Chapter Eleven
Brennus was quick to let Lamorak know that they had made the right choice the moment the portal deposited them into the long-forgotten Ruins of Raudor.
"Oh," the loremaster gasped, that single syllable somehow managing to aptly convey his surprise; in Lamorak's hand, the Sixth Imaskarcana suddenly grew so warm that it was almost unbearable to the touch. "By the grace of Shar – it's here. The two relics seem to be reacting to one another's proximity… I've never felt such power."
Lamorak was looking increasingly more uncomfortable, prompting his surly ally to stretch out one hand toward the book, but he hadn't even come into contact with its cover before moving cautiously away from it. "What manner of magic is this? You are not causing it?"
"No, it is nothing I have done," Brennus confirmed, and his disembodied voice was speaking quicker now, a by-product of his swiftly-mounting anticipation of the encounter to come. "Lamorak, can you not feel it? It's here, I know it is, there can be no mistaking the arcane residue lingering all throughout this place!"
"What is he about?" barked the druid impatiently, clearly feeling at ease that there was such excitement surrounding a force he could neither see nor feel, but Lamorak did not immediately answer. The heat radiating from the spellbook tucked under his arm was now so intense that he felt the overwhelming urge to drop it, but it wasn't just the book's warmth scorching his flesh that he felt now; the light shining from its cover flooded his field of vision until he was blind, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. And as he stood there becoming ever more engulfed in heat and light a curious sensation gripped him, something like fiercest joy but also deepest dread, overwhelming triumph and most of all a dark, soul-searing sense of superiority. In his blindness Lamorak was still able to see one thing, the manifestation of an image that he'd never seen with his own eyes but still felt almost intimately familiar with - a set of partially-collapsed stone stairs leading perpetually downward into a large chamber, lit only by the meager rays of amber-gold sunshine pouring in through a tear in the great dome ceiling, and in the center of a sea of chaotically-swirling sand a dully-gleaming bronze pedestal. And resting within a deliberate crack in the pedestal was a miniscule object shining with a pristine white light that seemed to be calling out to him…
"That's it!" crowed Brennus victoriously, jarring Lamorak unpleasantly from the steadily-sharpening image, and as his vision cleared he realized that both the light and the heat emanating from the Imaskarcana had subsided. "You saw it, didn't you? I saw it for only a moment myself, but I know that's it. The Fourth Imaskarcana, somewhere within these walls!"
Lamorak was briskly rubbing his eyes, for spots were blossoming throughout his field of vision now. The image of the sand-soaked cavern remained clear and fresh in his memory, but he had been unable to identify the source of that haunting white light upon the bronze pedestal. "But what is it?"
"It doesn't matter," Brennus overrode him impatiently; the Twelfth Prince's excitement was now an almost-tangible emotion that was beginning to spread through Lamorak's veins as well, filling him with a similar feeling of impending victory. "Lamorak, don't you realize what this means?! If we can only locate the place we have just seen, I can restore myself to my natural form! We are but moments away from achieving our goal!"
Standing dutifully at Lamorak's side, the gruff druid was gazing about their newfound surroundings with a deep frown etched into his face; his obvious displeasure and skepticism prompted the Third Prince to scan the area, though he couldn't say this new location was at all familiar to him. The stone underfoot was a deep brown, brittle and cracked in so many places that it was impossible to discern the precise shape of the delicate mosaic that had once been inscribed upon the floor; countless grains of sand covered every surface, buffeted every so often by an arid draft filtering in through cracks in the walls and great gouges in the ceiling. Overhead they could see the sky beyond the interior's structural imperfections, which shone a merry blue but was mostly obscured by a veritable cyclone of amber sand, and outside the wind howled mournfully as it thrashed against the weakening walls. The chamber they had arrived in was roughly circular in shape and set with rows upon rows of intricately-worked stone pews, most of which were crumbling and irreparable by now, and standing opposite these benches was a sweeping altar half-buried in a mound of sand.
"A place of worship, perhaps?" the druid remarked at length, and Lamorak found himself nodding along in vague agreement; it seemed impossible to focus on anything now that he had glimpsed that mysterious bronze pedestal and the nameless, priceless treasure upon it, silently yet insistently beckoning him onward…
"Lamorak," barked Brennus yet again, a bite of impatience to his voice now. "The time is nearly upon us! Why do you hesitate?"
There was a very good reason that Lamorak was suddenly questioning the wisdom of seeking out the next relic in the set of Imaskarcana, but he couldn't even begin to explain his reservations in a way that wouldn't deeply offend his youngest brother. How could he tell Brennus that he was frightened of the unmistakable greed he heard in the loremaster's voice every time he spoke of the Imaskarcana with such obvious obsession? What could he possibly stand to gain from admitting that the mirage of that room with the ruined ceiling and the sand-swirled floor and the weathered bronze pedestal filled him with a sense of almost sickening unease? How could he make the Twelfth Prince understand that he thought it in their best interests to turn back, to flee through the portal back to Metos?
The portal! Lamorak whirled around and studied the floor rapturously, searching for any sign of the glowing white energy field or its golden hoop in the floor to denote the presence of the portal, but there was nothing to be seen. They had all been so certain that they would be able to return back the way they had come when their labors were complete that none of them had considered this was wishful thinking – now it seemed they had no choice but to press on, in the hopes that the combined powers of the dragonhide spellbook and the shining white trinket entombed upon the bronze pedestal could return them to Thultanthar.
"It's gone," the Third Prince pointed out at last, his voice ringing monotonous and hollow throughout the cavernous worship hall. "The portal is no more."
"It doesn't matter," Brennus insisted again, and this time the impatience had leeched out of his voice to be replaced once again by a quietly-burning triumph. "I swear to you now, my dear brother, that once we have recovered the Fourth Imaskarcana and I am restored to the Material Plane, I will return us to Thultanthar myself!"
Almost in response to the loremaster's boasts, it seemed, a low rumble reverberated through the ground deep beneath their feet; Lamorak and his unlikely ally stared at one another, wide-eyed and undeniably fearful, as the rumble grew to a roar and everything around them began to shake as though the earth itself were splitting wide open. Deep grooves that had formed in the walls widened an inch or two as the tremors rent the foundation, and several sizeable chunks of the heavily-fractured ceiling broke loose and cascaded down upon them, stirring up a cloud of debris and long-undisturbed dust. The tremors intensified until Lamorak was certain he would either lose his footing or his teeth would grind themselves to pulp from chattering –
As abruptly as the violent vibrations began they ceased at once, with no explanation apparent as to what had caused them; the grizzled druid cast an uneasy glance Lamorak's way yet again, but the Third Prince could only shrug.
"I suppose we should press on," Lamorak observed gravely, patting his torn and disheveled robes and dislodging a wealth of dust. "It seems our arrival has disturbed some unseen presence, and I for one am not keen on discovering just what it is."
