CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1352

Through the sandy, parched streets of Calimport, walked a man in dark robes. A bristling brown beard, streaked with grey, thrust out from beneath a great cowl, and intense blue eyes gazed about at everything he passed. There was a palpable chill about this man, something bleak and awful. It was as if he had gathered a darkness to surround him, a fear palpable enough to tough. Even wizards loyal to the most powerful pashas of the Calim stepped aside for this man; for it was clear he had no time for fools, no concern for anyone who might interrupt him.

Gorion of Candlekeep no longer, he was Gorion the Bleak. Gorion the Cold. His reputation preceded him. Indeed, though it might be the fancy of those who feared him, it was said that the final screams of his victims whispered about him, forever trapped by his spells. He was the Revenant, the Slayer, the Butcher. He had slain a thousand followers of Bhaal, it was said, had destroyed countless temples to the God of Murder, somehow seeking to drown his grief in the blood of the evil-hearted.

For Gorion of course, none of those tales or rumours meant anything. All that was important to him, was destroying as many Bhaalists as possible. Those bastards had taken everything from him, and he had made a promise before the inner sanctum of Mystra's temple in Waterdeep, never to rest until every last remnant of Bhaal was dead. He had been warned against making that promise by Khelben of course, and Laeral, but he had insisted on it. And when he had uttered the promise, it had been heard and the heavy weight of divine power had pressed upon him.

His path had become wild and unfocused. He followed wherever his heart took him, partly on his hunt to destroy Bhaal's followers, but also on his journey to ease his pain. His first steps had taken him back to his gypsy roots, finding the places they camped. There he met with the Chief of the tribe, only to be told his mother had died three years earlier. He had been given a letter from his mother, which he had read so many times the parchment was crumpled and crumbling.

My dearest Gorion,

You will not remember me, my beloved son, but you brought so much happiness to me. Your dancing, your singing, your goodness, all of it shone like a wondrous light. It was a beacon, my son, to us all. You are now a great hero, or so the tales tell. Your name has been sung about the campfires of our tribe just as much as Elminster or any Blackstaff. Nay, perhaps more so, for you are one of us. Freedom flows in your blood. Freedom from evil, freedom from fear, freedom from pain. It is a heavy duty you have, to be denied that freedom so that others might have it.

But know that you make us all proud, and though I draw near to my last breath, you will always make me proud, whatever happens. As I stare at this campfire and listen to the tambourines and lutes, and smell the hot spices of the festival, I will remember you, aged six, dancing the saramba with the older girls.

Be well, my dear son. And may the gods bless you.

Angelique Mallavar

Two months he had stayed with the gypsies. But nothing about their music seemed to touch him any longer. The dancing reminded him too much of Zephyra and Mellissan, his two lost loves. Every song, every dance, every sound brought a sharp pain to his soul. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer he had fled the camp one night, driving the tears deeper down. When he had stumbled across the next temple to Bhaal a month later, their screams had been loud enough to bring sleeping dryads to a terrified dawn awakening.

After a year of travelling, to see the decayed, ruined house of the recently-deceased Thorlaster; to see Eleeanna, whose touch failed to move any emotion within him at all; to old acquaintances and fellow Harpers... but nobody could help shift the great sadness, the bleakness, that had descended upon him with the force of a thousand mountains. There were no tears, only that cold rage, that emptiness, that feeling that he teetered on the brink of tumbling into the Abyss, on the brink of dooming his very soul.

As he walked through the streets of Calimport, gazing about at the gleaming, bejewelled robes of the pashas and the merchants and the wizards, he remembered when he had attended the gala where he had met Zephyra.

The gala was spectacular. There were three hundred barely-clad Calishite dancers, all with their bronzed skin and soft silk almost translucent. With spiced wine, delicious food and the aromatic scents that filled the antechamber, Gorion felt his mind beginning to relax in a way it had not for a long time. Everywhere he looked, there was a beautiful dancer spinning and gyrating in a way that made the blood churn passionately through his body. Yet there was one dancer in particular who drew his eye.

A typical Calishite in terms of ebon hair and bronze skin, nonetheless her beauty was unmatched throughout the chamber. When she danced, she did so with a lithe grace that left many speechless with desire. At her ankles, she wore bells and in her two hands she carried tambourines. She wore gentle yellow silk in the Calishite style, which revealed her curved, gentle skin. Her face was both innocent and teasing at the same time, managing to dart amazingly bright almond eyes daringly at many of the men in the room.

