Some of you may have read my fic "What was Taken" a couple years ago, with my bard PC x Edwin. (If you haven't, don't—I'm in the midst of re-writing/working up to it; it will be much better. ;)) This is sort of a prologue/her backstory—at least the first seven chapters—then we get into the events of BG1.

Kythorn 25, 1355 DR
Year of the Harp

"It takes an extraordinary amount of discipline to conjure magic, Sajantha. Not something that might be mastered on your first attempt."

Sajantha scrubbed her hand across her eyes. It was nowhere near her first attempt. But she couldn't say that. Couldn't say anything, the way her throat felt closed up, never mind speak a spell. But she must. She'd practiced the intonations, the motions, over and over, stayed awake past candleglass every night for a tenday studying. Mustered all her concentration, all her energy—shaking from the effort!—and not even a spark to show for it.

"Do not be disheartened." Her father smiled at her. But he was disappointed. He must have been. He who had effortlessly called down a sea of stars to swim in, wreathed the room in light to show her. And she had laughed—delighted, danced—as the lights drifted down around her. Filled her vision, her heart.

He looked down at her now with the same stars still shining in his eyes. Sajantha could not smile back.

The only light left in the room filtered first through the tower windows, fading as it reached them. Her father's hair flashed silver in the moonlight as he bent his head. When he straightened, a flat, round object lay upon his palm.

"There is magic already within it," he said, guiding her hand across the smooth surface. "It needs but a word, to be reminded. To wake." He whispered it. Beneath her fingers, the stone seemed to hum.

"Rocen," she repeated. And what felt a hum swelled to a sound, a buzz that trembled up her arm. She drew back with a gasp as darts of light shot forth, zipped through the air around them. They soared upward, multiplying, til they painted the ceiling: a screen of stars.

So beautiful—so bright—she could barely look up. "Is that what it feels like? To cast a spell?" Sajantha held her still-tingling fingers to her chest, but could not press back the smile that filled her, filled her so full it left no room to take a breath.

"How will you know, if you give up now?"

She couldn't. Couldn't give up. And Sajantha turned to tell her father so, but he was still smiling; he already knew. Knew everything.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Midsummer, 1358
Year of Shadows

The Midsummer feast nearly didn't happen, despite being planned tendays in advance. Despite Sajantha's advocacy. Not that she had any real position in the keep. Newly twelve, but her insistence meant nothing, and her age even less. Stupid to insist upon a celebration, then; stupider to think any might be in the mood for one.

Lacking the traditional scarlet and gold wreaths, bare of festive trappings at all, the library seemed far more subdued than even normal. But what was normal, now? The silence filling the walls—filling them to bursting—pushed the air right out; the hush hung heavy. The monks might have at least tried to lift it. To lift spirits. It wasn't as though Midsummer came as a surprise, after all, not like when the gods all tumbled to the earth.

Forty-five days ago, and counting. Not just the Watchers watched; the whole of Candlekeep waited, breath bated, for a sign from the heavens. But the heavens were silent, too.

"You're just upset 'cause you missed out on your own party." Imoen's grin seemed strange in the somber hall, but her face would have looked stranger without it.

Sajantha almost stuck out her tongue; she would have, if her father hadn't been seated beside her. "That's not so," she said, instead. Ill luck though it had been for Ao to shake up the order of the world right before her birthday.

"Guess a party couldn't hurt," Imoen relented. "What do you say, Mister G? Think you could help us conjure up some cheer?"

"Aye," he answered, "for when else might it most be needed?"

But neither smiles nor words could dispel the pall creeping over them, this literal shadow: like spilled ink, it spread, and grew to fill the room, turning the dining hall dark as deepnight. Flickering candles lit uneasy faces, food forgotten. Sajantha's chair scraped across the tiled floor as she stood, echoed as others clamored to their feet.

Darkness pressed in through the black slits which split the library's sturdy walls. Sajantha could only see her reflection in those towering windows—backlit, her wild blonde hair looked afire—the candlelight behind her only solidified the blackness before. Her breath fogged the glass.