His shrouded accomplice was casting his shrewd gaze all around, considering their options. The remains of two doors could be distinguished from the partial-collapse of the worship hall, one to the left of the altar and another behind the backmost row of benches; the opening just off the altar could hardly be called a door as it was mostly obscured by the caved-in remnants of its doorframe, but the one at the rear of the hall stood mostly intact. "The chamber beyond the altar likely leads to a chancel of some sort," Lamorak's companion mused aloud. "It seems a waste of our time to clear the doorway of debris to confirm what we already suspect."
"Agreed," Lamorak chimed in, picking his way carefully through the rows of ruined pews. "Brennus, can you sense the most direct route to the Fourth Imaskarcana? Do you think you could lead us from here?"
Brennus didn't respond right away; at first Lamorak wondered if his brother was still so distracted by the influx of energy he'd felt upon sensing another of the ancient arcane relics that he hadn't heard a single word, but the moment the Third Prince opened his mouth to repeat himself the loremaster muttered, "Something isn't right here."
The druid couldn't suppress a cynical little chuckle, saying, "We've spent the past several months bearing a talking spellbook through countless miles of desert wasteland, and we've just witnessed an unexplainable quake that may or may not serve as the herald of our impending doom. I would be surprised if you thought otherwise."
"No, I…" Brennus trailed off, seeming preoccupied, and Lamorak felt the Imaskarcana growing warm again beneath his arm. "I feel… another presence. Something else… not what I sensed before. I can still feel the Fourth Imaskarcana beckoning to me from somewhere below, but this… this is unrelated. I haven't the faintest idea what it could be."
"What do you mean?" pressed Lamorak, passing through the crumbling doorway at the rear of the worship chamber; the room beyond was darker but no less devoid of sand, but his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the lack of light for him to distinguish much else.
"Lamorak, I think… I think Voltain Darkydle may have found us. The presence is unmistakable – I've felt it twice before. I believe he may also be here seeking the same thing we are."
For a moment, the Third Prince wrestled with the onset of real panic. The first time he had crossed paths with the self-proclaimed Lord Artificer of Deep Imaskar their confrontation had ended in a draw – but only on account of Phendrana's timely arrival, as well as Hadrhune's intervention. The second time had nearly resulted in Lamorak's death – would have, he reminded himself begrudgingly, were it not for the divine guidance of the nature goddess Mielikki and the intervention of her champion, the unnamed druid traveling alongside him. The prospect of battling Voltain Darkydle a third time was hardly a pleasant one, and if the uneasiness in Brennus's disembodied voice could serve as an indicator his youngest brother was hardly pleased by the possibility either.
"Then we cannot delay," Lamorak answered at last, pushing his discomfort aside and tightening his grip on the Sixth Imaskarcana. "If there is any chance that Voltain Darkydle is among us, we must redouble our efforts. For if he claims what we are searching for before we do…"
"Then he will grow significantly stronger," Brennus finished gravely, "and we will no longer possess the ability to stand against him. Not to mention that without the Fourth Imaskarcana my plans to restore myself to my physical form will be unattainable – if we don't find it first, I may be trapped within this tome indefinitely."
"Forgive me, but… how can you be so certain that this Voltain Darkydle is the presence you sense?" the surly druid put in dubiously.
"It is difficult to explain," Brennus began haltingly. "I can still feel the Fourth Imaskarcana's energies radiating up from far below, but I have begun to detect a similar arcane power drawing ever nearer… that one is vaguely familiar because Lamorak and I have encountered it before. It's the Fifth Imaskarcana, the one that Voltain Darkydle wields. Doubtless he has been seeking out the other relics as well – it would only make sense that he would do so, since his ancestors were the ones who crafted them."
"Enough idle speculation," cut in Lamorak. "Brennus, which way?"
The Third Prince's eyes had adjusted to the lack of light that characterized the chamber behind the worship hall; it appeared to have once been some manner of entryway, but as the whole of Raudor was in a state of general disrepair it was difficult to distinguish defining features. The wide, ovular foyer seemed to have been spacious in its prime but not overly lavish; there was another cracked mosaic etched upon the floor but the structural damage was severe enough that details were impossible to make out, and the remnants of once fine tapestries strung about the walls were torn and frayed, their depictions no longer recognizable. There stood a set of fortified double doors opposite the crumbling doorway they had just passed through that Lamorak presumed led out into the savage desert beyond, and pointing his keen-eyed companion directed his attention to an opening in the floor off to the left side of the entrance that wound in a loose spiral to the level below. They moved quickly yet cautiously to the precipice of the opening and glimpsed the first few steps of a descending staircase – only the first four stairs were visible, and the rest were shrouded in complete darkness. These stairs did not match the ones Lamorak was certain the Imaskarcana had imparted upon him – the set he had envisioned had not taken the shape of a spiral – but he supposed venturing downstairs was as good a place to begin their search as any.
"Brennus, do you think you could…?" Lamorak began in hushed tones, but it seemed his youngest brother was already entertaining similar thoughts for in the next instant the cover of the Sixth Imaskarcana lit up and cast a faint white illumination upon the walls; the light didn't reach the bottom of the staircase, but it reached far enough for Lamorak to ascertain that their way down into the depths of Raudor wasn't collapsed or otherwise impassable. Slowly he began the descent, each step he took stirring up a wealth of dust, ever mindful of the profound silence below them and the increasing dank stillness of the air.
The staircase wound elegantly downward perhaps fifty feet before they reached the next level down, and Brennus dared to increase the brightness of the light shining from the spellbook; here the walls and floor were also constructed of stone but every conceivable surface was covered in dust and cobwebs so dense that just the sight of them made Lamorak's skin crawl. There were raised rectangular tables interspersed throughout the vast chamber at even intervals of five feet or so, but when Lamorak lifted the Imaskarcana a little higher to shed some light on the walls he realized with a start that they were not tables at all – rather they were ornately-carved stones of a dark green substance that appeared marble in consistency.
"They're tombs," he murmured beneath his breath, for there was no other apparent explanation; with the walls so bathed in faint white light every individual nook and cranny was plainly visible, and each of these housed even more tombs that seemed to be marked with unfamiliar symbols. His taciturn companion had boldly approached one such structure and was running his hand reverently along its side, cleaning the dust from the indentations, but he was no more familiar with the strange runes than Lamorak was. "Family names, perhaps?"
"It seems the most obvious explanation," the druid reasoned, turning back to the room at large and inspecting every corner for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Lamorak felt certain they wouldn't find anything of value or importance here – there were long-cooled wall sconces mounted in each corner of the chamber, but little else. There was only one doorway opposite the stairway, and motioning for Lamorak to follow him the druid led the way –
Something crunched unpleasantly beneath his worn travel boots, drawing their attention immediately. Lamorak whisked the Imaskarcana from beneath his arm and bent almost double, shining its light down at their feet, and though he was not surprised by what he saw there he felt no less uneasy. It was a small pile of brittle bones.