"Who isthat, Behl?"

The trader grinned, "That, Gorion, is Zephyra..."

He shook his head and continued walking, listening to the harsh tones of the locals. He passed slaves working on the garden of one of the pashas, looked through gilded gates at the heavenly setting of the very rich. The gates were more like cages, though, cages where the slaves and the poor were kept in captivity, working until they were too weak to work anymore. Then, they would be discarded. He remembered then, releasing slaves from djinn in the desert, alongside Zephyra. And at the thought of Zephyra, he returned to that first night, that first dance, and that first kiss.

There were several murmurs as he moved. His long brown hair, reaching to just above his shoulders, tossed from side to side as he tried to move with as much skill as he remembered he had done so many years ago. He had danced since, with Eleeanna, but that was different. That was a courtly dance in northern courts where everything was formal and everything was based on certain steps to the left and then the right. This waswild, this was passion. This was, apt for Calimshan,heat.

The music quickened pace and now Gorion opened his eyes. He saw Zephyra whirling about this way and that, her silken gown flowing behind her like a trail of light about a candle. Everything about her called to him. Her gaze, defiant, fixed him with a determined glare.I will not be controlled, she seemed to say.

How long they danced together, Gorion did not know. All he noticed was that eventually they danced lessagainsteach other, and more with each other. Finally, they were dancing so that their forms touched. Through their thin silken clothing Gorion could feel her warm skin damp with the toil of dancing. Her eyes met his. Slowly, gently, silently he leaned his head towards hers and kissed her.

The guests around them erupted into cheers. When Gorion drew back from the kiss however, Zephyra's eyes shone with tears. "You have taken me then, northerner. Am I to be girt with chains in your household to grace it for honoured guests? Shall I dance like a tame bird sings, for your pleasure?"

Gorion snorted, "Don't be ridiculous. It was just a dance; just a kiss."

The dancer frowned, then. Her hand found his cheek. "It was notjusta dance and certainly was notjusta kiss.

He frowned, and shook his head again. Perhaps a return to Calimport had not been the best of ideas. Every step, every thought, every scent, reminded him ever more of what he had lost. Yet this was different, because it was hurting again. He had learned to suppress it over the past year, he had learned to drive the feelings aside until all he felt was the cold, uncaring sense that none of it mattered. But here, in the city of heat and passion and cruelty, he could not hide any of the feelings. They overwhelmed him, bit by bit, piece by piece.

"S-sir!" a voice stirred behind him.

Gorion arced a brow and turned. None had dared approach him since his arrival in Calimport. And for someone to do so in such a wheedling, timid voice seemed odd. The wizard watched as a young half-elf man wearing mail stepped towards him. With a gruff, angry tone – largely faked – Gorion growled, "What?"

The half-elf blinked and flinched. He obviously wanted to run, but something kept him there. Slowly, the young lad, only about twenty or so, tried to speak. "Y-you, sir, you... that is to say... y-you... s-some years ago, y-you t-t-t-tried... no, you did, you d-d-d... you d-d-d... you d-did... free me, f-f-f... f-f-from my f-f-father."

With another frown, Gorion shrugged. He thought he could remember, but then again, he had rescued many people over the years. What was one more? This lad meant nothing to him, this lad was just another pawn in the games that the powerful played. He was completely unimportant. So it was that Gorion shrugged, "And?"

A pause, "I... I... I w-w-wanted... w-w-wanted to thank... to thank you. I... I have... I have... have escaped from m-m-my father. And I... I... I have lived my best to in-in-inspire others like you... you... like you in-in-inspired me."

Gorion shrugged, and turned away, "That's lovely for you, young lad, but I'm not that bothered."

He ignored any further words from the stammering, stuttering wreck of a half-elf, and began to storm his way down the streets aimlessly. Pattering feet followed him and when Gorion turned, the half-elf was following him. Growling louder now, he raged, "What? What are you doing? What do you want?"

The half-elf drew his blade, "I-I-I made a s-s-solemn v-v... v-v... v-vow... n-never to... n-never to forget you and... and... and if I was ev-ev-ever to meet you, I was to... that is, well, to g-g-grant m-m-my sword to your side. To b-b-be your retainer."