She pressed her palm against the window. Jerked it back. "Father?" The warmth of her hand lent its print but briefly upon the icy surface, the chill the glass left lasted much longer. "Something's wrong—"

Porcelain and silver clinked together, clashed with a cry. Slumped against the table, the First Reader clutched his chest. "Mystra," he gasped, eyes wide and watering. "My—my Lady. She has fallen."

"Fallen! How? How do you mean, sir?" Had the gods not fallen already?

"Dead." Tethtoril stared, eyes wet and dull and dimming. "She is dead."

Mutters of surprise and fear set the room abuzz, and prickled on her skin. Sajantha shivered. "That—that can't be right." The gathered monks all looked as shocked as she. "She can't die. The steward of magic? Mystra can't be dead." The chill reached her chest, nestled inside. Her heart beat faster to dislodge it. "She's—she's a deity. How can she be dead?"

"When shadows descend upon the lands, our divine lords will walk alongside us as equals," her father spoke, and every soul in the room recognized that prophecy; it had left the Chant not two months before. When it had come to pass. Ought they have known, then, just what was coming? This was the Year of Shadows, after all. The connection seemed obvious only now. Too late.

"Oghma shelter his servants," someone whispered. But what might Oghma do? The Binder of Knowledge was down here, too. As equals: no more safe than they. He could die, too—be dead, already! How would they even know? Tethtoril was one of Mystra's Chosen. If Oghma left her—if he died—would she even be able to tell? Sajantha gripped the silver scroll of her necklace. How to pray to a god who could not hear you? And why, if he could do nothing?

Imoen moved closer to her as the murmurs rose, overlapping; more voices climbed in volume as they stepped over each other. "What do we do?" they asked, "Is nowhere safe?"

"This is as safe a place as any. The gods have ever protected Candlekeep."

"Gods—what gods? The gods scattered across Toril? There's no gods right now; there's no magic—"

The First Reader's shaking hands did little to stifle his sobs.

How could there not be magic? Darkness rippled over Sajantha, wrapping her in a chill no cloak could protect against; this shadow threatened to devour the room entire, dimming spirits as it did.

Imoen grabbed her arm. "What was that spell?" the younger girl demanded. "The light—we need some light. Where's that disc of yours at?"

Sajantha fumbled in her pockets. The stone sat cold in her hand; she had used up its charge earlier that day.

Imoen shuddered, shaking her head. "This ain't right." Her pale face seemed to float in the blackness that came near to swallowing it. "Is this magic? Is that what it's s'posed to feel like?" She rubbed her arms. "Sajantha," she pleaded, and Sajantha felt every day older of the seventeen months that separated them, all piled on her at once.

She grit her teeth. Magic. Yes. She could do that. Do something. A spell—a dispel. Her father had used such a casting to clear the air after using his own magic. If she could only recall the words! The disc warmed in her hand as her lips moved, "Aussir nomeno oium—"

The windows flashed white. Sajantha's burning fingers nearly dropped her talisman. The burst of light left her blinking away spots, and she fumbled for support. Her father gripped her shoulder; she jumped.

"An omen," someone said. Imoen rushed to the window, her smile creeping back as surely as the light did. Enough to see out the windows, at least, to see snow drifting down. Snow. In mid-summer. She heard a curse. "As if our luck were not ill enough." Sajantha looked away, pressed her face against her father's robes.

"What is the Weave without the Weaver?" Her father's voice rumbled. "Loose strands fly free with none to watch them. Accounts among Netheril's survivors spoke much the same."

Netheril? Gravity gathered, rocking her feet—like the ground might just sweep out from under her. In these high towers, it suddenly seemed quite possible, that they could fall just as Netheril had, plummet right out of the sky. And wasn't it much the same? The greatest magical city in all of history—all its lore lost when it fell—and Candlekeep was the greatest repository of knowledge today. But something like that couldn't happen again. It couldn't.

And two months ago, gods could not walk the earth. "What do you mean?" She clutched her father's sleeve for balance.

"Mystra is not the first goddess of magic to have passed. Her predecessor sacrificed herself: to preserve the Weave of Magic from an archmage that sought to steal it. Weave or Weaver, one cannot exist without the other." He squeezed her shoulder. "And magic is far too dangerous to cast when rules will not shape it."

"I'm sorry." Sajantha ducked her head against him. "I didn't mean to make it snow, Father."