"None of the tombs appear to have been tampered with," the druid pointed out, his gaze sweeping up and down the rows of tombs once more to confirm what he already knew. "The bones came from further inside."
"Lovely," said Lamorak sardonically, and he followed his companion through the doorway, careful to avoid disturbing any more of the loose bones strewn about underfoot.
The next room had the makings of an embalming chamber about it; there were ceremonial jars arranged in meticulously straight rows and veritably lining the shelves along each wall, decorative urns placed in the corners, and broken jars of dried up incense upon dirt-caked tables. Additionally there were embalming tools lying about – some bearing ancient stains from previous use, Lamorak noted with disgust – but most disturbing of all were the bones littering the floor. Here there were so many that there was no telling what color the ground was, and it was impossible for either of them to take a step without enduring the sickening crackle of long-fossilized bones. And the odor! There was a pungent stench of decay permeating the chamber, so strong that Lamorak was shocked they hadn't smelled it from the top of the stairs.
"What in the name of Shar happened here?" Lamorak breathed incredulously, a note of trepidation evident in his voice as he fought back the urge to gag. He glanced sidelong at his traveling companion to find that the other man had drawn his spear and was holding it at the ready, though no threat had presented itself; it prompted him to ask, "What are you doing?"
"We would do well to remain on our guard," the druid told him in a careful undertone, his face grave and his eyes alert and searching. "You mentioned this place has been deserted for hundreds of years, did you not? If that were true, the decaying process would have been long completed before our arrival. There should be no reason why that stench lingers on here… unless something died far more recently, and that means we are in danger of far more than the Imaskari artificer you spoke of."
The logic was sound enough, but it left Lamorak feeling positively stymied. "What in the Nine Hells could have survived down here for so long, in such a state of prolonged isolation?"
It was Brennus who answered. "Something old and powerful… and likely not truly alive at all."
As if in response to the Twelfth Prince's observation, Lamorak was certain he felt the first mental insinuations of something foreign reaching out and probing gently at his surface thoughts; he was familiar enough with Phendrana's curious brand of mind magic and the mysterious sect of the arcane known as psionics to understand just what was happening and react accordingly, though, immediately blocking out all external stimuli and focusing on shielding his mind from unwanted outside influences. Lamorak was keenly aware that he had frozen in his tracks and was gazing unblinkingly at the cracked piles of bones at his feet, and that his hooded ally had stopped also and was now watching him with mounting concern, but he had no time to offer an explanation for in the next moment a brittle, little-used voice was wafting through his mind.
"Come to me… let me taste of your thoughts… let me drink of your power… come satisfy my hunger, prince of shadows."
"What – " Lamorak blurted out, panicked by what he had heard, but at that moment the floor beneath him gave way and he plunged down into fathomless darkness and out of sight.
Hours following their complete rout of the drow scouting party, Clariburnus had yet to take note of any reconnaissance groups scouring the tunnels nearby for signs of the missing dark elves. His brothers had made short work of the rest of the drow, having circled the chamber and thus cutting off all potential escape routes, and though he had only been gone for a minute or two the deed had been completed by the time he returned to join them. Faeryl was hysterical for reasons that Clariburnus could not even begin to explain, so in lieu of her teaching them how to stage the bodies in a way that suggested they had met gruesome ends at the hands of scavenging Underdark predators they had instead relocated the corpses to the Darklake cavern and throw them in the pool. Though the pool was dimly lit by both bioluminescent seaweed and phosphorescent fungi the light was not bright enough for them to glimpse the lake's bottom, and it had taken little effort to fill the drow's pockets with rocks from the jagged shore to ensure their bodies didn't float back to the surface. They had been fortunate to claim the element of surprise as their ally – largely because of that, none of them had suffered any injuries and their location would continue to remain a secret.
They had unanimously decided to double the watch until they felt the danger had passed, and also widened the perimeter of their territory as a temporary precaution; Clariburnus and Rapha took the first watch, forging a path out of the Darklake cavern and canvassing the tunnels closest to their campsite before fanning out into further off corridors they had considered too distant to keep a close eye on before. When the pair of princes returned several hours later they had nothing out of the ordinary to report, and had glimpsed no more dark elf scouting parties during the course of their rounds. Rapha had gone out again after a short rest – he was keyed up from the battle and would continue to be fueled by pure adrenaline for many hours to come, Clariburnus knew – with Escanor alongside him this time, and sometime while they were gone Yder came looking for Clariburnus.
Yder had assumed his older brother would retreat into the dark confines of the cave to find some rest but an hour had passed and his suppositions had yet to prove true. He found the Fifth Prince sitting cross-legged on the jagged shoreline, staring down into the shimmering blue-green depths of the Darklake as though he half expected the corpses of the drow they had killed to come floating back to the surface at any moment; his glaive was draped across his lap diligently, and he did not so much as glance up when Yder sat down beside him. Yder respectfully waited a few moments for Clariburnus to strike up conversation, but when it became apparent that the Fifth Prince had no intentions of broaching what had happened earlier he resolved to do so himself.
"The girl is finally sleeping," Yder remarked idly, and though Clariburnus did not verbally respond in any way Yder did not miss the slight stiffening in his brother's shoulders. "I attempted to speak with her a few times, but she gave nothing away. When she fell asleep I thought back on her outburst, and realized I was acquainted with one of the things she said."
At last Clariburnus looked up, his eyes dull and his face wan. "What do you mean?"
"Are you at all familiar with the name Eilistraee?" the Sixth Prince asked instead, and Clariburnus cocked his head slightly to one side in confusion. "I thought not – being the High Priest of Shar I'm certain Rivalen would be familiar with it, and perhaps even Rapha might have an inkling as he and his hexblades tend to work in tandem with the Divine Champions. But as the Supreme Commander of the Army of Shade you have little use or interest in the workings of the divine, so I doubt you could understand the significance of what Faeryl has said."
"Did you come here to enlighten me, brother, or to poke fun at my lack of knowledge?" asked Clariburnus crossly.
Yder clapped the Fifth Prince upon the shoulder in a show of wordless apology. "Eilistraee is a lesser known goddess, the renegade daughter of Lolth and Corellon Larethian."
"The patron deity of the elves," Clariburnus confirmed, for he had heard the name Corellon Larethian before – it was true that he was not a man of much faith or religion, but he knew enough of the pantheon of Faerun that the mention of such a well-known god sparked recognition in him. "By the grace of Shar, I never knew that the Spider Queen and the Ruler of All Elves entertained such a relationship."
"Few who are not devoted men of the cloth could ever have come by such information," said Yder reassuringly, his eyes now tracing the gently-undulating bioluminescent seaweed rippling just below the pool's otherwise still surface. "And if Faeryl truly is a follower of Eilistraee it would explain many of the mysteries that surround her – not the least of which is why she suffered so grievously at the hands of her Menzoberranyr captors, or why she seized the first available opportunity to flee their city."
