Forge’s notebook was compact – a little bigger than a hand, full to bursting with pages that she habitually replaced. The leather binding was nearly as ancient as she was, but regular care and a little bit of magic kept it in good condition. It was her longest-standing companion.
On the left page was written:
Hear.
Decaying monument on forlorn hill.
Shadows of death grasps crystalline hope.
A horn echoes to the horizon.
Herald the end of change.
On the right page was written:
Milk
Copper sulfate
Lemon
Thyme
Linen thread & wax
It was the former that interested Forge now. Giannio was known to prophesize at odd hours, but Forge had never heard him tell of something quite so ominous. She was glad she’d been around to hear it – though poor Usil might have preferred he keep his boat-tipping prophecies to himself.
Forge had settled herself in Gaston D’arbres’ library, a few other books scattered around her notebook. Gaston specialized in arcane magic, not the divine, but his collection was extensive enough that a savvy cleric could usually find something useful. This particular search hadn’t turned up much – in part because Forge wasn’t sure how literally to take the prophecy. She’d found a couple of interesting references to the hills near Quillpond, plenty of which had decaying monuments of ancient societies. It felt too obvious, but it was the best lead she had.
Her eyes strayed towards the book at her right hand, a small tome entitled Favor and the Fall: My Year Among the Gods. It was written by Hathar Every-Lock-Its-Breaker, a former paladin of Ioun.
Forge had known Hathar during the year in question. She smiled, remembering the headstrong, self-assured person ey had been back then. Forge had helped em rid eir town of a dictator, before moving on. Her knight errant phase, she called that time now.
The Hathar who had written this book was very different than the Hathar Forge had known. Ey were more contemplative, and more conflicted. Forge hadn’t known that Hathar had lost eir gifts after the town was freed. Ey seemed to be at peace with it, by the time ey wrote the book, but ey pulled no punches about how painful it had been.
The gods, for all the interest they take in us, are not mortals, Hathar wrote. They have long since shied away from the Material Plane, and they move in places we can’t follow. Perhaps Ioun felt that I had done what I needed with her favor. Perhaps she believed I hadn’t earned her continued gifts. Perhaps she believed nothing at all, and the time wherein we aligned had simply come to its close.
Afterwards, I spent nights praying. Spent them crying. Spent them drunk and furious. Nothing I did brought her voice back to me. I don’t think I’m likely to hear it again in life.
I don’t call myself her follower, anymore. How could I follow someone I’ve lost? Still, I spread her teachings where I can. I hope that writing this book will put a little more knowledge in the world. That would be good enough.
Forge rested her head on her hand, thinking of Votdruc. When they’d stumbled into the carnivorous sod patch, the vicious little things had taken him down. Forge had reached out, searching for that spark of life in him, trying to heal it brighter the way she’d done thousands of times in her life. It shone in him like the sun, but Forge’s magic hadn’t been able to hold onto it. She’d barely managed to stabilize him before she’d fizzled, and come back to herself, alone in her body with only the faintest hint that her magic had ever been there at all.
Beloved, where have you gone? She wondered. She reached back in her mind to the place where Moradin had resided for centuries, and found only the barest trace of him.
Forge glared at Hathar’s book. It felt childish to insist that Moradin wasn’t like that, that he wouldn’t simply disappear from her life the way Ioun had disappeared from Hathar’s. Ey were right, after all: sometimes the gods left. There were other books on the topic, even here in the library. It wasn’t predictable; there was no magical pattern that made id happen. The gods were people, and sometimes, their relationships broke down.
But even so- Forge knew Moradin. At least, she knew him as well as a mortal could. She’d been his champion, his partner, for two hundred years. She knew that he was thoughtful, and slow to act. If he’d decided to leave, he had to have a good reason. But what reason could he have that he didn’t tell her about?
Then there was the other possibility. Forge couldn’t bear the thought that Moradin would have cut himself off without saying anything to her, but if he’d been taken away against his will…
Moradin was a god. If something had attacked him, or imprisoned him- that was truly something to fear.
When Forge left the D’arbres estate, she found Grummen and Lorsan at the entrance, hunched over what looked like a bottle of perfume. Grummen’s face was intent as he listened to Lorsan, and Forge felt her heart swell. There may well be dark times on the way, but right now, her grandson had made a friend.
And also, she thought, realizing suddenly how late it had gotten, she had some milk and copper sulfate to buy.