Rolling his eyes, Gorion touched the half-elf's sword and watched as it flared a bright, hot white. The half-elf squealed and dropped the sword. Leaning in closer to the now wide-eyed half-elf, he whispered, "Do you think I need your protection, you insignificant worm? You are fodder, that is all! Those of evil heart try to hurt you and enslave you. Those like me, of good heart, try to release you and heal you. But do you truly think anyone cares about you, or do you truly think you are actually important? Do you truly think for one small moment that the life of a wretched, stuttering half-elf is worth anything at all, when set against the might of the darkness that dooms this world?"

Horror stole across the elvish-featured face, but he still would not leave. "S-s-sir, I am K-K-Khalid. S-sir, m-my father... he once s-s-said I was in-in-insignificant. And I... that is, I... I lived my life for twelve years b-b-believing that, sir. But then you came. You with your robes and your harper pin, and blue eyes and your freedoms. And you told me I was worth something. Y-y-you set a fire in my heart, sir... and... and I p-p-passed that fire on to others... b-b-but I will not b-b-be told by you that I am worthless, sir, not when you t-t-told me years ago, that I... I was worth much more than that. You m-may have power, you m-m-may have suffered, for you look to b-b-be much affected, but if you d-d-dare stand against wh-wh-what you yourself have said, you... you cheapen yourself. Everyone... is im-im-important, sir."

Gorion stopped for a long moment. The words stung. Gods, how they stung. They were like salt on every wound he had ever received. It was acid, burning into every part of his body. His mind felt afire with shame, his skin scalded with the knowledge of his arrogance, of how far he had fallen. Yet there was something pure about it, for he could see, in Khalid's eyes, the fire that Gorion had, until the death of Melissan, possessed himself. And that fire, more than anything, finally melted the icy shield Gorion had placed about his grief.

With a whisper, he gruffly muttered, "Come, lad. You are right. But no, you will not be my retainer. You will be my friend. I have been far too long without company, Khalid. And that, I assure you, is not good for any man with the power of magic at his fingers. We need to do our best to stay sane, do us wizards. Otherwise we end up killing a few thousand innocents."

Khalid gave a nervous, timid gulp.

The oddest thing about Khalid was that his stutter vanished the moment he started to sing. Place a travel-harp in his hand, or a lute, or lyre, or any stringed instrument, and ask him to sing a ballad, and his voice was like liquid silver. When Gorion first heard him sing, it was as if the shivering constellations of the heavens had descended to Faerun in the form of Khalid's voice. It was, save for the famed elves of lore, the greatest voice Gorion had ever heard.

And perhaps it was made greater by the sheer liberation of it.

When he spoke, Khalid would stammer and stutter, and there was little that could ever be done about that. Some damage, done young enough, would have permanent effects, and Khalid was the unfortunate example of that. Yet it was a symbol of hope or at least of something wondrous, that the young half elf was still able to sing. And sing beautifully, too.

Gorion and Khalid were sitting, a month after leaving Calimport, deep within the Wealdath Forest – called Tethir Forest by most men. The dark, mysterious green world about them had ceased to intimidate Gorion years ago, but Khalid was obviously concerned and made fearful by even the slightest movement. The deserts and sultry eves of Calimport were far different to the great and ancient forests wherein still dwelt elves.

It had been Gorion's idea, to calm Khalid in the night, for the young half-elf to sing. And so he did, singing in a soft, fluting tenor, the Lay of Keltormir. And Gorion, always a good singer, provided the harmony in his deep and resonant bass. Their two voices soared through the shadows of the ancient forest, as they sang about the elves of millennia ago, about the clashes with dragons in this very forest. Of the hero Keltormir, who defeated some of the vilest dragons, centuries before any of the humans had stepped out of their first mud huts. So many dragons had he slain, that the forest kingdom had been named after him.

It was a bittersweet song, for it was sung always in the knowledge that human progress had butchered that forest leaving Keltormir forest a much smaller, huddled Wealdath. And as they finished the song, the two parts melding together near-perfectly, they heard a voice snapping down from the branches, "What do two city men sing the Lay of Keltormir for? What brings them to this forest of echoing memories, to sing a song so old it may as well be encrusted with cobwebs?"

