The chamber was private, soundproof, and of a comfortable temperature – it made for an ideal atmosphere, one conducive to superior spellcasting. He settled in to read just before the dawn at a simple wooden desk and three-legged chair that stood level if he centered his weight just so, impervious to the fact that his secret study was altogether lightless with the door closed. All he needed was the first symbol of the phrase where he had paused in his study the night previous, and he had carefully memorized it before drifting off to sleep – the moment he spoke it the rune illuminated and drifted off the weathered page as though possessed of a life all its own, and that gentle green phosphorescence was more than enough light for him to read by.
By mid-morning the air around him was crackling with an electricity that he could feel deep down in the marrow of his bones, a by-product of the dozens of symbols shimmering like fireflies all around him. Lesser mortals might have been unnerved by the increasing influx of ancient arcane magic filling the room but he received the energy willingly, for that magic had been a part of their race since the very beginning and had preserved the strongest of them through even the most devastating of hardships. He sat there still as a statue but for the occasional movement of his right hand when it moved to turn yet another page; each time he did so reverently, marveling anew at each new material beneath his fingers. Most of the original pages were vellum, but others had been penned upon the skin of lesser races – humans, elves, tanar'ri, genasi – and still others were constructed of enchanted sheets of thin crystal where the symbols appeared to have been painstakingly chiseled in but the page was still as flexible and fragile as parchment.
Twice he paused just to admire the ponderous tome's unique cover, for it was heavy slate lined with the venerable hide of an elder blue dragon. Those who existed beyond the Great Seal might call it one of a kind, but the Deep Imaskari knew that was not the case – even so, that did nothing to sate his voracious appetite for knowledge. He read diligently, absorbing every syllable with great care, knowing that each individual symbol could be of vital importance. He knew that to overlook even the tiniest detail could result in utter disaster.
He finally ceased his study in the early evening, about a quarter of an hour before he knew High Lord Planner Illis Khendarhine would be consulting with his peers in the Emerald Atrium, and said, "Am I ready?"
The flickering runes drifting in the air dimmed then as a single cerulean spark flared to life before his keen hazel eyes; it moved as the point of a quill upon a sheaf of parchment guided by a scholar with elegant penmanship, spelling out the words he had longed to glimpse in brilliant sapphire phosphorescence: Now is the time.
So he took the heavy volume in his hands and closed it with exaggerated care, and tucking it beneath one arm he pushed open the door and carried on about his business.
His lodgings and his private study resided in the Garnet Quarter, the sector nearest to the Great Seal; he passed by it every day on his way to the Atrium, where he was required to report the results of his diligent study of the tome to the High Lord Planner. On this day he lingered near the crackling, enchantment-riddled shield that separated Deep Imaskar from the Underdark just long enough to inspect the small tear in the magical seam where he and a small group of like scholars had ventured beyond the boundaries of the city two lunar cycles ago; unfazed by the vaguely suspicious gazes of the lesser wizards who had been appointed to patrols at this hour he reached out with his left hand and traced the ragged edges of the seam lovingly with a trace of agony in his eyes. Enlightened as he now was with the secrets of his ancestors echoing through his mind he could see the distinct fractures in the shield that Lord Apprehender Ebrul's cabal of spellcasters hadn't quite been able to mend. This came as no surprise to him; the magic his people now wielded was mighty, but it paled in comparison to that which the wizard-kings of Imaskar had once employed.
Briefly he considered the notion that at least a portion of that knowledge now resided within him.
He ran his index finger the length of the seam a little more confidently this time and felt the tome tucked protectively beneath his right arm grow somewhat warmer as it filled him with its magic potential; the ragged edges grew brighter for a moment, shining an iridescent magenta in the light of the fuchsia faerzress that illuminated the Garnet Quarter, and then knit themselves back together almost instantaneously. Impervious to the ever-present crackling of the shield's energy he leaned his face in close to inspect it, pleased and momentarily awed to find that the impurity had all but disappeared in barely an instant.
The lesser wizards parted as he put them at his back, but converged upon the Great Seal at once the moment he was no longer standing between them; he ignored their excited, disbelieving whispers as he swept up the lane, but inwardly he was quite satisfied with the results. It had taken him no effort at all to repair the tear in the Great Seal, the enchanted defenses that Lord Ilphemon and his retinue from the surface world had labored tirelessly for many years to perfect. Did that mean that he could tear it down and subsequently restore it with ease whenever he had a need? Could further expeditions into the wilds of the Underdark become a possibility if the threat to the city could be minimized? He felt confident that this was the case, but there remained yet one additional matter to attend to first.
