A/N: Pheeeeeeew... so... here it is at last. Finally. I really don't know what took me so long. :D I hope you enjoy this little darkish story - if so, please review and let me know. :) Meet Avernon-l'Arque and the Tie... and some weird magic, too. :D So snuggle in your chair and listen to a tale of ancient heritages and an improbable friendship...

III. Secrets of My Pride

"State your full name."

"Idrielle Stino."

"State your age."

"Seventeen."

"State your home plane and your home world."

"The Prime Material, Abeir-Toril."

The chamber was spacious, pleasant, its walls paneled in dark brown wood. A faint smell of new parchment, brass clockworks and exotic learnings lingered in the air. Two large windows looked out onto a wide avenue illuminated by tall, ornamental street lights with small balls of blue-white electricity burning in their lanterns made of avariel glass. The intricate brass machines were humming softly as their fragile components spun around and around.

The statuesque, ruby-haired clairvoyant conducting the entrance certifications frowned slightly.

"Is there something wrong?" the old dwarven president of the verifying commission asked. "Is he lying?"

"Not… exactly…" The tall, otherwordly female furrowed her brow. Idrielle noticed that her crimson pupils were slit like those of a cat. "But it is not the entire truth, either."

One of the other two commission members sitting with the dwarf behind the heavy beechen table, a young woman with auburn hair tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, smiled at Idrielle a little. An air of formality and a quiet freedom of thought mingled in the room, an insatiable curiosity harnessed to create new knowledge.

"Young man," the dwarf turned to the mage sitting in the characteristic red-cushioned chair of an applicant for admission. "There is no need for you to lie. The demiplane of Avernon-l'Arque is a most liberal city, and does not judge one's origins and intentions as long as the person in question is interested in study. These data will never leave our archives. It has never happened in the history of the University." His tone was strict but kind, like that of a well-meaning grandfather admonishing his talented grandchild for hindering their gift's coming into fruition.

Idrielle's expression didn't change. Kay was sitting right next to him, his ears flat against his head in displeasure, his snowy fur faintly bristled. He kept silent, however.

"The Prime Material, Abeir-Toril."

The clairvoyant nodded this time.

"State your racial origin."

This was the truly tricky part. Idrielle didn't even blink as he slipped into the Dreaming for a bit, his eyes taking on the barest golden glint.

"Human."

The clairvoyant looked at him for a moment, then, absentmindedly, nodded again. The committee never noticed.

"As of 1361 DR in the lands of Toril, allowed to participate in entrance examinations of the Faculty of Occult Sciences in the university demiplane of Avernon-l'Arque."

-----

"He's a strange one, that boy, is he not?" Erie Doven l'Arque ponderingly poured himself more white wine out of an ornate decanter fashioned of thick, blood-red crystal.

"Many who study here are, Lord Protector," Raelvar Ihra replied shortly, surreptitiously looking out of the window and pulling the dark gold cowl of his cloak lower over his face. "More than forty percent of our population consists of extraplanar races."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what are you getting at?" The archmage turned around, his sharp golden eyes irritated.

The Lord Protector didn't notice. Raelvar's emotions never left the dark privacy of his hood.

"Didn't you hear all the talk? Although, 'talk' is probably a way too strong word for this kind of unclear gossip. What about half-outlined, vague whisperings?"

"I do not have the time for this. If he did break the city law, you can have him arrested or exiled. Otherwise, Avernon-l'Arque wasn't established so that we could pry into our students' business."

"I had been elected for this position to take care of the University. That includes the safety measures as well. Even more so because of our constantly fluctuating population. Students come, students go. Did you hear how much he supposedly knows about the old Netherese Empire?"

"So what? He specializes in ancient nations? That's none of my business! I am not even one of the Nine Professors. Just passing through! Yeah, that's me, an extraplanar freak, Doven, a 'strange' person indeed. Give me a break."

"I did not mean to upset you. I am just curious about that young man. There were some rumours… So I have checked him out. He strongly gravitates toward energy necromancy, and is damn good at it, too. Also studies divination and is particularly interested in history. An exceptionally talented student, I hear from every corner. He doesn't talk much, keeps to himself most of the time…"

"So… let me get it straight. You are bothered that a quiet, clever youth studies some of our licensed disciplines."

Erie Doven l'Arque sipped some of the strong, dry wine, pondering. "If you want to put it that way… yes."

-----

It took Idrielle almost half a year until he finally found out what the symbol meant.

He deemed it highly ironic – and more than a little offensive, truth be told – that after months of studious searching, it was completely by accident.

It was Tarsakh, and the last of snow was melting on the graceful streets of Avernon-l'Arque. Brass conveyances powered by steam channeled through complicated engines from miniscule summoned storms raging under their bonnets whirred quietly as they crossed the patterned avenues. Those of the diverse residents who weren't rushing head over heels for their afternoon lectures were slowly walking along the pavements, talking, discussing… well, just a different expression for arguing, really, but since it was all meant in an academic spirit, nobody minded.

The First Library of Arcana was full of theology students. Those from the Faculty of a Hundred Faiths had been given an assignment to conduct a complete research of an artifact commonly associated with their chosen deity, and for many of them, arcane magic was an infinite well of uncomprehensible headaches. Only acolytes of such gods as Mystra, Azuth, Corellon Larethian or Arkhavje were smiling smugly, grinning as they leafed through their familiar arcanabulas, finally utilizing their occult talents.

So it would probably come as no surprise that the atmosphere was anxious… smothering… fraught with panic... fairly typical for that time of the year. There were just three days left to finish the task.

