"Sure wasn't!" 

And she's not, like, the chiefest expert on those topics, but at this point the sheer coordination required to deceive her about those things would be staggeringly absurd. 

"Everyone, from the tavern keeper to a knight, is giving me the same hokum. They say all Sarkoris was burned to the ground by a bunch of oglins a hundred years ago. And Kenabres--that gods-forsaken village the size of a pig's snout--was turned into a massive fortress to defend against 'em. Which means I must have slept for a hundred years and not noticed a thing. So what am I to make of this? Am I the barmy one or is it everyone else? Or maybe we've all been bewitched by fey and are living in the yarn they're spinning? Talk about a doozy..." 

"I don't know about barmy, but it seems to me that it's more likely that one person was a statue for a hundred years, than that all of us are under some kind of spell." 

"Right, that's the other thing! Explain to me plain and simple: back when we first met, in the place with all the books, how did that happen? Why did I wake up right when you came? This is horsefeathers!"

"O mighty Olesk clan chief, I have no idea why you'd think I know. You apparently are well-traveled enough to be famous throughout an entire country; I, prior to waking up unexpectedly in Kenabres, lived outside a tiny village across the Lake of Mists and Veils. I can tell you what I know, which is that you seemed to be a statue, not just a regular kind of asleep, and people can presumably carry statues all over the place, but how you ended up like that I haven't the faintest clue. As for why you woke when you did," shrug. "Maybe it had something to do with the angel's sword, but I couldn't say so confidently."

"Angel's sword?"

Lusilla pulls out Lariel's blade and lights it up. Predictably, this is very distracting to various bystanders. 

"Huh. Would you look at that." He shakes his head. "But someone has to know. Somebody got me into this mess, and when I learn who it was..." he trails off darkly. 

Lusilla actively decides not to point out that they could be a hundred years dead, and she extra specially decides not to tell him that the Storyteller had some idea of what was up with him. Not until he's, well, better-oriented to the present, at least, and not without talking to the Storyteller about it first.

"Good luck getting your answers," she settles on.

"Aye, and same to you," he nods into his mug. 

It's getting late, and it's been a long day. Lusilla does her messengering between Irabeth and Neathholm and goes to bed shortly thereafter. 

She sends another dream message to her mother, and then dreams some more about the other mother in the other house in the other forest. 

Probably it's the fact that she was just talking to Ulbrig, that gives her the impression that the forest is in Sarkoris. 

In the morning she rounds up Seelah and Woljif so that the Storyteller can look at Radiance and Finnean (and quietly suggests to Woljif that he could have the Storyteller look at the Moon of the Abyss if he wanted to; the Storyteller is good at keeping secrets. Woljif is noncomittal on this point.)

Radiance first. 

"Drezen is doomed. Demons attacked right when we lost the Sword of Valor. My city, my bastion of hope. We built you as a symbol that the lands mutilated by the Abyss could still be restored to mortals. Now you are perishing, and there is nothing I can do. We retreat, no, we flee! A frightened crowd rushes out into the night through the southern gate. They are chased by the angry howls of demons killing the last defenders of the citadel. My heart goes out to them, but I'm standing still on the wall. I am covering the retreat."

Demons do not 'attack,' they seethe around you, fall from the sky, strike from all sides at once. They can't be stopped, but they can be distracted. I run to the upper floor of the gate tower. Radiance glows with a golden light in my hands. I permit myself to close my eyes for but one moment. I imagine the soft glimmering of the sword I see through my closed eyelids is the light of the summer sun. I smile. I open my eyes and call out, 'Hey, Deskari's spawn! Who wants the best trophy of the night? You know my name--Yaniel. You know how many of you I have killed with this very hand! You want to curry favor with Minagho, Darrazand, or the Echo of your lord? Bring them my head...if you can!'"

Roaring and screaming, they rush toward me in a wave of deformed bodies and unfurled wings. The wave crashes against me, spattering my armor with bloody froth. Broken wings and chopped-up bodies plummet to the foot of the tower. In the heat of battle, I see Joran's pale face down there--he looks up at me in desperation but he can't help, he's carrying two wounded on his shoulders; Staunton guarding their backs. My city will fall, but my friends will survive! This is what I am fighting for. I am covering the retreat."

The flow of fleeing people gradually dwindles. My armor is broken in many places, and I cannot heal my wounds anymore. The last demon I stabbed with Radiance suddenly recoils, tearing the hilt out of my blood-slickened hand. He flies up but falls somewhere far beyond the walls, by the road being taken by those fleeing. No more golden glow in my hands. The night closes in on me, filled with shrieking, mocking demon laughter. Drezen, I'm dying with you. Light of the Sword, righteous Iomedae, accept my soul." 

"...I know whose memory this is. I've heard about her so many times...Yaniel was a true crusader. Touching her memories is so cleansing..." 

This is--it's not that Seelah hadn't known what happened to Yaniel, but hearing a first person perspective is still deeply moving--

"I hate to be bothersome about it, but--can you do that again? I think--I think Joran and Staunton should hear it, if possible." 

"Ah. Yes, I can do that." Also, like, inhabiting Yaniel's memories really is quite cleansing, and he doesn't mind doing it some more. 

"Thank you!" 

Joran is, as usual, at his forge in the courtyard; finding Staunton takes a little longer. 

"Aye?" he asks dourly, when he sees her. 

"So, firstly, and I should have said this sooner, but in my defense I've been busy--thank you so much for the tip-off on the Storyteller's location. We found him, he's fine, he has been super helpful. Also, we recovered Radiance, and he can use his ability on it, and we think you should hear what he has to say." 

"...Alright." 

So she drags both brothers back over to the Storyteller and has him repeat the vision. 

Staunton is holding very, very still. 

Joran places a hand on his brother's shoulder. 

"She loved you," he says quietly. "At the end, even knowing what you'd done, she still counted you among her dearest friends." 

"I'm sorry people are shitty to you. It sounds to me like--you made one mistake. And that should have been paid off years and years ago. And even before it was, that's still no excuse to treat you badly. I don't know if this is what you need to hear or if I'm who you need to hear it from, but--they are the ones who should be ashamed, not you."