He made his way out of the Garnet Quarter and struck up a leisurely pace toward the Silver Hall, the dome-like structure at the center of the city that served as the seat of power for the High Lord Planner and his retainers. He was hailed frequently and was inwardly grateful that he had left his study with plenty of time to reach the Atrium before the session adjourned, for it was common knowledge amongst the people of Deep Imaskar that he had been responsible for successfully recovering the great tome he now carried on his person. The notion that they rupture the Great Seal and strike out into the uncharted caverns nearest to the city had been Ebrul's, and though it had been met with a general outcry of dissent the High Lord Planner had reluctantly agreed in the end. Ebrul and Furyma, the Lady Enactor, had unanimously chosen him to lead the initial excursion to locate the tome and he had delivered after a tenday of dedicated toil – not just the ancient text that their ancestors had penned, but something else as well.
The High Lord Planner had been most distressed to learn that drow were skulking in the tunnels so near to where the text was found, but most of them had been dispatched easily and the other two had been apprehended and brought back to Deep Imaskar for interrogation. He had personally questioned them both, and he had hand delivered the sword they carried to the High Lord Planner for safekeeping. How those two had escaped the city even he couldn't explain, but with the awe-inspiring arcane repertoire of the ancient tome he carried at his disposal he couldn't bring himself to be overly concerned with their disappearance any longer. He knew it was only a matter of time now before he caught up with them, and when he did he would recover the other volume they had stolen and send them swiftly to their deserved ends.
Each word of praise that came his way, every encouragement and every vote of thanks, served as an assurance that his course was the right one. His people were hardy and benevolent, and they did not deserve to remain shut away in the dank vaults deep beneath the earth – they deserved to feel the sun upon their hopeful faces and dance jubilantly beneath the cool light of the stars on the soil of their homeland. They were a proud and thriving civilization now but they had once been slaves, and before that refugees, and long before that they had been sorcerers renowned for their mastery of the arcane. As he stepped into the Silver Hall he silently swore that he would return them to the glory they had once known, no matter the cost.
He could hear the High Lord Planner issuing his closing remarks as he approached the crystalline archway that served as the entrance into the Emerald Atrium. The gate guard stepped up to deny him entrance but he froze the man where he stood with a mere glance; he hardly paused as he whisked by his now petrified kinsman, but he did offer him a single solemn nod as his promise that he would restore him to his natural state when his business was completed. He wasn't prone to acts of unprovoked barbarity and he certainly didn't delight in what he was about to do, but neither was he prepared to sit idly by and take no action. Now that he could properly utilize this power, it was his responsibility to act.
All activity ceased the moment he admitted himself; the atmosphere shifted from one of general confusion to one of goodwill when they recognized him, though, for which he was grateful. Illis Khendarhine, holder of the lofty title High Lord Planner and considered the leader of their city, rose from his seat at once and crossed the smooth crystalline floor in three leisurely strides to greet him; with a slender frame, skin the color of slate and dark eyes of jet he was considered the norm of their race by physical appearance at least, though with his generally warm disposition and trusting nature he was something of an anomaly where the private and guarded Deep Imaskari were concerned.
"Voltain Darkydle." Illis hailed him with his characteristic friendliness, both his smile and his handshake radiating sincerity. "You are most welcome, of course… Have you something of importance to share with us? It was my understanding that we were to discuss your most recent findings at the close of this meeting."
Voltain dropped the High Lord Planner's hand and scanned the Atrium inconspicuously, gauging the reactions of Illis's primary advisors before he formulated his response. Tallest amongst them and with a bald pate adorned with luminescent cerulean tattoos, Ebrul Naramixna hardly looked surprised to find him there – then again it was at Ebrul's prompting that he consider taking matters into his own hands, so it was likely the Lord Apprehender had some insight as to his true purpose here. The only member of the trio still seated was Furyma Selovan, the Lady Enactor and perhaps the most even-tempered among them – there was a touch of the exotic in her charcoal skin and her startling olive eyes, made ever more flattering by the light of the green faerzress for which the Emerald Atrium was named casting her features in a jade hue. She wore her dark hair in a plait down her back fastened with a simple iron clip and watched him with obvious intrigue, but Voltain didn't allow his gaze to linger upon her for long. Ebrul had once mentioned in passing that Furyma fancied him, and though Voltain hadn't rebuffed her he certainly had no desire to instill within her false hope. He was not interested in any sort of intimate companionship – all that he wanted from Furyma was her unwavering support in the changes he was about to bring about for their race, and nothing more.
"I will be brief," he began steadily, hardly afraid to share the true aim that had brought him here. What he wanted only Illis could grant him, and there could be no debate as to whether or not he was deserving of it. "I am here for the Third Imaskarcana."