Clariburnus ran a hand raggedly down his face; Yder couldn't recall a time before today when he had seen his brother looking so run down. "I don't understand."
"The vast majority of the dark elves worship the Spider Queen," the Sixth Prince explained, "but I have heard tell of small radical colonies that follow the teachings of Eilistraee. They call her many things – the Dark Maiden, the Lady of the Dance, and Lady Silverhair to name a few – but despite the many personas the dark elves have given her they are united in their beliefs that she is the single remaining guiding star for the drow race. She opposes Lolth at every turn, and teaches those faithful to her that there is still hope the dark elves can return to the surface world, even re-integrate into a harmonious existence alongside their surface-dwelling cousins. However the children of Eilistraee are relentlessly hunted and heavily persecuted against by the followers of Lolth, for the Spider Queen utterly denounced the Dark Maiden long ago and does not allow drow to freely worship her. From what I understand, those who choose to worship Eilistraee are outcasts and rebels who must always keep their religious preference a closely-guarded secret for their own safety."
Clariburnus blinked slowly once, mystified by all that Yder had told him. "You believe she is of the surface world? That she has no affiliation to Menzoberranzan whatsoever?"
"Unfortunately the only way to be certain is to ask her," Yder pondered sadly, "but I fear she will speak of it to no one, least of all us. I suppose from her point of view we are simply her most recent captors – it would certainly explain why she has viewed us with such resentment and disdain, despite our lack of violence in handling her. It is likely she has been tortured and abused most of her life."
And with that, Clariburnus found himself thinking back.
He thought back to the moment he'd first encountered Faeryl in the tunnels just beyond the Darklake cavern, and how that first meeting had ended in blows. At the time he'd been convinced that he was just protecting his brothers, but for the first time he considered that from her perspective he'd just been the next person to senselessly attack her without provocation.
He thought back to the first time he'd really spoken with her, and how she'd been bound at the hands and feet before he'd chosen to address her. Guiltily he recalled that to call this encounter a conversation was a gross overstatement – it had been more akin to an interrogation than anything else, and all she'd been trying to do was escape the cruelty of her former masters.
He thought back to when his eldest brother had first laid eyes on her and immediately flown into a rage, for no better reason than the color of her skin. Shame and self-loathing curdled his insides as he recalled that Escanor had been prepared to kill Faeryl and be done with it – and all on account of her heritage. Doubtless it reminded her a great deal of the treatment she'd found at the hands of the Menzoberranyr drow, and it hardly mattered that they had judged her on a separate facet of her character – discrimination was still discrimination, regardless of the justification.
He thought back to the instant he had first released her from her bonds – at the time he'd been confused and a little affronted at her lack of gratitude for his gesture of goodwill. Now he realized that she'd been so nonplussed by it because she'd likely seen it as a fleeting reprieve, and that she'd find herself in chains again before long.
He thought back to their first reconnaissance mission into the tunnels nearest Menzoberranzan, and was ashamed at himself for securing her aid by dangling her freedom before her eyes like it was a privilege she had to earn. As if he had any right to use that against her! As if he was kinder and more compassionate than those who'd tormented her in the past, to offer her something that he'd had no claim to in the first place!
And he thought back to the moment just hours ago when, after all the injustice she had suffered at the hands of the Princes of Shade, Faeryl had still chosen to defend him rather than simply let him die.
"Excuse me," he murmured dismissively to his brother, and then Clariburnus was on his feet and striding purposefully toward the cave where he knew Faeryl was sleeping.
Inside all was dark and almost blissfully quiet. It took nearly half a minute for Clariburnus's eyes to adjust to the lack of light, and when he did he was met with a rather heartbreaking sight – Faeryl was curled up in the fetal position on the hard stone, her arms wrapped around her legs and her knees drawn right up to her chin. She was using what Clariburnus presumed was the smoothest rock she could find as a pillow, and it propped her head at such an awkward angle that the Fifth Prince winced. As he drew nearer to where she lay he could just make out the goose bumps on her arms, and what appeared to be half-dried tears tracks streaking her cheeks.
He fetched his traveling cloak from his gear and shook it out over her to serve as a blanket; though he did his best to do so gently and quietly Faeryl still stirred when she felt the cloak's weight upon her body, and she cracked her eyes open in suspicion, watching him. Clariburnus retrieved his pack, removed every item inside that was hard or unyielding or jutted out at an odd angle, then knelt down in front of her and held it out uncertainly. In response to Faeryl's dubious expression he muttered, "I'm sure this would be much more comfortable than a rock."
Faeryl said nothing, but Clariburnus was observant enough to notice that she'd lifted her head a millimeter or two; reaching out with exaggerated slowness and care so as not to frighten her he slid the rock out from under her cheek and replaced it with his pack, and she eased her head down on it at once but offered not a word of thanks. Her lack of thanks did not offend him though – he knew he didn't deserve such a thing. Instead he sat down near her head, resting back against the relatively smooth cave wall, and didn't speak for quite some time.
He hadn't intended to disturb her at all until she addressed him. "Why are you here?"
"Only to see to your well-being," Clariburnus told her softly. "Rest now. You have nothing to fear. I will watch over you."
There was a sense of uncertainty lingering in the air between them like a foul odor, but it was quiet long enough for Clariburnus to assume she had nothing further to say to him. He was surprised when she engaged him a second time. "And what is the price of such kindness?"
Clariburnus wanted to sigh in frustration or respond with biting sarcasm, but he managed to resist both impulses with a little difficulty. He had to remind himself that to her even small, insignificant acts of kindheartedness such as the one he had just offered her were likely much more than anyone had ever shown her before, and that thought humbled him like nothing else could. "There is no price – this is what you deserve. You saved my life, Faeryl. That is a kindness I could never hope to repay."
"You feel obligated to show me mercy in exchange for my help," she reasoned. Clariburnus wanted to cry out in protest, but knew such a reaction would do nothing to help alleviate the situation. "I can assure you, such a thing is not necessary. I take great joy in taking the lives of any who call Menzoberranzan home – that is thanks enough."
"Be that as it may," Clariburnus responded, working to keep his voice carefully neutral, "I believe you should be rewarded for your selfless act of valor. I am eternally grateful."
It seemed perhaps Faeryl didn't know how to respond to his declaration of gratitude, so instead of addressing it she merely changed the subject. "What happened to the rest of those drow?"
"All dead," Clariburnus confirmed, relieved that he could say such a thing. How precarious their situation would be now if even one of them had managed to escape! "Their bodies are at the bottom of the Darklake. I would still have preferred for them to be found and other conclusions drawn as to the cause of their deaths, but given the circumstances I believe this was the best outcome."
"And have there been other scouting parties?" There was a touch of fear in Faeryl's inquiry that Clariburnus did not miss.
