first

The strangers were talking with the angel in the ruined courtyard of the T’sonri estate. Friends now, Menzova would have called them, though still more than passing strange. Probably it was because they’d come from the surface—she imagined that growing up with nothing solid above you did odd things to your mind.

She skirted the edge of one of the smoking craters just outside the estate, kicked a chunk of rubble into it. Devils and angels, squabbling in the mess Lolth had made of her city. Even certain as she was that Eilistraee had a plan for her, it hardly seemed reasonable that such destruction should have been a part of it.

“There you are.”

She turned at the voice, trying to fight the nervous jump in her stomach. “Hi, Zeth’rinn.”

“How’s your head?”

Menzova touched her temple. Elvrae T’sonri’s mind control had not left her with any physical scars, but she carried its marks all the same.

“I’ll be fine. You?”

Zeth’rinn grinned, that cocky, almost-smirk that made her insides flip upside down. He had a nasty bruise on his neck, his armour scratched, his dark eye makeup smudged and smeared—that last was, to Menzova, fairly appealing in a way she didn’t entirely understand. She was glad he wasn’t dead, though.

“It takes more than a mind-controlled, semi-angelic dragonborn and a melodramatic Lolthite to put a Baenre boy down,” Zeth’rinn said. The grin faded, and he glanced away, fiddling with one of the studs in his ear. “Though speaking of Baenre boys…”

“Your father?” Menzova ventured. He nodded.

“I think he wants to have a tiny little chat about things Bregan D’aerthe agents are supposed to do. Or not do, in my case.”

“Tell him it was the Dark Lady’s plan for you to come here,” Menzova said. “Even he can’t argue with her.”

Zeth’rinn laughed. “Jarlaxle would argue with gods, devils, and anything in between if he felt like it—and live to tell the tale.”

From what little Menzova knew of the rogue that called himself Jarlaxle Baenre, that seemed likely.

“But, Valas tells me I’m to return to the surface to talk to him,” Zeth’rinn continued, sighing. “A shame, really, since…ah…since you…” he cleared his throat. “You know you’re very beautiful, right?”

Menzova blinked.

“And I know I’m about to leave, and I should have done this sooner, but can you blame a boy for being a touch distracted by the ongoing spider-apocalypse?”

“Wha—?”

She never got to finish whatever she might have said. Zeth’rinn caught her by the waist, dipped her as though they were dancing, and kissed her square on the mouth. Menzova’s face went hot and her thoughts sort of fizzled out and she grabbed at his shoulders to keep from falling backwards into the crater. She didn’t think even Eilistraee’s blessings would let her survive the embarrassment of falling on her rear in front of perhaps the most exciting boy she’d ever kissed.

When he let her up, she staggered a bit, face still on fire. Zeth’rinn was flushed too, a violet ink stain over the bridge of his nose. He scratched at the shaved side of his head.

“Right. So.” He shifted his weight, settled his hand on the hilt of his sword, very casual—though he was looking more at his boots than at her. “So, yes. That.”

Menzova grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him into another kiss. He let out a tiny squeak of surprise before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back properly. Likely they would have kept going for a good long while, but then someone said, “Zeth’rinn.”

Menzova started and leapt back—Valas Hune, the scout that had brought the strange adventurers, had arrived with his usual sudden silence. His face was impassive, though his eyes flicked from her to Zeth’rinn with mild interest.

“Time to leave,” he said.

“Oh, give me five minutes, would you, Valas?” Zeth’rinn said. Valas crossed his arms.

“Two minutes.”

Zeth’rinn glared at him, but Valas showed no sign of leaving, so he just sighed and turned back to Menzova.

“I have a stone of farspeech,” she said.

“As do I.”

“They don’t work properly in the city—you already know that much—but now that Elvrae’s dead, I can leave. I know how far out to go so the faez’ress stops blocking things.”

“The tunnels are still crawling with what’s left of her army,” Zeth’rinn pointed out. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Planning on carving up swarms of spiders just to talk to me?”

“Maybe. I do know how to fight.”

He grinned, and flicked the collar of her chainmail. “I’m well aware, Lady Knight.” He reached into one of his pouches and drew out a small black stone. “May I?”

Menzova fumbled at her own belt-pouches until she found her stone of farspeech, white to his black, and they touched the two together. The arcane resonances connected with a soft hum—his fingers lingered on hers as he drew his stone away.

“Depending on how much trouble I’m in,” he said, and Valas rolled his eyes, “I’ll try and come back sometime this century. Or you could come—where’s dear old dad posted up these days, Valas?”

“Waterdeep, for the time being.”

“You could come to Waterdeep.”

“There is a Shrine there,” Menzova said. “If we can restore the moon pools, then—”

“That’s two minutes.” Valas put a hand on Zeth’rinn’s shoulder. “Home time, wayward son.”

Zeth’rinn slipped his grasp just long enough to kiss Menzova once more, before Valas grabbed him by the ear and dragged him firmly away, to much pained protesting. Menzova waited until they were out of sight, then span in place with a squeal, the bells tying off her braids tinkling merrily.

Did this mean she had a boyfriend now? A real one? A Bregan D’aerthe one? Imagine, a Darksong Knight entangling herself with one of those Menzoberranyr rogues! It was like something out of the novels she and the other knights-in-training used to hide under their bunks and read when the Knight-Commander wasn’t looking.

She pressed her stone of farspeech to her lips. There was a lot to sort out here, it was going to take a long time to put Mythen Thaelas back together, but when it was…when it was…

Well. She’d always wanted to go to the surface.