Long ago, in the golden age when the Imaskari race had still inhabited the once-fertile lands that were now the barren and desolate stretches of the Raurin Desert, Voltain's great ancestor Lord Artificer Omanond had decreed that their vast empire's wealth of arcane knowledge be immortalized in writing. The most wizened scholars of that time had then penned the Imaskarcana – seven ancient volumes in which was detailed the Imaskari mastery over the realm of the arcane and all of the secrets they had amassed in their extensive study of the Weave. Using these arcane secrets the Imaskari race would surely have extended their influence to encompass all of the surface world, but it was not to be – when the Entry of the Gods had occurred the slaves whom the Imaskari had entrusted to help secure the legacy of their mighty empire had risen in rebellion, their race had been decimated. Empowered by the god Ptah the slaves arose as divine minions and came down from the Godswatch Mountains, killing every Imaskari artificer who had the misfortune of falling in their path and slaughtering with abandon until the population dwindled to a mere handful. Just thinking of the carnage his ancestors had faced pained Voltain greatly, and he had to work to keep that agony from showing through in his expression.
It was believed that the Imaskari race had been completely eradicated following the Entry of the Gods, but there had been survivors who were able to flee before the divine minions of Ptah overwhelmed them. Led by Lord Ilphemon – a sorcerer of great power from whom Voltain was directly descended – a small group of refugees fled to the deepest vaults of the Underdark, believing that within the darkest bowels of the earth they might be safe from the fires of rebellion. After laboring many long years to rid the massive cavern of monsters and construct the enchanted shield that would become known as the Great Seal the Lord Ilphemon and his retainers founded the city of Deep Imaskar, now thought to be the only remaining settlement of Imaskari descendants the world over. They might still have perished in that lightless and merciless land had it not been for Lord Ilphemon, who had had the foresight to take the Third Imaskarcana from the Artificer's Library before he fled; using the arcane secrets inscribed upon its timeless pages Ilphemon was able to preserve the refugees, as well as fortify their bodies and souls for survival in their new surroundings. It had taken countless centuries worth of experimentation – their race now had skin the color of stone and eyes that couldn't glimpse the sun without going blind – but through Ilphemon's innovations and determination they had survived.
When Lord Apprehender Ebrul had proposed that they fracture the Great Seal and allow a trusted few among their most talented artificers to explore the nearest neighboring tunnels Illis Khendarhine had been hesitant, and Voltain was certain he knew why. The Third Imaskarcana was their most closely guarded treasure, their life support when their world had plummeted into chaos – the power of it or any of its sister texts in capable hands could surely spell the doom of them all. Ebrul had won Furyma's support for the expedition with simple logic – wasn't it better for the other volumes to be reclaimed by their own kinsman, rather than be stolen by some other vicious subterranean race bent on destroying them at the first opportunity? How long would they survive if one of those lost tomes found its way into the hands of the illithids, perhaps, or the dark elves? It couldn't be said that either of those races possessed the natural aptitude for the arcane that the Deep Imaskari did, but with an exceptional understanding of the Weave they could potentially pose a significant threat. In the end even Illis hadn't been able to deny the benefits of allowing the artificers to explore the adjacent tunnels – better his own people than anyone else, for was every other race not an enemy?
Voltain subconsciously tightened his grip upon the Fifth Imaskarcana, the artifact he had managed to recover from the labyrinthine passageways northeast of Deep Imaskar. How it had come to be within miles of their city and why he had found it abandoned within the rubble of a collapsed tunnel he suspected he would never know – nor did it matter in the end, of course – but he had his suspicions. He had wondered in the following days whether the group of artificers the High Lord Planner had sent beyond the Seal had been the first of such parties, or if Illis had sanctioned similar expeditions before. He wondered if Illis had somehow known all along that the Fifth Imaskarcana was out there somewhere close by, and that he had been guarding that knowledge as closely as he now guarded the volume of the Imaskarcana that currently resided in his possession. Though the Third Imaskarcana had been passed down from one High Lord Planner to the next since the founding of Deep Imaskar, Voltain couldn't help but ponder whether this was a sound decision. Illis didn't want to use the knowledge with which he had been gifted to benefit his people – he wanted to use it to protect himself, and the weighty title he had grown so fond of over the years.
And on that matter, at least, Voltain and Illis would never see eye to eye.
Illis' eyes flitted momentarily to the ancient text that Voltain held cradled in the crook of his arm, and Voltain felt a sudden surge of all-consuming protectiveness toward the tome he carried. If the High Lord Planner insisted on trying to take the Fifth Imaskarcana from him by force, he was prepared to defend it with all the strength he could muster. "I see you have been… studying… the volume you recovered from the Underdark. What could be written within it that would prompt you to turn against me, I wonder?"
"We should be using these, Illis," Voltain told him, utterly calm and unerringly focused. "The secrets immortalized within these pages are our salvation. If we utilize what we have we could return to the surface world and lay claim to the lands that were once our own, or at the very least expand Deep Imaskar into some of the neighboring caverns. The potential for advancement is limitless. Think of all that we could accomplish."
"I must admit," said Illis icily, in a tone that suggested he hadn't heard a word Voltain had said, "that when I agreed to allow you to study that text, I never dreamed you would rise up against me."
Voltain squared his shoulders and fixed the High Lord Planner with an even stare. "I am not questioning your authority and I am not challenging your position," he explained rationally. "I am urging you to make use of what we have been given, for the benefit of us all. And I am telling you that if you are not willing to do what is necessary, I will do so in your place."