"Thus far we have seen not a hint of their passing," the Fifth Prince assured her. "Two of my brothers are investigating the tunnels as we speak, and as an added precaution we have widened the boundaries of our search. If they come looking for their missing kin, we will know in plenty of time to plan accordingly."
Silence descended between them yet again, but Clariburnus did not feel the need to fill it with meaningless words. Something emotionally significant had happened to Faeryl not long ago that she had yet to address with any of them – understandably so – and he knew that the best thing for her now was to rest. Nevertheless she addressed him a third time after much quiet contemplation, making him wonder if she felt the need to speak or if conversing with him was helping to keep her calm.
"You have not asked me about what I said," she observed hesitantly, her voice reserved.
Clariburnus tipped his head to glance down at her, and though her eyes were not on him the tension in her facial features was still easily distinguishable. "No, I have not."
"Why?" Faeryl sounded deeply suspicious now.
"I thought it better to wait until you felt ready to address it," Clariburnus explained honestly. "It is not my story to tell, and I have no right to demand an explanation from you."
Though he knew it wasn't directed at him, Clariburnus couldn't help feeling a little stung when she laughed mirthlessly at these words. "In my experience, whatever rights I think I'm owed matter little to those around me."
Sensing their discussion was reaching a rather unceremonious end Clariburnus clambered to his feet; Faeryl watched him rise with a baleful expression, but the sight of her curled up beneath his traveling cloak significantly lessened her show of hostility. "It occurs to me that one of those rights is peaceful, uninterrupted sleep," the Fifth Prince pointed out, "so I will take my leave. I will see to it that you have the privacy you require, but if you have need of anything I will not be far away." He didn't expect her to respond in any way and so turned his back on her, but he'd only managed a handful of strides toward the cave entrance when she called out to him in a thin, ragged voice:
"Please don't leave me here alone."
Clariburnus turned back, shocked into momentary silence by her plea; her eyes had grown wide and fearful, and she seemed impossibly small within the loose folds of his traveling cloak. After only a moment's hesitation he backed up to the cave wall and slid down it to rest on the floor about fifteen feet away from where she lay, unbuckling his black glass breastplate as he went – for some reason, it suddenly seemed too heavy for him to bear.
"I will stay right here until you have fallen asleep," he vowed solemnly, and even the deeply-skeptical drow runaway could not doubt the sincerity of his words – they rang so obviously genuine that she found herself almost frightened by them. Nevertheless Faeryl did close her eyes, and Clariburnus relaxed back against the cave wall, and time slipped by unchecked for quite some time.
Clariburnus was just beginning to wonder if Escanor and Rapha had returned from their sweep of the tunnels when Faeryl began to speak; hers was a voice of great uncertainty, but she told a tale with the reverence and quiet desperation of a person who had been longing to tell it for decades.
"I was born in Miyeritar – or what was left of it, at least. I do not know whether you are familiar with it… it was conquered centuries ago, but there are secret parts of the High Moor and the Misty Forest that we managed to safeguard from those who claimed our lands and even to this day I believe they remain ours. I remember so very little of that time, but what I do remember is the stars. When I was very young I would wander the wilds with my mother, learning to speak with animals from the druids who passed through the area and singing with the dryads who called the forests around Miyeritar home, but at night I would climb the tallest trees with my dear father and he would teach me of the night sky. He told me that Eilistraee was in the stars, watching over us. He told me that she had given us the most precious gift any drow could desire – the honor and privilege of being born on the surface world, living our lives in the way our elf cousins were always meant to, far away from the hatred and prejudice spread by the followers of Lolth in the Underdark. I loved my father, and I loved Eilistraee. I was devoted to her, body and soul, at such a young age that I can no longer recall a time before I bound my spirit to her benevolence and forgiveness. My childhood was a happy time full of meaningful experiences, love and light. I would relive them if I could.
"My father and mother were both Sword Dancers, considered some of the most influential and revered members of dark elf society under Eilistraee's protection; for countless centuries they have taken it upon themselves to seek out and offer the hand of repentance to drow who have fallen from Eilistraee's teachings and lead them back with acceptance and understanding. My parents, and all those who also called themselves Sword Dancers, brought the light of our Lady Silverhair back into the lives of so many lost drow over the centuries. For a little while, the faithful followers of Eilistraee knew only peace and prospered quietly in the deep forests the conquerors of Miyeritar seemed to have forgot. My greatest aspiration was to join my parents in jubilant worship one day, and wield a blade blessed by the Dark Maiden that would serve as yet another beacon to lead our Underdark siblings back into the light.
"When I reached the age of twenty, I got my dearest wish. I danced every night for a full lunar cycle with my beloved parents clothed only in starlight, and on the final night of my dance I lay upon a bed of wildflowers and witnessed the coming of the dawn. In those first rays of sun, I believe I saw Eilistraee's glorious face; when the sun intensified, I knew it was my beloved goddess smiling down on my efforts. And as I basked in those life-giving rays I felt my hand clench around something that hadn't been there before – my blade, forged in the gray light of the dawn. I pleased my goddess with my diligence and devotion, and she rewarded me. I became a Sword Dancer that day. My mother was so proud that she wept.
"But the life of a Sword Dancer is a difficult and thankless one – the number of drow who view the followers of Eilistraee as heretics far outnumbers those drow who desperately seek out the Dark Maiden's salvation. Our success and our growing numbers alerted many of Lolth's devotees to our continued existence – and more importantly, to our exact location. My mother perished in one of those first raids of the Misty Forest… she went out one night to defend our homeland while my father and I watched the stars, and never returned. Nevertheless, we did not lessen our efforts to return the dark elves to the ways of goodness and compassion. We suffered heavy losses at every turn and our numbers dwindled at an alarming rate, but we knew our course to be a righteous one and never strayed from it.
"Then one night the largest raiding party yet surrounded us – I've never witnessed such slaughter. I still do not know if any of my fellow Sword Dancers survived somehow, for that was the last night I spent under the stars. My father was cut down by drow from the Underdark – by people who looked just like him, yet detested him for his faith. I was claimed as their captive for no better reason than I was young yet and they assumed I was still impressionable enough that I could be turned to Lolth's teachings. I arrived in Menzoberranzan, a battle captive of the now-extinct House Bron'tej, when I was barely fifty years old – still an adolescent by elf standards.
"My new 'family' wasted no time in their attempts to brainwash me, and began forcing the Spider Queen's rhetoric down my throat at every possible opportunity in an effort to purge any remaining dregs of Eilistraee's teachings from my soul. I suffered many injustices at the hands of House Bron'tej's nobles in the years I lived among them, but having to endure the constant messages of hate and discrimination that is Lolth's mantra was particularly painful for me. I had lain under the burning sun, a place where elves from the Underdark fear to tread most of all, and embraced the beauty and acceptance of the Dark Maiden – how could I throw away all the love I harbored for Eilistraee, and take darkness and greed and betrayal into my heart in its place? At first, I openly rebelled. I refused to accept their faith as my own, and I spat their hateful words back in their faces. And every time I disobeyed, I was abused in the most degrading ways you could imagine."