"I know." He lifted his arm around her; she burrowed beneath it.

An ill omen. Midsummer was supposed to be full of love and laughter. Light. She tried not to think about her backfired spell. Or the creeping dark that came before it.

"Ah, my child." The reassuring weight of his arm pressed her close. "'None of this was your fault. Do not fret. Midsummer is a time for cheer, after all. Even such as it is."

She played with her necklace, tugged at it. "Hard to be cheerful," she admitted, "when Tethtoril's not."

"The Realms themselves in peril, and 'tis only Tethtoril's suffering that troubles you?"

"I don't know the whole Realms, Father. I know him." Tethtoril had ever had a smile for her. And she had never seen a grown man weep.

"Time is the healer of all things, Sajantha. The First Reader will recover, do not fear. And whenever a god should die, another ascends to take their place. The heart of the world shall continue to beat. It will be alright."

"Alaundo!" Sajantha recognized the sage's words, whispered them to herself, "There will always be a tomorrow..." She squirmed free, tugging the talisman from her pocket. "I want to give Tethtoril this."

"You would give it away?" Her father tilted his head. "I had thought it meant more to you."

"It does—it means a lot. I love it, Father; I really do. But what it means is a symbol. What it stands for. And I think Tethtoril should have it. He could use it more than I, right now."

A smile softened his eyes. "Very well. Shall we go offer it to him, then?"

"Thanks." Her hand slid easily into his own. "Thank you, Father. It was a really nice gift, you know? I did like it."

The First did not look up til Sajantha touched his shoulder, and then he jumped. She only increased his startlement when she explained; Tethtoril shook his head, waved her away. "You—you keep it, child. 'Tis yours, after all."

"But I want you to have it. To... to remind you. There's still magic, sir. There's still hope."

Tethtoril blinked as she set the flat stone in his hand. "It's warm," he said. He squinted at the flecks of light on its surface; they flickered in his eyes.

"It's to lift your spirits, keep them bright." She shifted. "I used up the charge already. I'm sorry about that. But tomorrow it will be back. And maybe it can help you, to remember. Magic's too important to ever go away. It will be alright." Her father had said so.

"Thank you." Tethtoril cleared his throat. His fingers curled 'round the disc, squeezed it tight. "Thank you, Sajantha." He nodded at her father, "Gorion."

Sajantha beamed, almost treading on Ulraunt's toes as she stepped back. The Keeper's mouth twisted into a grimace.

Still at her back, her father kept her from stumbling. Kept her from retreating. "I'm sorry, sir. My father and I—well, he can enchant another one—can't you?—if you'd like one yourself."

"What?" Ulraunt's eyebrows rose, then swooped back down, as if daring her to answer.

Sajantha took a breath. "The light-stone. You can have one, too." She twisted to look up at her father, but couldn't see past his gray beard. "I'm sure he could do that. If you like."

"If I...?" Ulraunt shook his head, once. "You think I care for trinkets? Have you no concept of this situation—of reality—at all? Play what games you will. I have greater concerns than enchanted rocks or uncalled-for parties right now." He waved her off.

Uncalled for! Sajantha's breath caught. "It's called for," she said. Called after him. "Keeper! The party was called for. I'm not sorry." She bit her lip. "Except for the blizzard."

Ulraunt paused, glancing at the snow outside before squinting his eyes at her. "That was your work? I might have known." A swish of dark robes, and he stalked off as fast as if those shadows still gave chase.

"Wow," said Imoen. "Can't believe you stood up to him like that. Don't think he quite believed it, either."

Sajantha sagged, letting out a breath. "I didn't even mean to. I just—I just wish I knew what could cheer him up."

"Not everyone is willing to be cheered up, child."

Sajantha shook her father's hand from her head, tilting up to smile at him. "But isn't that when they need it most?"

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Marpenoth 30, 1358 DR
Year of Shadows

"We really ought to learn him a lesson."

"What? No! He's the Keeper, Imoen. Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"He's a stuffed-up old huffpants, is what he is. Could use a good dressing-down. Besides, I got all this itching powder 'n no one to use it on." Its reassuring weight still hung from her belt; Imoen hadn't decided just who to use it on, yet. Figuring it out was always half the fun. Ulraunt sure could use some: sprinkle the rim of his teacup, maybe, and he'd snort it up his stupid big beak. Be sneezing for days.