"Voltain!" gasped Furyma, at last vacating her chair as a wave of shock washed over her face, but he didn't allow his eyes to focus on her. Illis Khendarhine was his concern now, not his advisor. Briefly he glanced Ebrul's way, and the Lord Apprehender nodded once in encouragement. Voltain was no fool – he knew that Ebrul was hoping to wrest power from Illis, and that when this upstart artificer supplanted him that he could simply take the mantle of High Lord Planner for himself. He needed Voltain for his own advancement – the moment Voltain's usefulness had run its course, Ebrul would utterly abandon him to whatever fate found him first.
He hadn't been entirely truthful with Ebrul either, but the Lord Apprehender would see that for himself soon enough.
"Give it to me," the High Lord Planner growled in a steely voice, and when he took a menacing step forward Voltain instinctively dropped back and crushed the tome even more tightly against his side. "It has corrupted your mind."
"I am seeing more clearly now than I ever have," argued Voltain coolly, "but if you believe your understanding of the Third Imaskarcana might rival what I have learned in my weeks of study, then come and take it. Is that not the only way we might decide who is more worthy to wield both?"
Though he felt as though he had significant insight into Illis' character, Voltain was still quite taken aback by the way Illis chose to respond to his challenge.
Illis Khendarhine snarled and dropped into a predatory crouch, raw arcane energy rolling off his body in waves; the magic he emanated was a tangible thing, violently undulating colors and gusts of cruel wind and a keening howl that made Voltain want to clap his hands over his ears, but somehow he resisted that urge and kept his grip on the tome beneath his arm. Furyma's plait was whipping wildly around her face and Ebrul was gripping the back of his chair with all his might to avoid being swept off his feet in the gale, and it was all Voltain could do to shield his eyes with one arm and fight against the currents by distributing his weight alone. The colors of the magical field brightened in intensity, making Voltain's eyes water and threatening his balance with motion sickness, and when the unearthly keen reached a crescendo that threatened to rupture his eardrums Illis let loose with a pulse of arcane magic so intense that it ripped shards of green crystal from the ground underfoot as it passed.
Voltain clutched the Fifth Imaskarcana to his chest with all his might, prepared to defend it to the last, and managed to growl out the trigger phrase to a mighty spell he had only just memorized earlier that morning during his diligent hours of study. Immediately the effects of the spell – the nausea, the blindness, the howl and the gale – ceased to disturb him, and drawing himself up straight he recognized the thin silver sheen of defensive magic that had enveloped him in response to his incantation. Cradling the text in one arm he passed his hand over the cover, and when the pages fluttered open to the precise dweomer he had envisioned he spoke the words clearly and confidently, his voice resonating throughout the Emerald Atrium like thunder splitting the sky –
The wave of raw magic that Illis had summoned glanced off the shimmering shield as light refracts harmlessly off a reflective surface; Voltain stood unharmed behind it, and didn't even feel the impact of the spell when it struck. He spoke the final syllable of his own incantation and the magical wave rebounded back at the caster from which it originated, engulfing the High Lord Planner in roaring iridescent flames and twisting his slender body in unnatural ways as he writhed helplessly within its depths; from very far away, it seemed, he could hear the faint sound of Furyma screaming…
"Enough," said Voltain softly, and in response to his voice the flames dissipated and dropped the limp form of Illis Khendarhine to the ground, where he moaned incoherently and lay quite still. "I do not wish to fight you – we are kinsmen, after all, and though I do not agree with your motives that does not mean I do not respect you." He looked then to Ebrul Naramixna, who had watched the proceedings most unconcernedly, and added, "Where is the Third Imaskarcana? I believe I have proven that I deserve to wield it."
The Lord Apprehender shook his head, the luminescent cobalt tattoos inscribed upon his scalp blurring as he did so. "The High Lord Planner has neglected to share its location with us." He moved to stand over Illis and nudged him gently with the toe of his boot, asking, "Where are you keeping it? Voltain is right, Illis – you are no longer fit to protect the Third Imaskarcana. Give it to him. There can be no doubt that he is more worthy of it than you."
Illis raised his head, his dark eyes flashing mutinously, and grunted out, "I will never surrender the Third Imaskarcana to you."
Ebrul's answering facial expression was murderous, and he seemed to be considering a physical retaliation when Voltain raised a hand to stop him. "Leave him be for now, Lord Apprehender, I beg of you. Through further study of the Fifth Imaskarcana I am certain that I will be able to pinpoint its location before long, and there will be no reason to humiliate the High Lord Planner any more than we already have." He snapped the ponderous tome shut with a single flick of his wrist and tucked it beneath his arm again, whereupon he seemed to briefly consider how best to proceed before adding almost as an afterthought, "I am hereby appointing myself Lord Artificer – the people need someone to speak with their voice and act with their best interests at heart, and I am not afraid to be that man. Tomorrow I will appear before the people of Deep Imaskar and announce my new title, as well as what I plan to accomplish on their behalf – my Lord Apprehender, I humbly ask that you make the arrangements."
