Svetlana Tells All

Battered and weary beyond measure, Cassandra yet stood firm against the possible threat of this woman. How could she not be wary, when the witch presented herself so--in the full garb of the Wychlaran, resplendent in her gossamer robes, her ivory mask with its vibrant feathers. Pretty, perhaps, but meant to convey the majesty and power of an ancient order of practitioners every bit as terrible as the Red Wizards of old. She, for one, was not fooled by appearances.

And yet, when the witch removed her mask, she could sense a certain sadness, an honest contrition, a need to bare her soul and seek redress of old grievances. This was a face Cassandra had seen many times, as her ears were no stranger to confessions. Never had anyone been able to conceal the weight of their sins from her divine senses; would the vaunted masks of the Wychlaran be equal to the task? She had to wonder.

Still, some of the agents sent by the lords and ladies back in Lyrabar had vouched for her. Did that mean anything? She knew none of them personally, and few enough even by reputation. The wrestling champion from Chessenta, Desdemona, seemed to be a close confidant of Tchazzar, and had some sort of connection to the Threskan King Plataeus. She was apparently an ace bounty hunter as well, with a fearsome reputation. Was this a woman to be trusted? Cassandra saw no particularly weighty sins upon her, yet she sensed a mantle of terrible power, an odor of foulest magic that she dared not turn her back upon.

The emissary from Mulhorand was pure, at least. Literally the purest man she'd ever laid eyes on...and apparently his gods rewarded that purity with utter perfection of form. Some part of her cursed their backwards ways that a man such as he should be a eunuch, but then, it seemed quite likely that was part and parcel to his purity. He was a holy man, to be sure, but...could she trust the holiness of strange gods? The Mulhorandi were stranger by far than even the gods of elves, dwarves, and other inhumans. There was an ineffeable alienness about them, at least in their dogma and ethos, but in the flesh, she couldn't deny that Balthazar's aura was nothing but benevolent and pure. Still, he served the Pharaoh, and she was an enigma Cassandra hadn't begun to crack. He may just cast it all aside on her mere word. She could not but think of him as the sword, and the Pharaoh as the hand.

And the elf from Myth Drannor, this Raithen Nightsong. The burden of his guilt ought to have weighed him down ten times over, if only his broad shoulders weren't so inhumanly strong. She sensed his mantle of power--quieted, buried deep, but so fearsome in scope she could almost smell it. It was a beastly thing, a raw, primal power, that spoke to something deep within her, something that betrayed her better self. He was undeniably attractive; where the Mulhorandi was statuesque and artistically perfect, the elf was somehow more...realistic. He spoke not to her higher aesthetic sense, but to something more animalistic. It wasn't so much his appearance as his manner of movement, the timbre of his voice, the promise of his energy like a wolf's howl at night--

Well, that line of thought isn't going anywhere. He's got a mantle of dark power. Check. A lifetime of sins both minor and significant. Check. Guilt enough to hound his dreams, yet not quite enough to give up his vices. Check. Trust? Not gonna happen.

So who, then, should she believe? They conjured images of their companions, which was perhaps ever so slightly better than knowing that some uncounted number of others were watching their conversation, silently judging, ascertaining, and making plans. She had to assume that others, still, unwilling to show their faces, were yet present, and the secrecy of this organization was beginning to annoy her. She'd just been through literal hell, battling hordes of demons, only after slogging through deepest dungeons, beheading dragons, and gods knew what else in the undercroft of Earthfast, and now this? No, no, this was hardly an atypical test of her patience; she'd had worse in her knight's training, let alone her career. The witch had potentially vital information, and she would at least hear her out. With any luck, it wouldn't come to blows.

The witch stood, mask in hand, ready to speak. But even so, there was preamble. She chanted with the others of her order, producing a fairly impressive magical warding to block out any unsavory eavesdroppers that might well be watching. Assuming their magic was solid, Cassandra could breathe just a bit easier; she didn't want that drow to know where they'd gone, as she was all but certain she couldn't do a thing to stop him if he pursued them.

"It is done," the witch breathed, and her voice echoed oddly against the walls of the privacy spell, like it might in a small room with metal walls. "Let this conclave be called," she chanted, and the others repeated like a rote prayer, well-practiced, "In the name of the Goddess, guardian of life, of liberty, of absolute justice. Let no falsehood be heard, no evil be uttered. Truth alone shall prevail. So say we all."

Cassandra felt the magic envelop them. It wasn't much different than a typical invocation to Tyr to ward against lies, untruth, deceit, and the invocation of evil names and foul magic. She wasn't inclined to trust strange spells, but her own senses would hopefully not choose this moment to betray her. "Let the truth be spoken," she offered into the silence, a small contribution from the rites of the true faith.