Gorion glanced upwards, as Khalid flinched. He smiled as he saw a ragged half-elven woman. She looked to be a similar age to Khalid, with long dark hair tangled and wild. Yet her eyes, a deep almond, looked at the two travellers with an intense ferocity. The first thought that came to Gorion's mind as he saw her, was fire.

There was also something strangely familiar about those fierce almond eyes. And as his eyes squinted as if to remind himself, her eyes widened with shock and rage, and she spat, "You!"

Gorion barely had time to react as she flung herself from the branch, to land directly opposite him. She drew two scimitars from his hip, and twirled herself towards him. Khalid looked aghast, but was there in an instant, drawing his longsword. The clash of sword upon scimitar filled the clearing, as the young half-elf screamed again and again. Her hair shook, wild, and her graceful movements with the weapons promised a deadly retribution.

She and Khalid were well-matched with their skills, and when Gorion had ascertained that stalemate, he uttered a single word, and the girl froze, gripped by his power. Khalid stepped back, and lowered his blade. "W-wh-what was that about, do you know, Gorion?"

He nodded, for he recognised the girl. "Her name... her name is Jaheira Baeltha. The only daughter of the Baron Jeremy Baeltha... I... I rescued her from her father's keep, when the locals attacked. I could only rescue one of them however and her father... died."

Khalid frowned, "T-T-Tethyrian? Then he..."

Gorion shook his head sharply, "No, Jeremy Baeltha was a good man. One of the best. His death was one of my greatest failures, just like the disaster in Tethyr was one of the greatest shames of all Harpers. We failed many good men and women during those ten black days." His voice softened, "And this girl is one of those we failed." So saying, he kneeled before her, and said, "I crave your forgiveness, young Jaheira."

His magic faded, and she slowly started to move. Her wild, tempestuous eyes glared at him, but this time there were traces of tears. "Old man. Stand. You... you... you have nothing to apologise for. My temper got the best of me... but we are all taught that Silvanus has a will and a way for all things, and a time and place. My father's moment had come, that, I suppose, is all."

And thus they were three.

Jaheira and Khalid were named full Harpers a year later, and from then on the three Harpers became great friends. A druid, a harpist-fighter and a much older wizard were an odd group of friends, but they did not mind. Gorion was the calm centre of the trio, Jaheira the tempestuous fierce warrior, and Khalid the sensitive listener. They worked well as a team.

And it was perhaps that reason that had them sent to Anauroch, on one of the more sensitive missions the Harpers had given them.

For in the past few months of that year, Harpers had been murdered. The murders included not only the rank and file, but some of the more senior Harpers, including those that were only known to others of the same organisation. Many of those who had died were Gorion's oldest comrades. Leriel, Merlion and Halfdan, three of the adventurers who had attacked Firkraag, had been killed. The archer, Elrion, had been transformed into a gibbering, insane wreck, bleating about murder and shadows. He would never be the same again, and so had been placed into the care of the Ilmateri priests of Waterdeep.

Eleeanna had escaped an assassination attempt narrowly, but had not been able to identify the attacker. All she could say, was that it was a woman, covered in black armour, with the face hidden and the voice not one she recognised.

But the resources of the Harpers were not to be underestimated. Diviners from across the Realms had been called upon, and so Gorion, Jaheira and Khalid had been sent to the arid, scalding deserts of Anauroch, to enter the supposed domain of the assassin, who could only be a Harper turned traitor.

They had fought their way through dank, damp tunnels, slaying increasingly rabid, fervent cultists who screamed chants to Bhaal. Gorion had to fight against his deep-rooted desire to inflict as much pain as possible to those who followed the god he detested the most. But with Jaheira and Khalid at his side, he reined those alien desires in. He had come too close to a dangerous path just last year, when Khalid had pulled him short. He would not go back to that place again. Never.

Eventually, they reached an amphitheatre of sorts, and that is when they had to stop.

For on the other side of the amphitheatre, there stood an altar with the symbol of Bhaal gleaming with rubies. Cultists prayed at the altar, and perhaps a hundred dead men, women and children lay scattered on the ground before and around it. Leading the prayers, was a tall woman wearing spiked, hideous black armour. Her voice was deep and cruel, and exhorted the cultists on and on, slaying anyone who did not scream with true adoration of Bhaal.

Jaheira was unable to hold in her disgust. She shouted, "Hold! Desist, you vile creatures!"