"I will see to it," Ebrul promised broodingly, still glaring down at Illis Khendarhine with disdain.
"I thank you." Voltain shifted his attention to Furyma Selovan, who had all but collapsed back into her chair and was clutching her chest in fright, her wide eyes roving his face as though scouring it for answers; with effort Voltain was able to soften his face into an expression he was certain she would find both appealing and intriguing, and in a gentle voice he beseeched her, "Lady Enactor, there is little I would ask of you now – I understand that these events have frightened you, but I give you my word that I do not intend to excite our people to civil war. All I ask is that you support my endeavors in the days to come – it is my greatest wish that we might come to some sort of amicable agreement."
The idea of playing Furyma's affections for his benefit was far from ideal, but he was rewarded in the next moment when she said, "You can rest assured, Lord Artificer – if I am able to locate the Third Imaskarcana, I will deliver it to you without delay."
Voltain nodded his appreciation before casting one last pitying glance down at the High Lord Planner, who had yet to even lift himself up into a sitting position; for a moment he was compelled to help the other man up, but he resisted in the end. If he was going to act as Lord Artificer he needed to exude an aura of unshakeable strength, and he could no longer tolerate the inherent weakness of others. "Were I you, Illis, I would reconsider my loyalties very carefully in the near future. I intend to charter a course for us that will one day lead back to the surface world where we belong; we may not see that day in our lifetime, but surely you don't want the fact that you opposed this great change to be your legacy, do you?"
Illis Khendarhine let his defiant glare serve as his only response, but Voltain didn't allow himself to feel put off by this. Despite his unexpected assault, Illis was a man of high rationality – before long he would undoubtedly come to see how rash and impulsive his actions had been, and when he did he was sure to turn over the Third Imaskarcana most willingly. Until then Voltain had little choice but to continue to cultivate good working relationships with both Ebrul and Furyma; separately they didn't have the authority to oppose the High Lord Planner, but together they could see to it that each and every one of his decrees was made null and void until they felt assured of his complete cooperation. Both of them had already agreed to support Voltain's claim to the title of Lord Artificer, and with their continued assistance his claim would become something much more – it would become reality, and he would be named the undisputed leader of the Deep Imaskari race. To his knowledge there hadn't been a Lord Artificer since the days of Lord Ilphemon and his retinue – to Voltain, who was rumored to share Ilphemon's bloodline, this seemed fitting somehow.
"I will expect you to be in attendance when I address the people tomorrow, Lord Khendarhine," Voltain warned, and turning he excused himself from the Emerald Atrium.
He made certain to revive his petrified kinsman on his way out of the Silver Hall. He was a man of his word.
Voltain Darkydle considered himself an even-tempered and likeable man – even despite his very recent disagreement with Illis Khendarhine – but he couldn't help feeling disgruntled when he returned to his private lodgings to find that Illyria had let herself in again. How she repeatedly managed to bypass the nigh-impenetrable security offered by the Great Seal's magical defenses he had yet to determine, but he silently swore to himself that if he ever found out he would go to great lengths to deny her access.
She was seated on the windowsill and looking down on the magnificent view of the city when he arrived, her little feet in their white stiletto heels swinging in her state of perpetual amusement, and he had to battle back the urge to push her out the window – then again, she would have recovered easily. With her luxurious black gloaming's wings, she would simply have flown back up to his apartment and alighted upon the windowsill with a shriek and one of those tinny little laughs of hers that made him grind his teeth. He glared disapprovingly at her gracefully folded wings and briefly entertained the mental image of using his newfound prowess of the arcane to burn them off her back, running a hand through his severely straight black hair and exhaling softly in frustration. As pleasing as the notion was, it would be better to let her make her report – the sooner she finished updating him, the sooner he could be rid of her and find some peace. "What do you want, Illyria?"
"Y'know, before I killed my daddy, he used to tell this stupid story about the faerzress." Her voice was high and lilting, a simpering, sugary-sweet sound that made his skin crawl; she turned to face him, her too-large eyes twin sapphires of over-exaggerated innocence in her youthful face and her cherubic features darkened with skepticism. "He said it's what the faeries leave behind when they die. How many faeries did you and your sorcerer friends kill just so you could live in this ugly cave?"
"That's only a foolish myth," he told her wearily, suddenly feeling as though he hadn't slept in years. How could someone so young and lovely and vivacious be so supremely annoying?
Illyria tilted her head to one side and wrapped a lock of her auburn hair around one little index finger, twirling it into a curl before releasing it and letting it bounce off her narrow shoulder. She had a habit of doing that when she was pretending to play dense about something, and it never failed to grate on Voltain's nerves. "So you didn't kill anybody? It was just empty when you got here?"