"Indeed," the witch began. "I understand your vigilance, and know that you must do as you feel you must. But know that I offer no harm, no ill will, only knowledge and aid in troubling times." With that, she sat on the cold stone, offering a slightly less intimidating stance. The others did the same, and Cassandra weighed her options. Azalea returned to the side of the stricken dark elf--Szarai was still reeling from the loss of her shadows, and the exposure (seemingly her first) to the true reality of the lower planes. Poor thing. Cassandra's first was long ago, but she remembered it like an old friend. The dwarf, for his part, was prepared to stand by her side, though she could almost hear the creak of his tired knees, the old wounds bearing fresh reminders of his past...for his sake, more than any other, she lowered her apparent guard, and took a knee. Without a word she didn't need, he lowered himself, and let soothing earth and iron will hold the tatters of his frame. He remained alert and battle-ready as ever, but tended to the fallen elf as best he could.

"I," the witch began, seeming almost to struggle to bring forth her words, "I am called Svetlana." She steeled herself. "I am known by other names, though rarely by both. To some, I am Jadzia. To others, the Hathran Shiva. To my late husband, I am..." she choked, and couldn't finish. "And to others long lost, I would offer all my names if they could but hear. Goddess, be with the fallen." The others repeated her hasty prayer.

"My mother Marisola named me Svetlana, and it is by that name I choose now to be known. All those who knew me before have passed. Save...for one." Her visage became as cold as her mask. "Long ago, I quested forth from Rashemen on a holy quest. As all the Wychlaran do, I sought my destiny, in the company of..." she paused to reflect somberly, "a trusted friend. And I found so much more than I expected."

"Surely you have heard of the realm of Ashanath Reborn. One of the great schools of the East, home to the Magister himself." She paused, breathing evenly. The elf, Raithen, gave her a look of such knowing sorrow that he must know her pain well, must have tasted it himself. She seemed to take some small solace in the support of her companions. "He is no longer with us, but his dream lives on. Hundreds of students and scholars thrive in Ashanath, and thousands more live because of his works. I was honored to be a part of it. Just as I was honored to take his hand in marriage."

"When we met, I couldn't have imagined a stranger fate. He was, of all things, a Red Wizard. And I sought the honor of the mask, the majesty of the Wychlaran. I thought I could know the Goddess as do the wise. I thought I could learn the esoteric arts, and fulfill all my silly childhood dreams. And I was so terribly right."

Her eyes were moist, and her voice carried a greater sincerity than Cassandra suspected she ever meant to show. The others, for their part, seemed somewhat concerned, even puzzled. "I'm not sure why I'm telling you all of this. I just..."

Cassandra's words were a mantra, an old prayer, but had scarcely felt more true. They hung with the weight of the gods, and rang with the clarion call of Truth. "Speak, child, and the Gods shall hear."

"I was not alone. My warder was with me. A noble soul, a great warrior. He died..doing the right thing." She shuddered with the weight a thousand memories, of words unspoken that she could never say. "And there were so many others, but...none so noteworthy as her." The weight of the pronoun, the edge she put into it, made it so much more than an appelation. It was almost a curse, almost a warning, almost a true name, in place of one she dared not say.

"A dark elf. A student of the Red Wizards, and of the foul practices of the Underdark before that. A lost soul, that V...the the Magister thought he could save. In my arrogance, I judged her unworthy. I can't say if I was right or wrong. But when she betrayed us, I was almost...glad? It's a terrible thing to say, but I felt so vindicated, so righteous, until...until she laid me low and tried to kill me. I was dead to rights, but the Goddess' magic didn't fail me. I survived, and she was taken down."

Her voice grew somber, almost prophetic.

"But she was not struck down. In his...unique way...the Magister sought to redeem her. He used the magic of Ashanath to strip from her the demon seed her matron mother had no doubt implanted within her. As far as I know, no one as ever attempted such a thing, much less succeeded at it. But I swear to you, her taint was removed. Even I couldn't sense the demon magic that had clung to her, and for a moment I dared to hope. But though her magic had fled with her parasite, her will hadn't. She endured humiliation, she went through the motions of contrition. I almost believed it myself, until she left us. I will never forget the look on her face. I knew she would return, that she would incubate her hatred, nurture her terrible vengeance. The Magister didn't believe me, but I knew we would meet again, and it would not be as friends."

She steadied herself, evidently trying to simplify her story, to edit out the personal details. Her companions seemed curious, as they too were likely hearing much of this for the first time. The witch might not have known why she felt so compelled to speak true, and at such length, but Cassandra had heard a great many such confessions. This would be her judgment, and her best chance at healing her old wounds. And with any luck, they would learn something truly useful about their mysterious adversary.

"I traveled for a time in a different guise, by my true name, among those who wouldn't know it. I kept...strange company. The Eternal Flame," she said, referring to Ardyn Flameborn, high priest of the Temple of Kossuth in Bezantur. "The prophet of Veldanthiir," she said, pointedly looking to the prone form of Szarai, who seemed, for her part, to be regaining her senses. "Even the Empress of Thay, before she was so known." Eyes turned to the image of Anastasia. "Zahl was quite an active adventurer in those days, as it were."