The woman in black armour turned, and a rumbling laugh filled the room, "Ah, Jaheira the Tethyrian orphan, and Khalid the stammering Calishite wreck." Her helmeted head turned to regard Gorion. "And Gorion Mallavar... one of the most famous Harpers of the Sword Coast." She bowed, "I am glad to meet you again. It has been far too long."

Mallavar.

There were few indeed who knew his true surname.

He stepped forward, "You are a Harper. Or were... why have you turned against everything we ever stood for?"

Another laugh, "Oh, dear, Gorion, I never did turn against everything. I always was what I am now." She made a gesture, "Servants of Bhaal... kill them..." Her voice was strangely excited as the twenty or so cultists rushed towards them, almost no semblance of humanity left in their eyes. Jaheira and Khalid stepped forward, ready to guard him. But Gorion was wasting no time. Spinning his hands in the correct arcane gestures, he sent lightning arcing towards them. Screams filled the chamber, as they died, writhing in agony.

The two other Harpers glanced at him, warily, but by now he was fixed on the black-armoured woman. He knew that she might be too much for him, but she was definitely too much for Jaheira and Khalid. And she knew that too.

Swiftly indeed, she stepped forward, her black armour shaking the ground. With a single clench of her fist, she sent Khalid and Jaheira stumbling back, sending them lying on the floor at her feet, bleeding from their ears and nostrils and mouth.

Unconscious.

A smirk appeared on her face. "The power Bhaal grants me is more than the wanton whore Mystra ever did, Gorion. Do you not want to know who I am, dear?" the harsh, vindictive voice rumbled.

He shook his head, "I do not care, whoever you are. If you were a Harper, you are not now. And whoever you are, whether you were my closest and greatest friend or not, you must fall."

She laughed again, "Oh, you really must be careful what you say." And so saying, she removed her helmet, revealing beautiful red hair, and gleaming green eyes, and that same soft, incredible face. Only that face was twisted into something vile now. His stomach felt like he had been punched, and all he could do was stare. Appalled, horrified... stunned.

"...Melissan?"

Her barking laughter hurt him more than anything, "No! No! No! Melissan no longer, fool! I am Amelyssan the Black-Hearted, Deathstalker of Bhaal, one of his most favoured servants. And you, Gorion, are one of his greatest enemies. You will die, on his altar, and will die screaming your love of his torture."

Some spittle left her lips. She was a shadow of herself. She must be. Gorion's mind was working through possibilities. Was she a clone? Was she wearing an item that changed her soul? Was she possessed? But something she said made him question that. "I always was what I am now." Could that be true? Could she have foiled the protections the Harpers had relied on for decades?

He licked his lips, "Melissan, it... it doesn't have to be..."

"Amelyssan!"

"Mel..."

"Amelyssan! Use my name, you fool!"

"Melli, no... I won't... it isn't your name..."

"Oh Gorion, I assure you it is. I am truly Amelyssan. The Black-Hearted. Slayer of Harpers. I have slaughtered children, I have murdered Ilmateri priests, I have tortured Lovite priests so that even they begged for mercy before the end. I have seduced paladins and turned them into parodies of themselves. Think of a black deed for the blackest day, and I have done it."

He steadied himself for what would come. "Then you must die, Mel... you must die."

She drew herself up, "Use my name."

Swallowing once, he whispered, "Amelyssan."

And then they fought.

They had both known each other inside out, so the fight was the cruellest and harshest Gorion had ever known. Every weakness was used, all arrogance exposed. Energy crackled around Gorion, as he blasted her again and again with his most potent spells. Yet she would not back down. Her prayers slammed into him. Blood trickled from his nose, as he desperately tried to hold onto his senses even when being struck with Bhaal's evil.

Coruscating power flowed between them, as each spat the vilest of incantations. The floor sizzled, the air hissed, and any left alive in the chamber screamed in fear. Eventually though, something broke. Whether it was Gorion's experience in battle, or some mercy lingering in Amelyssan's heart, some remnant of Melissan, the black-armoured woman clapped her hands and with a snarl, vanished from the chamber in an instant.

She left behind her a man huddled before the altar of Bhaal, disbelieving and horrified.

His silence was disturbed by a battered, bleeding slave on her arm. Gorion looked up, barely able to see through tearful eyes, "Yes?" he whispered softly. "What... what can I help with?"