He stood in the center of the room with the Fifth Imaskarcana still tucked in close to his right side, unwilling to allow himself to relax in her presence. In truth he longed to shed his boots and greatcoat and lay the tome aside for a moment or two, for he had been carrying it around for hours and it had a way of weighing upon his soul as well as his muscles, but the only place he felt it would be safe in Illyria's presence was in his arms. He had seen the way she looked at that ancient text penned by his brilliant ancestors – with a hungry kind of longing that made him feel distinctly uneasy. He had no doubt that if he left it unattended for even a moment she would steal it and flee the city, and he had a feeling that if that particular set of circumstances ever came to pass that he would find it nearly impossible to track her down again. "We killed monsters," he corrected her irritably, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Goblins, svirfneblin, slyth, duergar, even fiends according to Lord Ilphemon's journals. We killed whatever we had to kill in order to survive."
"Then how do you know you didn't kill any faeries?" she pointed out, jutting her lower lip out in a pout; the lurid pink lipstick she wore had been sloppily applied, yet another aspect of her appearance that wore down his last remaining nerve. "You weren't even there, were you?"
"Of course I wasn't," Voltain snapped impatiently. "That was centuries ago, before even my grandparents were born. Why are you here? If anyone ever sees you – "
"Relax," she whined, shrugging off the windowsill and fluttering into his apartment comfortably as though she thought herself a welcome guest; her too-tall heels clacked noisily upon the slate-grey stone underfoot, loud in the relative peacefulness that characterized the whole of the Garnet Quarter. "Nobody ever sees me. Everybody's got their nose in some spellbook around here, it's a wonder they get anywhere without tripping over their own feet!" She giggled girlishly at her own childish jibe, prompting Voltain to shudder with disgust and turn his back on her; though he passed through the sitting room to his private chambers she insisted on following along in his wake, perfectly at ease, stretching her arms up over her head and letting out a childlike yawn. The Fifth Imaskarcana felt like a tombstone under his arm – oh how he longed to put it down! "So, Lord Artificer? Y'know, I knew you were gonna say that like, two whole weeks ago. What took you so long? How did Khendar-whatsit take the bad news? Did he give you that other super boring book that nobody ever reads?"
Contradicting her was pointless so he didn't even bother; bandy words with the immature Illyria and you would go mad before you got your point across, but present her with enough factual data and she would eventually get bored and abandon her foolish games. "Lord Khendarhine," he corrected purely on impulse, "refused to turn over the Third Imaskarcana to me, and his advisors have no knowledge of where it is kept – "
"That you know of," Illyria interrupted unashamedly, ruffling her wings in irritation. "Honestly. You don't seriously still think you can trust that guy Ebrul, do you? He's a bad, bad man, Volt, and the first chance he gets he's gonna ditch you and steal your dusty old book for himself."
The thought instilled within him such rage that he overlooked the use of the obnoxious moniker Illyria had taken to calling him by, tightening his grip on the ancient volume he held and growling, "He is welcome to try, but he has no hope of succeeding against me. Lord Khendarhine has surely studied the Third Imaskarcana at least to some degree – it has been in his possession for nearly six decades, after all – and he was no match for me today. Ebrul has never so much as laid eyes upon even a single page – he has no hope of standing against me. His only option is to pledge his allegiance to me for now."
"Whatever," scoffed the blue-eyed gloaming, and hopping up onto his meticulously-made bed she folded her arms over her petite bosom and crossed her feet at the ankle, fixing him with a stare that suggested she was already bored with their conversation. "Just don't depend on him too much. He's bad news. I've seen some of the stuff he does to you later on and it's not pretty… Good thing you can take care of yourself, or I might be a teensy bit worried."
Briefly Voltain considered asking her to elaborate on that, but he thought better of it in the end for the sake of his own sanity. Illyria was a fatespinner, one of a truly uncommon few who possessed the ability to influence fate in their favor – or the favor of those they chose, which was one of the only reasons he continued to abide her presence. Oftentimes the events that had already been "decided", as she preferred to call them, required only a brief and concise explanation for him to understand, but still others were not so certain – these he was careful to avoid asking for clarification on, for Illyria would launch into every single possible outcome with painstaking detail and waste hours of his time with her own pointless conjectures. Most of the time Illyria could be counted on to divulge the details of "decided" events without any further prompting from him, and he knew well enough when not to pry. Privately he vowed to be more careful around Ebrul Naramixna in the days to come.
"Don't worry about your little pep rally tomorrow," Illyria added, fanning the air with one silken-gloved hand as though to assuage some worry he didn't know he had. "Everybody will love you, I've already decided. Good thing too – you're gonna be pretty busy from here on out, and you'll need the support of your adoring fans to do all the stuff you're gonna promise them you'll do."