Clariburnus shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Faeryl's abuse at the hands of the Bron'tej nobles – with a gentle heart that seemed oftentimes out of place amongst many of his fellow members of the Shadow Council, he had no desire to hear such dark tales. "Faeryl, there is no need for you to share this with me."
"Please," she whispered, her voice oddly controlled considering the sensitive and personal nature of the sad tale she shared. "I will not go into details regarding the abuses I suffered – many of the tortures are far too vile to speak aloud – but I must tell this story, if for nothing else than the safeguarding of my own spirit.
"As you can imagine, my faith wavered in those days. I began to consider that if I only pretended to be faithful to Lolth – while remaining true to Eilistraee in my heart – that my suffering would likely end. I'm ashamed to admit that for a little while I did just that. Outwardly I appeared to be just another one of the Spider Queen's mindless, heartless followers, and just as I had hoped their mistreatment of me lessened over time. I did many things that I am not proud of in order to maintain that façade. I caused others pain. I spun elaborate lies. I denounced the Dark Maiden with my words. I risked damning my soul so that my flesh could be spared their torments. It was wrong of me to do so. I have regretted it every day since."
"You are not to blame," the Fifth Prince interrupted gently, for no better reason than to reassure her that her actions were justified. "You were only doing what you felt was necessary to survive. There is no dishonor in that."
"But I loved Eilistraee," Faeryl reminded him. "And I firmly believe you cannot renounce your goddess with your words and still consider yourself a faithful devotee. Perhaps my heart's devotion never wavered, but for many years I acted in a manner that would have deeply shamed the Sword Dancers. That betrayal was not worth my life.
"But my façade ended after a decade of service to House Bron'tej when they foolishly attempted to overthrow House Barrison Del'Armgo, a house second only in strength to House Baenre. The plot was uncovered before Bron'tej was fully prepared to execute it, so the siege itself was rushed and poorly planned. It was a massacre. None of the Bron'tej nobles survived, and the place I had reluctantly called home for ten years was burned to the ground. My ownership changed hands. And if I had thought my treatment at the hands of the Bron'tej nobles was abhorrent, it was nothing compared to what awaited me in the confines of House Barrison Del'Armgo. I cannot speak of it… for me many of those wounds are still too fresh, and to speak the words aloud would be simply monstrous. I suspect I will carry the invisible scars of those abuses upon my soul until my dying day.
"However… I rediscovered my love for Eilistraee in my darkest days. When I was left alone to suffer, I prayed to her with all the strength I could muster. I begged for her to preserve me, and insisted that if she could find it in her divine wisdom to show me the way I would honor her with every breath that remained in my lungs. And it may have taken years, but I believe now that she has at last answered my prayers." Clariburnus instinctively glanced down to find that Faeryl was watching him now, those soulful jade eyes of hers cautiously hopeful as she finished, "I believe that the coming of the Princes of Shade is an event blessed by the Dark Maiden herself. I believe that she knew her strength alone could not purge the evil from Menzoberranzan, and so she threw her lot in with Shar to achieve the outcome she most desired. I believe that Eilistraee brought you to me, for though I hardly believed you when you vowed to grant me my freedom when your labors here are complete, I believe you now. I think you are a good man, Fifth Prince Clariburnus Tanthul. I no longer doubt that you will uphold your promise, and one day soon I will find myself dancing beneath the stars again, at long last, thanks to you."
Oddly the girl's confession stirred up an inexplicable feeling of homesickness within the Fifth Prince then, as though something about her words imparted upon him a sudden longing to be wandering the familiar streets of Thultanthar, and a sad truth occurred to him: if he yearned so badly for his homeland after just months of being away, how desperately must Faeryl have wished to return to the sacred forest of her birth all these lonely years?
Looking back he could never have explained what made him react the way he did – perhaps it was the sudden wave of nostalgia he felt toward his own beloved home, or the emotional tale Faeryl told had appealed to his sentimental side more than he would ever have cared to admit. But there was one thing Clariburnus knew for certain, and that was the complete lack of regret with which he spoke his reply. "It's time for you to go home, Faeryl."
She peeked up at him over the collar of his cloak, shock and alarm apparent in the way her eyes had widened within her wan face; Clariburnus found that he loathed the skepticism in her gaze, but knew that he could hardly hold her doubts against her. Faeryl slowly sat up, her eyes never wavering from his face, and the fabric of the Fifth Prince's traveling cloak pooled in her lap as she leaned toward him and questioned hoarsely, "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you should go now," Clariburnus reiterated, offering the dark elf girl the smallest of bolstering grins though he'd never felt less like smiling in his life. "Right now, back to the surface, back to the forest where you were born. Find the other Sword Dancers, if they still exist, and renew your faith to Eilistraee. Continue the fight against the Spider Queen's prejudices, if you feel so inclined, or simply spend the rest of your days counting the stars – it matters not. All that matters is that you take your destiny back into your own hands, for too long has it rested in the possession of others who did not deserve it. Live your life, Faeryl. Do it now – you are beholden to no one."
Faeryl's eyes were glistening with tears, though the caution yet lurked deep within their depths – it broke Clariburnus's gentle heart to see that she still didn't believe her freedom was assured, even now. Her reluctant optimism wavered when she asked, "Is this a trick?"
The girl's prized khopesh was sheathed upon Clariburnus's hip, for he had reclaimed it in the wake of their brief battle against the drow who had fled in the hopes of escaping; clasping the hilt he brought it to bear, holding it out to her with a solemn expression. "No – no tricks. Take your weapon and go wherever the road and your heart might take you. And for my part… I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive my transgressions against you. I have no excuses for the way I have treated you personally. The hatred for the dark elf race that flows through my veins is based solely on their trespasses against my family and my homeland, but you were never to blame for that. I thank you for opening my eyes to the truth of my prejudices, and for aiding me when it would have been all too easy for you to refuse."
He watched interestedly as a wide array of emotions flitted across Faeryl's face; her eyes darted more than once to her blade, but she made no move to claim it from him. "I vowed to help you infiltrate Menzoberranzan," she reminded him softly, as though she could scarcely believe the direction their conversation had taken. "I am to secure a way for you to smuggle House Baenre's hostages safely out of the city. I cannot go back on my word."
"You can, and you should," Clariburnus corrected her, a bite of sternness in his tone. "I have accepted far more of your aid than I ever deserved, and we must take our fate into our own hands now. I believe I have learned enough from you to succeed in this, so long as I am patient and careful. And even if I have not… my trials and tribulations are of no concern to you, Faeryl. Your priority now should be the safeguarding of your soul and the preservation of your own well-being. I am happy to give you the opportunity to pursue both – please do not let this chance pass you by. You deserve it."