The young man said, "I am... Marius... I must say... something..."

Gorion gazed at the young man calmly, "Speak then... do not fear me. We are different to your captors. We are those who would see you free, whatever the cost."

The young man – more like a boy – nodded, "I... I know. She... she was the same for so long, m'lord..."

His heart thumped. "Who?"

Marius swallowed heavily, clearly still terrified, "That... Amelyssan... only... sir – I mean, m'lord – she called herself Melissan when she first arrived. She... she was captured. She may have been in chains, m'lord, but by the gods, she was brave. Proud and noble, she held herself like a queen. And she may well have been, for all I know." He wiped tears from his eyes and started to shake. "I'm sorry, m'lord, it is the most terrible tale I will ever have to tell."

Gorion said gently, "Go on, child. Go on. All will be well."

The man shuddered, "They tortured her, m'lord. They held both of us for a full year. They left me alone, I do not know why. Maybe they didn't think I was important enough. But her, oh, gods, the agony she felt. For a full six months they did vile, unspeakable things to her. And she remained strong! Like a beacon of hope for the rest of us! She would heal us, tend our wounds. Once, she led us out to do battle with our captors, and I actually had a glimpse of the sun, m'lord, before we were dragged back."

There was a long silence, before Marius started to speak again, "But... but then it all changed. I heard them then, m'lord. Through the door of our cell. They were saying she had been disowned, deserted. That Gorion –" he paused, looking at Gorion with fear.

"Yes, man, it is me. And no, I did not leave her. I thought her dead."

Marius nodded, "They told her you... told her you did not care. But she laughed at them, and said they would have to try harder than that." He wrapped his arms around himself, "And so they did. Demons were summoned, charms were used, the most... hellish torments ever devised. I saw Lovite priests, Sharran deceivers... they all had their way with her. And slowly..." He wiped tears that fell freely from his face now. "Slowly, she changed, m'lord. She stopped helping us. Kept herself to herself. She... she used to call herself just another Melissan. Just a Melissan. Not the Melissan anymore, just a Melissan. Said... said you didn't think she was important. So she wasn't Melissan, she was a Melissan. Just kept repeating it she did."

Again, that silence, deeper than any silence Gorion had ever known.

"And eventually, m'lord, she stood up and declared herself Amelyssan the Black-Hearted. She tore the heart of her captor from his chest and blasted through the cell. My... my fellows... they thought she was helping them escape, so they followed her... and... and..." Sobs wracked his body. "And so she sacrificed them all to Bhaal."

Gorion nodded, barely able to take in the horror. He whispered, "And she kept you around, to taunt you... and to remind herself of the weakling she used to be."

Marius nodded, his eyes filled with dark shadows of remembrance.

"But don't you see, Marius, she has created a weapon that might be used against her dark god. For you live, yes? Despite the horrors, despite the evil, you live. And by the gods, you are ready to fight those who captured her and twisted her, are you not?"

The man nodded slowly.

"And you are ready to fight what she has become, are you not?"

He nodded again. And Gorion smiled. A lopsided, heartbroken smile. "Then that is what I shall also do. And we will take comfort in that truth together, and pray that the gods might heal the wounds that were done to her by someone far darker than she could ever be."

Jaheira and Khalid woke shortly after the story was told, and neither Gorion nor Marius ever told that story again. It was simply too painful.

Jaheira and Khalid returned to their travels.

Marius travelled to Waterdeep, and entered the temple of Mystra, seeking to become a paladin.

And Gorion returned to Candlekeep that winter.

He locked himself in the library, and studied the rarest tomes available. Even during the Time of Troubles, he never stirred himself once. His soul was wounded, and it needed time to heal. Many were the dark, stormy nights that he would lie next to Tethtoril, shrieking and sobbing. Many were the terrible dreams and the mornings he would wake up, even then, years later, expecting to see Mel next to him.

But in time, he recovered, and became himself again.

And whenever he heard the name Amelyssan the Black-hearted, he would leave the monastery and move heaven and earth to defeat her plans. Once they had been allies whose names were famous across the Sword Coast, now they were enemies, equally famous. But none ever whispered the old name Melissan aloud. Those who did so were butchered horribly.

So in time, the name Melissan was forgotten, as were her deeds and association with Gorion. And the truth was remembered only by some very few.