Idrielle had never thought he would have to fight his way through chairs full of swearing Moradin's dwarves, helpless githyanki banging their foreheads against the tables and smirking elves taunting miserable Helven's followers in a place normally favoured by wizards. On one occasion, he was forced to pass a brass dragon and a metal elemental arguing about the correct pronunciation of the word 'belief' in Loross, the elegant language of the old Netherese archwizards.

Idrielle felt no urge to inform them that they were both wrong. Instead, he slipped around the corner, unnoticed as was his custom when he wanted to remain that way, and found an isolated study chamber away from the crowd. He sat down at a fragile ebony desk typical for many official buildings in the city, its single slender leg engraved with interlacing fragments of extraplanar maps.

He couldn't stand masses. Masses didn't like to think, and where there was a lack of sound thinking, facts were difficult to convey. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the noise, either, but he assumed it couldn't be helped in the middle of a horde of disoriented novices, so he simply didn't occupy himself with fruitless exasperation.

He fixedly stared at the tall, neat shelves full of miscellaneous history reports, occult theories, philosophical appraisals and grimoires heavy and light, some of them bound in studded leather, some in velvet, other in glass – all of them stubbornly refusing to yield the key to his one major obsession besides his studies since he had come to Avernon-l'Arque.

The shelves stared back.

It had to be somewhere. His attempts to determine whether it related to dark magic or to a general, merely more obscure source of the Art had all been unsuccesful so far, the same as his investigations throughout the University, discreetly asking the likely people. And yet, he was still fairly sure the dweomer he was trying to identify, albeit rare and surely dangerous, was not perceived as forbidden, nor was it under any kind of taboo.

He was at his wits' end. Absent-mindedly, his slender fingers brushed aside his bright golden bangs and softly touched the silver mark on his forehead. He had been living with it for whole six years. Those six years were his, they belonged to him, to his life, to his allotted time. He was not willing to share. It was absolutely unacceptable that he wouldn't figure out its exact meaning.

He regarded the books with a renewed defiance, almost as if challenging them to a duel.

A faint rustle of paper whispered in the air.

A tall rack littered with old manucripts too fragile to be stored away with other documents came crashing down to his right suddenly, the dark wood splintering with a loud snap as it gave way under the weight of someone's stumble.

Idrielle started, then immediately jumped aside, rolling his chair over as he fell, sharp pieces of ebony narrowly missing his face.

For a moment, the world disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Then the sound of a muted chuckle sneaked in through the indistinct hum in Idrielle's ears, low and hysterical, the laughter of a man in the nightmare of confused madness.

The old rapier Idrielle'd saved from the ruins of his family's life went back into its sheath as he slowly climbed to his feet, his eyes intense on the figure heavily leaning on the wreck of paper, ink and half-toppled planks.

A tall male in ripped up claret robes with stunning amber eyes flecked with red clutched a torn piece of wrinkled parchemnt in his pale, almost transparent hands, his longish crimson hair stringy with sweat. His face, once fine and sharp, was now wasted and worn, pallid beyond the wildest belief.

He was laughing.

Idrielle stood, wary, just looking, gauging the situation, his mind quickly calculating the fastest possible way to kill if the man proved to be an obstacle. Something seemed familiar about him, as if the wizard had seen him – or someone very much alike – before.

The stranger paused for a moment, fixing his stare on the sheet in his grasp with a bewildered expression of utter surprise.

"My, my," he muttered. "Seems it had not gone so well after all…"

Idrielle kept silent. He was not afraid. He could always Remember how to be Iruan if there were any need to defend himself and he had no time to cast one of his more or less regular spells.

The other man began to tremble gently, his glazed eyes losing even the last bit of their focus. He went more pale still. Went he next spoke, it was as if his body and the source of his voice were very far away from each other.

"They were right… the reason was not good enough… I'll tell you something, kid," and he lifted his astonishing gaze from the page to Idrielle's own deep, silver-flecked emerald eyes, both of them wise beyond their years, "the Tie was not meant to bind two people together. Never try to bind two souls…"

In that moment, Idrielle remembered where he knew that man from. The ruby-haired clairvoyant who'd verified him in Eleint had a lover – he'd seen the two of them on the stairs of the Faculty of Cosmology the day after he'd passed the entrance examinations and had been admitted to the University for further studies of occult sciences. He was of the same race as she, cat-like in their grace and appearance, quick to anger, but with an incredible knack for finding lost things.

Their looks locked across the small room. "It is also called the Shackle, you know," the clairvoyant's lover said, softly. "And now I understand… we are truly going to be one now…"

A light, unseen wind wafted through the chamber, bearing subtle mist on its wings. For just a second, the mist formed a familiar symbol of a stylized sun in the air, and then all of the carmine mage's breath left his body, a ghostly silhouette of steam copying his every feature, every detail shaping out of his last exhalation. After a while, it dissipated with a soft sigh, leaving nothing except for the piece of wrinkled parchment and a still body behind.

Idrielle slowly walked to the crumpled page and lifted it from the ground.

-----

Saelmma stood in front of her mirror, brushing the last stray strand of her shining ruby hair behind her slightly feline ear. Vealle was due to arrive every minute now, and she smiled at her radiant reflection, pleased with her predatory beauty tonight. She wore a long blood-red evening dress and extraordinary ruby jewellery imported from Aphienta, the plane of untamed wilderness, passion and fierce love that all of a fiery heart were welcome to share.

All the men in the opera would try to win her affection, but her eyes would be Vealle's and Vealle's alone, and they would laugh and listen to the haunting music, and perhaps… perhaps today is going to be the day he will finally ask her to be his Hunter.

A light, unseen wind wafted through the chamber, bearing subtle mist on its wings.