Sajantha looked up, eyes still kind of red, like she'd gotten into the itching powder, too. Or maybe just a bit worse for wear after running into that ol' goat. "Where'd you even get something like that?" she asked.

"Found it."

Sajantha sniffled a bit of a laugh, wiped her nose. Not so red, now, with a smear of black across it. It gave Imoen an idea. "Karan's got you scribbling again, huh?"

"Scribing."

"Whatever. Think you could save me a bit of that ink when you're done?"

"I am done, or near enough. Here." Sajantha stoppered the inkwell with care. Imoen had just the spot for it in her pouch: by the powder, tucked right in. And just the plan for it, too.

"I wrote out your lessons for you," Sajantha said, straightening up some papers. "But you'll still have to copy them in your own hand."

"What!" That wouldn't work. Having that break from her studies while the gods ran amok had made for a bit of fun. Sure didn't take long for boring to set in once they got back to normal, though. Well. Mostly normal. "You promised me you'd take care of all this; I was counting on it. Puffguts' got me cleaning dishes again and I just don't got the time for it now. You, uh... hm. You got any spells for this, maybe?" Imoen pointed at the paper.

"Oh!" Sajantha's eyes shot open wide. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"'Cause you can't never see the truth plain in front of you, maybe," Imoen shrugged.

Sajantha wasn't listening. "Hm," she said, "an illusion spell, I think. Check the gold book over there—no, the tall one, there, on top of the stack. Yes! Here, I know I saw something..."

"Then don't look much like spells." Imoen watched the pages flying by, just blocks of text. The few magic scrolls she'd seen were all squiggles and scrapes. Though most of these books looked like chickens had scratched all over them. Enough to make your eyes blur. How could Sajantha stand staring at them all day?

"No," her friend said. "The spellbooks are all restricted to the upper floors. But there's still bits of magic here and there, if you know where to dig for it. Ah!" She beamed. "Forgery. It's a sort of illusory script."

"Can you cast it?" Sajantha's spells weren't so reliable all the time, even before the Godswar shook things up. "Can you even read that?" There were those squiggles, looking ready to wiggle right off the page.

"No, but there's some notes in the margin. They sound it out." Sajantha cleared her throat. "Sia cha'sid ekess douta."

Nothing. Imoen shifted, crossed her arms. "Do you need to be touching it, maybe? Or me?"

"No. It should work."

"Maybe it's just a bad translation."

"Maybe," said Sajantha, but she didn't look like she believed it. She frowned."Sia cha'sid ekess douta."

The writing hadn't changed, still in Sajantha's careful, even lettering. Looked like a bust. "Worth a try, I guess," Imoen said.

"Lunnz," Sajantha sighed. "Sazpel acuyreln yisel."

"Uh-huh. You're a real hoot."

"I falc'y ynzicw yu pel boccz."

"Yeah, yeah, cut the jibberish. Won't help me write this out any faster, will it?" She wouldn't have time to squeeze in any archery practice tonight, that was for sure.

"Mippelnilr? Fray anel zuo yahxicw apuoy!"

"I said, cut it out—it ain't funny."

Sajantha put her hand to her mouth, green eyes staring out wide above it. "Fray'l wuicw uc?" she whispered. "Zuo nelahhz vac'y relan sel?"

"I can't understand a word you're spouting. You done cast some spell on yourself, didn't you?" Okay, maybe it was a little funny.

"I titc'y selac yu!"

Imoen frowned at the scattered books. The evidence. Sajantha wasn't supposed to cast magic on her own. Wasn't supposed to do Imoen's lessons for her, either. She scratched her head. "We can't tell no one. Maybe just wait til it wears off. It'll wear off, right?"

"I... I ruqel lu." Sajantha's curls tumbled over her eyes as she slouched down.

"Can you imagine," Imoen poked her, "casting a spell like that on Ulraunt? He'd be spitting mad, he would. Shouting orders, and no one to jump for they couldn't know what he was hollering for. He'd just get hotter and hotter til steam shot out his ears."

Sajantha smiled a little bit.