Faeryl's head was cocked slightly to one side as though she didn't quite understand something he'd said; she still hadn't reached out to reclaim her blade. "You no longer desire my help?"
"Your help has meant the world to me," the Fifth Prince reassured her with yet another soft, encouraging smile, "but you need to help yourself now."
Rather than continue to wait for Faeryl to pluck the khopesh from his outstretched hand Clariburnus simply dropped it into her lap, whereupon the rubies laid into the hilt glimmered darkly like fathomless pools; with slightly-trembling hands Faeryl finally picked it up, though her eyes never left his. There was no mistaking the uncertainty and fear with which she regarded him, as though she was waiting for a reprimand or perhaps even for her freedom to be unceremoniously ripped from her grasp. Clariburnus simply stood and extended a hand for her to take, inwardly monumentally pleased when Faeryl tentatively accepted and allowed him to tug her upright, and they stood there gazing into one another's eyes for quite some time before Faeryl at last dropped her gaze to the blade still clutched possessively in her opposite hand.
"I… will never forget what you have done for me," Faeryl told him softly, her voice thick and constricted as though the words were difficult for her to voice aloud. "I will pray for Lady Silverhair to smile upon your efforts here, and help your noble campaign succeed in the end."
"I am certain with her blessing we can accomplish this," Clariburnus replied kindly, watching somberly as the drow girl sheathed her khopesh upon her hip and made with her natural dancer's grace for the mouth of the cave. Once there she lingered momentarily with one hand rooted upon the stone beside her, a strangely wistful gaze in her eyes and gratitude radiating through her expression, then she whisked around the corner and was gone.
Clariburnus did not follow but instead retreated back into the cave where his traveling cloak lay discarded upon the ground, and gathering the garment into his arms it occurred to him that a great deal of warmth had already leeched itself out of the fabric.
So he dropped the cloak down into an unused corner of the cave, and departed to join Yder.
"Incoming!" chirped Illyria, the cry upon her lips one of impending victory, and Aglarel vaulted to the side just in time to avoid the streaking silver-blue arrow the gloaming fired from her enchanted bow. It was yet another expertly-fired shot – the Fourth Prince had yet to see the curious creature miss her intended target when she was serious – piercing through the towering minotaur's breast and felling the monster with apparent ease; the ground shook beneath the weight of the beast's collapse and Aglarel landed nimbly beside its outstretched arm, careful to avoid the swiftly-spreading pool of blood seeping from the fatal wound.
Illyria's face was aglow with pride as she sauntered up to Aglarel's side, slinging the bow carelessly over one shoulder by the bowstring and planting her hands upon her narrow hips. "It's a good thing we're not keeping score, Flame Boy, because it's definitely not four dead minotaurs to three in my favor and I definitely don't have bragging rights."
"This one – " Aglarel indicated the newly-dead minotaur at their feet by nudging its arm with the toe of one boot " – was mine; my last dagger thrust punctured its lung. You knew I was about to best you, so you stole my kill. A poor decision, little psychic."
The tone of his voice was low and dangerous, but when Illyria peeked up at him through the heavy curtain of her unkempt auburn hair she took note of the upward curve of his mouth and knew his words were in jest. As Aglarel knelt to retrieve his treasured dagger from where it protruded between two of the beast's ribs the gloaming smoothed the front of her simple white dress, disheveled as it was from constant travel and battle, and observed softly, "Not much further now."
Wiping the blade of his dagger clean upon the minotaur's loincloth, Aglarel lifted his gaze and took a look around. Time had passed imperceptibly since the unlikely pair had entered the Labyrinth, and they had been set upon at nearly every turn. Some of the enemies they encountered had raised no cause for concern – large spiders and flesh-eating centipedes and the like – but others, like the minotaurs, had proved to be a worthy test of their skills. It was fortunate that Aglarel rarely tired and Illyria was made of tougher stuff than her dainty appearance might imply, for between the constant skirmishes and the grueling pace the Fourth Prince had set since conversing with the High Prince they had found little real time for rest; once or twice he had considered slowing, but Illyria's reflexes seemed just as keen as ever and the life-stealing enchantments of his dagger continued to revitalize Aglarel's strength with every blow he landed, so they'd pressed on.
"How can you tell?" he asked at last, returning his dagger to its sheath, and Illyria's ebony wings ruffled as she shrugged.
"It's more of a feeling than anything," Illyria confessed airily. "It's not like I wander through the Labyrinth on a daily basis, you know."
"Why do I get the feeling that isn't necessarily true?" Aglarel quipped, watching Illyria sashay past as though she hadn't heard a single word. Something about her obvious dismissal of his question touched a nerve and Aglarel found himself back on his feet then, calling her name with a clear warning in his voice, and though Illyria paused she did not turn back to look him in the eye. Aglarel knew this was hardly the time for such a confrontation but felt compelled to seek it out anyway; they had covered considerable ground together but he knew almost nothing about her, save for her fanatical love for his brother Dethud. With his ultimate goal in sight and so much now depending on her continued cooperation, Aglarel felt the time for him to grant her his unquestioning trust was long past. "We have been through a great deal together, you and I," the Fourth Prince began, his voice carefully neutral – he knew that if she felt threatened in any way Illyria would hardly cooperate further, and that was something he could not allow at such a crucial juncture. "Yet it's curious – you have no reason to follow me, no motivation to continue upon this journey save for your depraved longing and misguided infatuation with my brother."
The set of Illyria's shoulders stiffened. "Really?" she sneered sourly. "We're gonna do this now?"
"If not now, when?" Aglarel shot back. "Every step we take brings us nearer to my brothers, who will raise a host of questions when I arrive with you in tow. And even if I felt inclined to defend you against them, what guarantee do I have that you aren't leading me into a trap of some kind? How do I know you aren't planning to betray us to the drow the moment we set foot in their city?"
Illyria turned back to face him then, a truly devious smile spreading across her face, and said, "Wow, paranoid much?"
Aglarel spread his hands. "I have only survived this long by keeping all those around me at arm's length."
"Except your precious Sceptrana," the gloaming shot back, clearly hoping to shake Aglarel's loyalty, but rather than rise to the bait he simply crossed his arms and laughed aloud.
"You think I was not deeply mistrustful of her from the moment she turned up, uninvited and unannounced, all those years ago?" replied Aglarel with a derisive chuckle. "Why, I was more skeptical of her presence, her intentions and her motivations than perhaps anyone else I have ever encountered. Aveil has proven her loyalty a thousand times over, and you will not sway my opinion of her with your poisonous words. This isn't about her – it's about you. Now before I lose my patience, tell me what I want to know."
"You're gonna have to be a little more specific," pointed out Illyria in a dry tone, mimicking his standoffish posture and folding her own arms over her narrow chest. "What do you want to know, anyway? And have I mentioned that we don't exactly have time for this?"
Aglarel's hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger, his eyes never leaving Illyria's when he said, "Make time."