"Our quest for the church took us to strange places, and I learned surprising depths of the history of the Fire God's worship. In truth, he is more than some regional power; he is a Primordial, and elder being, whose very essence is infinite flame, unending consumption, the ceaseless burning of all that can burn until nothing more exists. Not a good being, but not evil, per se. He simply exists, and early men worshipped him for simply being what he was."

She paused, dramatically. "And others worshipped differently. Others thought to harness his power, to guide his wrath toward their enemies. Others such as...the Raumathari." Her hands clutched her mask tighter, reflexively. "Our history is shattered, our lore lost," she breathed painfully, referring no doubt to the slaughter of the Wychlaran, the scattering of their remainder, and the plundering of their sacred places by the Thayans after their disastrous victory over Rashemen. "But we remember the most important things."

"It was near the end. The histories you've heard are likely a fabrication. The popular stories come from Chessen poets, who colored thirdhand accounts with Olympian propaganda, and pandered to their audience in the name of entertainment. And yet, some grains of truth survive the ages. In the Year of the Stone Giant, a century and a half before the Standing Stone, it is said an avatar of the Fire God was summoned by the Raumathari to combat their enemies in Narfell. It is true, in a fashion."

"In fact, the being was the Black Flame, a scion of the True Flame, but a mighty being in his own right. Where True Flame burns simply to burn, the Black Flame burns to spread chaos, to destroy good works, to inflict as much pain as it can. It is living agony, a monstrous calamity that cannot be stopped once it begins its cruel work, for all that it burns, all it destroys, only feeds back into its power. The magelords were truly desperate, and perhaps entirely mad, to invoke such power."

"And I'm sure you know the rest of the tale. Even as their magic rent the lands of their enemies, the Raumathari were in turn destroyed at home by the fiends of Narfell. Two giants, locked in a mutual death struggle, and we all benefit for their passing, so sayeth the playwrights of old. And yet, their grand magicks and foul works were not undone by the stroke of a pen. The death throes of the empires would have doomed the world, if not for unsung heroes.

"She turned to regard Baelrun, with a look of deepest respect. "In that time, the ground on which we stand was held by the dwarves of Sarphil. It was here that we...that is, my sisters, the earliest of the Wychlaran, found the aid we sought. For the dwarves of Earthfast, and the menfolk who lived among them, worshipped a strange god, a god of pure light and creation, a nameless god of order and reason. Though strange to us, this god would prove his power.

"The Black Flame, bereft of Nar fortresses to ruin, had turned upon the dwarves who had never offended him. Though the Morndinsamman were equal to the task of defending the homes and holy places of dwarves, the people here knew not of this strange invader. The witches did know, and with their secret knowledge, and the magic of this strange southern god in particular, they were able to devise a trap for him.

"The Flame was lured to this site, and a grand circle of priests and witches sprang the trap. A great binding kept him from escaping this valley, and the power of the Nameless God banished him from existence. It is said he dwells now in the Neverwhere, a realm that never was, an elemental chaos predating creation itself, whose existence was negated by the act of Creation, but which could once again return if Order fails...such were the words of the Nameless God's prophet, passed down to me over generations.

"And so, but for a lingering darkness, a wound that never quite healed, for which the dwarves of Earthfast have suffered unduly, the legacy of the Black Flame would seem to have ended. And yet, we would not be here if it were so."

Cassandra recalled the horrors she'd seen in the bowels of the earth. She'd been reflexively avoiding any thought of the horde of demons, the waves of absolute dread, of madness...she pushed past it, recalling the fact of the matter. Below the valley of Earthfast, well below, they'd found a cavern of fire. Within, dark elves from parts unknown had channeled the flow of magma into some grave ritual circle, wherein they were conducting blood sacrifice--in particular, of dwarves of Earthfast--to some black, unnamed god. The pieces fit well enough, but she still felt, naggingly, like she was meant to jump to a conclusion. For all her words, the witch had yet to explicitly say what they had seen. She'd stopped just short of naming their enemy, of promising a solution. Maybe it was just old habit, but what if it were deliberate deception? She hardened her mind to linger over every detail, to hear what was not spoken.

"In the depths, you saw the face of this madness. I too, once saw the same, in another place touched by the darkness. The Black Flame is not without worshippers even today, with similar aims; and it was to that very end that I and others set forth years ago to intervene. A once-noble priest of the Flame had turned against the Eternal Flame, his friend of a lifetime. He lured him to an unholy site, and took his life, the blood of the Flameborn, to call the Black Flame into this world. The ritual could only be stopped by the application of the same blood. And it was...with the sacrifice of a priestess, a daughter the Eternal Flame never knew. The Black Flame never made it fully into this world, his cult was cast down, and his hallowed ground destroyed. The Eternal Flame's son took his place and remains the last of the Flameborn."

She paused, seeming to feel anew the loss of which she spoke. "And of all those present that day, I stand before you one of only two who remain. One of the two who know the secrets of the Black Flame, of his greatest weakness, of the only way to summon him into this world, and the only way to stop him should he be summoned."

Her gaze was iron. Her voice frost.

"The other is named Aurora."