as alien in this dusty little room as a venomous snake or a sacrificial knife of some weird death-cult.

It was some sort of a garment intend to be worn as one-piece costume - a tangle of leather straps, strange pieces of armor, buckles of soft yellow metal, a gleam of occasional polished gem here, a swirl of a half-visible rune there. The whole thing looked like a garb designed by a maniac, who wanted to attend some macabre masquerade party in the insane Asylum.

Selu'kiira - The kiira (formally the telíkiira) are lore gems. Wearable only by elves, kiira are semisentient depositories of knowledge; whatever is known to a wearer of a kiira is recorded into the gem and can become known by future gem-bearers accessing those memories. The magic of a gem attaches it physically to the forehead of a new wearer and psychically to the wearerís mind. Ostensibly, these gems are created for a noble House lord to pass on his knowledge, clan history, and power. A major version of these gems are the SeluíKiira, the High Lore Gems. Made exclusively from rainbow tourmalines, these long, faceted, sparkling crystals are larger and more ornate than standard telíkiira. These gems also tell tales of their power and knowledge by their color shifts; with each bearer, the gems absorb the long centuries of discipline of each, and the cumulative years of experience darken the gems. The seluíkiira begin life in hues of blue, then age to green and later to black, then brown, and orange. After a seluíkiira contains more than 3,000 years of stored knowledge, it brightens to a blistering red, its final and most powerful state. These gems hold not only many centuries of knowledge about magic, but they hold the secrets of High Magic. (elv)

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