Posted on: Sunday, 25 October 2009
"There it is."
The strong, proud walls of the De'Arnise keep jutted out of valley, a silent stone warden overlooking a sea of ripe, golden grain. From this far away the main castle seemed small, almost overwhelmed by the press and crowd of surrounding farmland. Here and there were tiny specks of movement: peasants and farmers traversing their fields or calling upon the grand keep itself. The sunlight glinted off the metal of farm tools and livery.
Cassandra and Imoen lay on the crest of a hill roughly a mile away. After seven days of solid travel, five of which on foot, they had finally reached familiar territory. The chance to rest, refuel, and get a change of clean clothes would do wonders for the two tired and foot-sore girls.
Imoen let out a low whistle of appreciation as she peered down the slope. "And you own that? Like, the land and everything?"
"Technically." Cassie licked her lips. She hadn't been back since her initial confrontation with Bodhi—the confrontation which had cost Nalia De'Arnise her life. She'd informed no one, never recovered the body, so single-minded had been her determination to reach Spellhold.
"Technically?"
"I'm not around much." A thin strip of cloth hung from her belt, ripped from the sleeve of her shirt when they'd departed Tethir. Cassandra tugged it free and handed it to Imoen. "Let's get this over with."
"You don't sound too cheery," the younger sister noted.
Cassie didn't respond. The cloth dropped over her eyes, obliterating the outside world with a wash of dirty beige. Imoen tugged it tight and fastened it with a simple knot.
"There. Turn around. See anything?"
She did so, stopping at where Imoen ought to be. Now the mage was only visible as a shadowy, humanoid figure through the film of cloth. "Not much."
"Looks good from here." A pat on her shoulder, follow by a hand taking her own. "What's our story? Léoma of Silverdale? Ulomin and Carodei?"
Over the past week they'd used a half-dozen different aliases, all drawn from the musty old tomes of Candlekeep. It was safer—and more suiting Imoen's flair for the dramatic—than announcing their true identities.
"No story. They know me already. Being blinded won't be such a stretch."
"Just plain ol' Cassandra of Bhaal?"
"Cassandra of Candlekeep. They don't know about Bhaal."