She was baiting him into asking for her insight, Voltain knew, but still he resisted the intrigue. If he gave into her cryptic babble now he would find little rest this night, and he needed to be at his best when he addressed the public tomorrow. Lord Artificer! He could scarcely believe the bold stride he had taken, and hoped Illyria was right in saying his declaration would be well received. "Illyria," he bade her, the hint of a plea in his voice as he ran one hand down his face, "please tell me why you've come. You must have something to share, and I confess – I am fatigued from my studies as well as from my confrontation with the High Lord Planner. If you insist on assailing me with these vague clues of yours, I must ask you to leave."
"Oh, fine," she sighed, twining a strand of her hair around her finger double-time – a sure sign that she was resigned to do things his way for the moment. "You're always ruining my fun, I don't even know why I bother…" She threw one last pout his way but Voltain didn't even bat an eye, so she heaved a sigh and delved to the heart of the matter. "Remember that other dumb book that you don't have anymore? Y'know, the one that those drow snatched right out from under your nose before they ran out of here?"
"Keep your voice down!" Voltain hissed, unable to hide the wince that her pointed observations incited to cloud his expression, and Illyria veritably glowed with pride at the obvious success of her jibe. It was true – the Sixth Imaskarcana had been in his possession for a short time, but the pair of drow he and his fellow artificers had apprehended near the excavation site two lunar cycles ago had somehow stolen it from him before vanishing into the wilds of the Underdark. To this day he had no explanation for how they had managed to escape his clutches – he had been so careful! – but they had taken with them the Sixth Imaskarcana and so far he had failed to track them down. Worst of all, Lord Khendarhine and his retainers hadn't the faintest idea that the text was no longer in his keeping – no one did, save for the infuriating little gloaming making herself at home upon his handsomely-stitched quilt. That was how he had fallen in with her in the first place – one minute he had been cursing his lack of foresight and the next minute she had shown up at his side, completely uninvited with extensive knowledge of his single greatest failure at her disposal. Voltain still didn't know what Illyria was after or why she bothered with him at all, but he knew one thing for certain – if she ever grew tired of him, or decided that the companionship of Lord Khendarhine suited her far better, all she need do was breathe a word of his disgrace. That was all it would take to ruin him.
Illyria beamed at him; it was clear in her too-bright smile that she took thorough enjoyment in his panic, and had certainly been hoping to wring such a reaction from him. "You remember though, right?"
He turned his back on her yet again, veritably trembling with anger at her audacity. Did she not understand that he would lose all credibility if knowledge of his failure reached the wrong ears? Did she care for nothing but her foolish child's games? "Get out, Illyria. I have quite enough on my mind without worrying over how I will ever recover that which I've lost." Voltain meant to leave that as his parting remark and simply vacate his private lodgings – surely there was somewhere else he could go to escape the saccharine-sweet gloaming's constant badgering? – but her next words stopped him in his tracks before he could even exit the room.
"I found it."
Voltain nearly dropped the book he held, so complete was his surprise; when he whirled back to confront her for her audacious declaration it was to find her sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, her chin propped on one little fist, all traces of her previous juvenile mirth gone. There was a dark smile of utmost superiority playing at the corners of her mouth that boiled his blood with rage – he so longed to be rid of her, but begrudgingly reminded himself that this simply wasn't a feasible option. Illyria knew too much and had the potential to be of overwhelming value to him – or to anyone else she chose, for that matter – and it was because of the fact that she dealt fate's hand that he felt compelled to keep the peace between them. Much as he detested admitting as much, he needed her – her far-seeing gaze and her uncanny ability to influence events in his favor were two things that he was reluctant to give up now.
"You found it?" he echoed at last, his voice dubious. How could she possibly have managed to track down the stolen tome he had spent the past two lunar cycles exhausting his own personal resources to locate? "You found the Sixth Imaskarcana? The one the drow stole from me?"
"Yeah, yeah, that one." Illyria tapped her fingernails against her too-white teeth, feigning boredom. "I mean, don't get too excited, it's not like I brought it with me or anything… But yeah, I know where it is."
"Where is it?" Was it still somewhere in the Underdark, within his reach? Even if the drow had taken it back to one of their matriarchal cities, Menzoberranzan or even Ched Nasad, Voltain felt confident that he could recover it with careful planning… and a little intervention from fate's winged minion, of course.
Illyria smirked in a way that made Voltain uneasy. "You're not gonna like it."
"Whether or not I like what you are about to tell me is irrelevant," Voltain pointed out diplomatically. Illyria was too simple-minded to understand his obsession with locating the other volumes of the fabled Imaskarcana; she segregated the events of her life into two categories – things she enjoyed and things she didn't – and he had long suspected her of lending him her aid simply because she found his predicament amusing. There was little hope she would understand his determination if he admitted he was willing to do whatever was necessary in order to recover what had been stolen from him. "I need to know where it is. Those volumes belong to the descendants of the old Imaskar Empire, and no one else."