Imoen took a seat beside her and picked up the pen. "I would ask you to explain this," she sighed, staring at the page she was supposed to have written, "but I bet it'd make the same amount of sense, either way."

"Boccz."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Not so long ago, near Immersea, on a road well-traveled on,
The moondark night left shadows lifted only by the dawn.
Silence but for birds aloft, a whisper on the breeze,
Til two travelers broke the quiet, marching through the trees.

Now, it comes these wizards were spinning schemes, as such sort are wont to do,
Weaving deceit and discord with all that they pursue.
But it happens a peddler happened on by—
And spying those red cloaks, he knew enough to hide.

So he came to witness how their plot was to unfold,
How they planned to catch Caladnei with this story that they told:
In their hands a pendant, and on their tongues a lie,
To be delivered to the war wizard so that she would die.

And from his nearby hollow, the witness witnessed out of sight;
They left him with this knowledge, though they left him in a fright.
For what might be done against such a powerful foe?
He knew he must do something, though he knew not where to go.

High and low he searched for aid, nearly missing how near he stood!
Just around the corner, a farmhouse waited in the wood.
'Tis the grace of gods to weave such strings of fate in every shining strand,
For who should reside therein, but—"

"Storm! Storm Silverhand."

"Do you know this story already, Sajantha?" Her father's gray brows lifted.

"I don't have to. It's Storm, right; she swoops in and saves the day, and teaches those wizards a lesson. The end."

"'The end' waits 'til the curtain drops—" Afternoon light framed her father as he tipped his head towards her, a glint catching in his eye. "And so, too, should the audience."

Imoen's giggle earned the same mock-stern look as he cleared his throat. "So the peddler took his tale to the Lady of the Dale—and what proof did he need, for so evil a deed? Red was their color, the name on their cloak: Red Wizards of Thay; they could be no other folk."

"Ooh!" Imoen shivered, bumping into Sajantha's shoulder. "I knew it!"

"But at her disposal was more than mere magic: Storm had a plan to forestall this outcome most tragic. With the love of friends and neighbors both, she knew just who to summon, who to send forth."

"What? She didn't go after them herself?"

"She sent word to Caladnei through her true friend and true heart—Rhoegantle Malyth—who did not wait to depart."

"Did he make it in time to warn her?"

"On wings of wind he flew, hastened by his honor, and his love for her, too. For feet spurred by love will ever be hasted, and at such times, evil's efforts will ever be wasted."

"Huh. Just what do ya think that amulet might've done, if they hadn't warned her?" said Imoen, leaning forward.

Sajantha tapped her chin. "What would they even need it for, anyhow? If they got that close—close enough to give her a pendant—why not just poison her, or kill her? Two of them against one."

His tale told, her father's bearing returned to normal. He leaned forward on his chair, hands clasped together over his knees. "Those wizards' ways are more wily yet, I fear. They've tricks enough to avoid blame, and Caladnei was not alone, mind."

"Maybe it was poisoned. Or they set some dark enchantment upon it—a curse! Or something that couldn't be detected at all."

"Perhaps. The Harpers thought it might draw some evil to her location, or was simply a tracking spell to allow the same."

"Like a summoning beacon?"

"No doubt their aim was suchlike. I could not say. I was not given a mind so devious as a Red Wizard's."

"Nah, if she's a war wizard, she could handle anything it summoned," Imoen said.

"Even a wizard may be caught off-guard."

"Aye; better it be something quick, then, like poison: not something she's a chance to react to. Oh!" Sajantha clapped her hands together. "I bet it was a trapped spell—a trigger. It should have been. That's less chance for it to awry."

Imoen had been working at traps, her quick fingers maneuvering tiny pieces that Sajantha almost couldn't see. How simple to place a spell trigger in one, instead? Something that wouldn't depend on aught else to get the job done: something quick and efficient. "They're Red Wizards, right? They must know all kinds of nasty spells."

Her father sat back with a sigh. "More than precocious children, even." He shook his head, pausing to give her a look. A Capital Look. She shifted. "Tell me Sajantha, why did I share this story with you? Not to ruminate on the evils of Red Wizards, surely."

A warning of some kind, though. "The evils of... magic?" No, for the target was a mage, as well.

