The Nekromancer - 103. Chapter 103

Amnor Sen set the plate up on the wall, Jeremy’s name looking down on the paladin. The shrine was set, an hour’s work giving him plenty of time to gather some of the cleric’s favourite things. A mug and a rapier sat in front of the nameplate, Amnor Sen stepping back to look at his work.

Etching the name had been difficult, the calligraphy looked poor, but the elf had tried his hardest to make it look right, and he was satisfied with the effort. His heart still ached, but he could look past it now. The cleric would be remembered as someone who had the courage to take on monumental challenges. It was what Jeremy would have wanted.

He had known this day would come. Amnor Sen was Forlorn, living his life among the shorter lived races. It was not the first time he had felt this pain, and the elf doubted it would be the last. Knowing that didn’t make it easier to deal with, but it did push him onward, kept him from giving in to the despair in his heart.

The elf touched the marker, his head bowing as he whispered a prayer for Jeremy. More tears came, but this time, he didn’t let them take over. Amnor Sen backed away, looking at the other two markers in the alcove. He would go to the Cathedral, find out who these people were, and he would return with offerings to their memories. When that was finished, the paladin would return to Anuli. There was nothing for him in the north. Even Mendev held no pull for him, not without his partner. Amnor Sen was weary of the world already, the death he had seen in only six months placing the seeds of discord in his heart. He could turn to religion only so much, but it made the problem worse, making him feel every death like a personal blow. How many had they killed in Katapesh? How many had met their end in Mechitar, and Graydirge? Amnor Sen felt responsible for every life lost, his actions causing their deaths no matter how the clerics tried to assure him otherwise.

But it did no good to think of such things. He left the Shrine of the Failed, returning to the museum. A cleric met him at the door, a gentle prayer healing his feet. He would not be here long.

Amnor Sen made his way through the museum, his eyes gazing over the art on the walls. There was beauty in the world, but it would take him time to see it again for what it was. No meditation or prayer would help him, he needed to take that time, to relearn for himself. He would return home, reopen his shop with what little gold he had left, and dedicate himself to his passions.

The elf had to admit it felt like failure. The whole journey north had been fraught with peril, and in the end, all he had to show for it was death. And yet, Amnor Sen knew he could use what he had learned, grow to become a better person. He still had his conviction, still believed in peace, and that would never change. But he had learned not to judge others, remembering that redemption was always an option, and that even evil could breed good.

Entering the small room he had been offered as one of Shelyn’s paladins, Amnor Sen began packing, his armour slipping into his bag as he collected his glaive. Coming to the temple hadn’t helped as he had hoped. But that was not the temple’s fault; the cleric had tried everything they could think of to help him.

Part of him wondered if he should remain. Jakun still lived, from what he had been told. The radiance in the sky remained, flashing periodically, though the paladin still had no idea what it meant. He owed it to the amurrun to stay a while longer. If nothing else, he would return Jakun’s phylactery and urge the lich to go to Sarenrae or Shelyn. If there was any hope for redemption, it would come from them.

The elf set his bag on his back, leaving the room behind him. He made his farewells to the clerics, thanking them for their healing, and then walked out of the temple, his booted feet carrying him toward the Cathedral. A pair of gray robed guard stopped the paladin before he could get near the entrance, Amnor Sen holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Only Hopefuls may enter the cathedral,” one of the guards said.

“I understand. I am looking for information on Erith of Kaer Maga and Fialao, likely from Kyonin.”

The guards looked at each other in brief confusion, before one of them motioned to the elf.

“We have an archive with the names of each Hopeful, though that likely will not give any more information than you already know. If memory serves, Fialao fell two years ago, and Erith five years before that. I believe Erith left a child behind, a young half elf who was sent to an orphanage. Few remember them, they didn’t make it beyond the Chasm.”

“You record those who perish in the Chasm?”

“Yes. Perhaps you saw the shrine of Sir Reinhart during your visit to the Shrine of the Failed? He was a cavalier who saw much success in Mendev. But when he tried to leap the Chasm with his horse, they both failed.”

“A horse could never jump the Chasm,” Amnor Sen grimaced, shaking his head at the futility.

“Nonetheless people still try. Some even make it most of the way,” the greycloak said as they approached a building off the Cathedral. “The archives are within. Please be gentle; for some Hopefuls, they are the only record of their attempt.”

Amnor Sen nodded, stepping into the archives. His eyes adjusted to a surprisingly bright light, glowing gems set within the walls around the myriads of scrolls. He hoped someone knew their way around, or the paladin was going to be searching for a long while.