"Ugh, you're so serious all the time," sighed the petite gloaming, picking at a stray thread that was unraveling at the hem of her asymmetrical, translucent white dress. "You take all the fun out of everything! Fine, I guess, if you wanna know so bad… the Princes of Shade have it."
At first, this revelation meant very little to Voltain – the term dimly sparked something in his memory, but not enough to incite him to any particular emotional response. "The Princes of Shade have it."
Illyria rolled her eyes again and threw her hands in the air, obviously disappointed that he hadn't instantly flown into a vengeful rage. "Oh, come on! The Princes of Shade?! The shadow masters of Thultanthar?! Everybody knows who they are – I swear, you've been stuck down here too long, Volt. They're like, descended from some other wizarding society that used to be a big deal. Nether-something."
"The Netherese Imperium?" Voltain clarified, running a hand through his hair yet again.
"That's the one!" crowed Illyria, clapping her hands together in an overdone show of congratulations, and this time Voltain actually did put the Fifth Imaskarcana down upon his meticulously-organized study desk. He simply couldn't trust himself to support its weight any longer, not now that he knew just what he was dealing with.
Later Imaskari history chronicled the rise of the Netherese Imperium, a separate sect of the human race comprised primarily of mortals of above-average arcane strength. Their empire was said to begin with the enclave of Xinlenal which had been created by the Netherese archwizard Ioulaum, the first of their kind to successfully harness the power of the mythallars and enable their cities to take to the air. The Imaskari wizard-kings had witnessed little else of the rise and fall of Netheril, but Lord Ilphemon's ilk had been diligent historians and made it their duty to pen not only the founding of Deep Imaskar, but the key events of every other civilization in Faerun; thanks to their thorough record-keeping, Voltain knew of the events that had brought about the fall of the Netherese Imperium. Magical residue from the floating cities poisoned the race known as the phaerimm, subterranean abominations who fed upon the excess magic and rose from their lightless tunnel homes in retaliation; the phaerimm had cast spells with the sole purpose of draining the energy and vitality from the floating enclaves, and the Netherese had fled their homes in a panic. One aspiring archwizard called Karsus had then responded in desperation, casting a powerful experimental spell that linked him with the old goddess Mystryl; her divine strength had proven too much for the young Karsus, however, and the resulting swell of arcane power had caused the Weave to rupture. Mystryl managed to sever the connection between herself and Karsus before the sudden influx of magic could destroy all of Faerun, but the resulting arcane aftershocks had caused the mythallars to malfunction; as a result each and every one of the floating cities of Netheril had plummeted for the ground, killing thousands and leaving the survivors easy prey for the vengeful phaerimm.
All except for one.
The archwizards of Thultanthar had been experimenting with interplanar shifts in the weeks leading up to the fall of Netheril, and just before Karsus's disastrous joining with Mystryl had managed to phase their entire city into the mysterious Realm of Shadow. They had remained there for several weeks, studying the planar makeup of their unfamiliar surroundings and determining if they might harness that energy into potent spellcasting before returning to the Material Plane, to find that the rest of their kind had become extinct in their absence. Their illustrious leader, known only as Lord Shadow, had vowed to avenge the fallen Netherese archwizards before returning Thultanthar to the Shadowfell, where a set of unforeseen circumstances had unfolded that kept the city suspended in shadow for seventeen centuries. Voltain knew that Thultanthar had returned to the skies above Anauroch, the once-fertile lands that the phaerimm had reduced to a barren desert wasteland in their lust for retribution, in recent years, but he had never dreamed that one of the volumes of the Imaskarcana might somehow land in their midst. Compared to the wizard-kings of old Imaskar the shadow masters of Thultanthar were hardly a threat, but if they somehow learned to wield the Imaskarcana…
"How did this happen?" Voltain demanded, his voice grave. Truly, this was a dark day for Imaskar.
Illyria shrugged, hardly concerned. "One of those drow that escaped had a buddy up in Thultanthar, I guess – he was gonna take that sword to him, but you stole it, so they stole your book. Funny – if you had just let them keep their stupid sword, you'd probably still have it!"
Voltain's jaw tensed with irritation; it was clear in his expression that he did not appreciate the irony. "And how do you know all these things, Illyria?"
"I know people," she answered vaguely, and hopping lightly down from his bed she made a show of stretching as she wandered past him. "Don't worry, you'll figure out a way to get it back; I've already seen a few of your better ideas, and they have potential. In the meantime, get some rest for tomorrow. Your speech is short and sweet, but people like it and they'll be patting you on the back all day."
Briefly Voltain wondered how much of his speech the people would actually enjoy and how much of their enjoyment was influenced by Illyria and her twisted magic, but he held his tongue and watched her go. He was curious, but not enough to ask.
The next day he appeared before the people of Deep Imaskar and announced his new position as Lord Artificer, as well as his plans to reclaim the lands that had once belonged to their ancestors and lead them on a mass exodus back to the surface world.
And they loved him, just as Illyria had promised they would.