He said nothing. Not wrong, maybe, but not right, either. Father wouldn't say that, though. Magic couldn't be evil. Not the glory of Mystra's Weave, however darkened Shar's own shadowed replication. It could be used for bad things, certainly. But so could almost anything. Like Imoen using the ink dyes to turn Dreppin's teeth black.

"There's a lesson," Sajantha ventured. He would tell her what it was, if she couldn't guess it. But she must guess it. No: she musn't guess. She ought to know. And mightn't it just have something to do with yesterday? She looked down.

"Who was the hero?" he prompted.

"Storm Silverhand. She's the Hero of Shadowdale—everyone knows that!"

"In this story," her father said, voice deliberate as if to slow her thoughts, "who is the hero?"

Sajantha fell silent. "Storm didn't do nothing in this story," Imoen reminded her.

"The knight, then. Swift and brave. He raced and stopped the pendant." Her father said nothing. But she could tell that wasn't it, either.

"There are heroes, great and small. There would be no quest at all, were it not for the message. And who bore the message?"

"The peddler!" Imoen crowed. "I get it, Mister G."

Sajantha frowned. "But—why, why not Storm? So she just said, no, thanks; I'm done being a hero? Even when people still needed saving? She just wanted to hole up in her little farm? That's not fair."

"The Harpers are a network, Sajantha, because ofttimes a task is too large for a single soul. Nor should any one be left to bear the brunt of it. There were those that could serve, and so did she delegate."

"So she just stopped doing everything once she could get people to do it for her?"

Imoen grinned. "Sounds good to me."

"Sounds lazy."

Her father sat back. "Would a hero not be allowed a reprieve? How many great feats must she perform before she deserves a chance to rest?"

"Rest on her laurels, you mean."

Imoen bobbed her head. "Why would she want to? That sounds boring."

"An uneventful life is not the punishment you take it for. Surprises seldom grow more welcome as one grows older."

Surprises like miscast magic, perhaps? That excitement hadn't been welcome, certainly. And Father only told tales that had a lesson tied in. The message in this one, then... "This is about yesterday, isn't it?" And it wasn't the spell, but that she had kept it from him—and he still knew—he still knew. Her father knew everything. Sajantha rubbed her eyes.

His voice murmured, gentle, "When you have a problem, do not keep it to yourself."

Sajantha sniffled. "So it would have been heroic for me to run and find someone else to fix it? Instead of trying to do it myself?"

"Heroes are strong, they are brave—and, if they are smart—they know, too, when to ask for help."

"But, the peddler? He wasn't a hero. He was just a... a peddler."

"Yet no quest would have been accomplished without him. And had the Wizards' plan not been thwarted, it could easily have ended in a death."

"It's a silly story," said Sajantha.

"I get it," said Imoen. "Ain't no role too small for a hero."

"The real heroes are oft found behind the scenes," he nodded. "No one may ever know what parts they play—yet oftentimes success hinges upon them. Even they may not always be aware of their pivotal role."

"Can I be a Harper, Father? That's who you mean, isn't it? Behind the scenes?"

Imoen stuck out her tongue. "You need too much attention to be a Harper. They do their work all silently, and you've just got to be center stage."

"That's not true; I'm good at being quiet! I could be a Harper, couldn't I? Father?"

"You've the heart for it, it's true. As for the discipline... time will tell. If you wish it enough, Sajantha, you could be anything you choose."

"How about the Bard of Shadowdale? Can I be her? Everybody loves her."

"I fear that role is held by another. But there is no shortage of openings for heroes, my dear."

"Oh, right," Imoen snorted. "'Cause everyone don't love you already."

Sajantha looked down. "Not hardly everyone, Imoen." She picked at the hemming of her skirt. "Ulraunt sure doesn't." The Keeper couldn't even look at her without a glare sharpening his narrow face, piercing fierce as his eyes. "He hates me. And what for?" That was the worst part, that she didn't even know. "What did I ever do to him?"

Imoen shrugged. "Reckon that hawksnarl hates everyone. Doesn't never smile about anything, does he? Don't take it to heart."

"As if a heart's something you can just turn off!"

"Dunno. Seems he managed it just fine."