"What do you want to know?!" Illyria shrieked, her eyes wide and manic.
"Who do you work for?" Aglarel demanded.
The gloaming actually rolled her eyes. "You Princes of Shade – you're all alike. You think everything is either black or white, but there are so many shades of gray… it amazes me that you're all still alive. I work for whoever I feel like at any given time, but at the end of the day I work for myself."
"Then tell me who else you have aided, in the same way you have helped me," Aglarel continued, relentless.
"You don't want me to answer that," Illyria warned with a somewhat predatory glint in her eye, and when the Fourth Prince slid his enchanted dagger from its sheath she merely scoffed again and ruffled her wings in obvious irritation. "Oh, put that away – you're not going to attack me, and I'm not going to die today. I've already Seen that much. I'd tell you, but don't you think this is way better? Us tearing through the Underdark together and singing kum-ba-yah?" Seeing the subtle shift in Aglarel's eyes, the gradual darkening from backlit moonstone to molten crimson, prompted Illyria to add, "You're not ready to know. You'll just get the wrong idea. You'll think I'm betraying you, and you're too narrow-minded to see that everything I do, I do for a reason."
"Then tell me your motivations for helping me, at least." He had never forgotten her flimsy reasoning for seeking him out, of course – that his fate was somehow tied to the return of the fabled Xinlenal, and that if he perished in the Underdark as she had envisioned that outcome she so desired would cease to exist – but it had never been enough to convince him that was all she was after, and he would be damned if he took one more step toward Menzoberranzan without wringing the whole truth from her.
"I already told you – " Illyria began, stamping one foot like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, but Aglarel overrode her with an animalistic snarl.
"You told me what you wanted me to know, and now I want to hear the rest." With the dagger clenched purposefully in his hand the Fourth Prince advanced a single menacing step toward her, mentally reaching out and tapping ever so cautiously into the slumbering beast that dwelled within him. As Illyria watched his eyes darkened the rest of the way and the humanity fled from them, and try as she might to remain steadfast in the presence of his anger her throat bobbed in a telling way as she swallowed nervously. "Why are you here, and why do you insist on accompanying me? This is your last chance, little psychic – perhaps you've seen that I won't kill you today, but you must also have seen the lengths I am willing to go to for the answers I require. How much it hurts is all up to you."
Abruptly Illyria's face was hidden behind her hands, and her confession shocked Aglarel so deeply that the dagger nearly slipped from his grasp. "I gotta get to Mourn before they kill him, if he sticks by Lim any longer he's gonna die, I can't let it happen, I need him, you need him, he has to wield the sword, he's the only one who can – "
"Illyria, slow down," Aglarel snarled, his voice commanding, but if she had glimpsed his face in that moment she would have seen just how unnerved her words were making him.
"I never meant for this to happen!" the gloaming wailed, and with hands still hiding her face she sank to the ground with a low moan. "I didn't think when I brought him to Thultanthar that all this would happen! I thought he'd just free Lim and take off, but no, how was I supposed to know that the damn traitor would kidnap those girls on his way out?! If I'd known, I swear… I swear I never would have helped him at all, you have to believe me!"
But Aglarel would hear no more, for these words had triggered a sickening realization that robbed him of his cool composure. Seemingly of their own accord his feet carried him to where Illyria had collapsed and was now sobbing uncontrollably and he bowled her over, easily pinning her petite frame beneath his much larger one; she struggled briefly with frail arms that he didn't even feel as they rained blows upon his chest and shoulders but grew still the moment he pressed the dagger's gleaming edge against her throat. And as Aglarel glared down at her with the truth ringing through his mind he wanted nothing more than to allow the primal beast clawing inside his chest to burst forth and tear her into unrecognizable shreds – it was perhaps the most out of control he had felt since the night he had set the grand ballroom ablaze and nearly attacked Aveil in a blind fury.
"Lim escaped because of you," the Fourth Prince growled, his ceremonial fangs just shy of her tear-stained cheek when he spoke. "All this time I have wondered how he could possibly have circumvented the security of the palace dungeons, and it was you. You brought that assassin into the city, you helped him free Lim, and then…"
Aglarel surrendered his last shred of self-control gladly, willingly, and watched as if through eyes that weren't his own as his hand stabbed his enchanted dagger into her shoulder. It wasn't a mortal wound, far from it, but he didn't want to kill her. Death was too kind a fate for the loathsome creature trembling and crying beneath him – no, he wanted nothing more than to savor every ounce of her agony as though it was the only thing sustaining him. Her life force flowed up the blade and into his body, and the distinct flavor of it prompted him to retract the weapon at once – it was cloyingly sweet, unbearably so, and it lingered unpleasantly upon his tongue as though he had physically tasted it. The vile sweetness served to reactivate the rational part of his mind and keep him from stabbing the dagger down a second time, and in a choked tone he gave words to the monstrous thoughts her confession had brought to life.
"And then Lim abducted Aveil and Soleil," he recited mechanically, his eyes electric and murderous within his shadow-swathed face. "He bore them into the Underdark and back to Menzoberranzan. He cast them at the feet of the leaders of House Baenre, and bartered their lives for his own safety. He handed them over to be imprisoned, to endure unspeakable tortures at the hands of their captors – and all this was made possible through your actions. Aveil is suffering because of you."
"I'm sorry," Illyria gasped out, weeping openly now, her torn shoulder slowly seeping blood along the stone. "I didn't know, I'm sorry…"
Aglarel laughed in her face, though the sound was cold and devoid of mirth. "So you sought me out to atone for your mistakes – is that it? You thought if you guided me through the Underdark and helped me avoid the gruesome death you claim you saw me suffering that I would show you mercy? Perhaps you hoped that if Aveil survived this ordeal and I rescued her, all would be forgiven?"
"Please," the gloaming whimpered, trembling from head to toe; perhaps it was a trick of the light refracting off Illyria's tears, but Aglarel thought her eyes were growing pale. "Please…"
But reason was returning to Aglarel little by little, and though he was no less furious than before he sensed that he was no longer in immediate danger of killing her; he shifted into a sitting position, but kept her firmly pinned to the ground with one hand clutched upon her uninjured shoulder. "I don't know what you're begging for, little psychic, and at this point I don't care," he admitted tonelessly. "I won't kill you – not today – but when this is all over you will pay for your crimes against Thultanthar."
He expected her to thank him, or to burst into a renewed wave of tears at the pain in her shoulder, but she did neither of those things; she continued to gaze unblinkingly at the impenetrable darkness overhead and said nothing, her labored breathing growing quieter all the while. There was no mistaking that her eyes, usually a vibrant sapphire hue, were growing lighter with every passing second now. When finally spoke, her words sent a chill coursing down Aglarel's spine. "I can't see."
"Do you think you can dissuade me from my course with your ridiculous claims?" the Fourth Prince growled, but his intuition told him that something was very, very wrong.
"I CAN'T SEE!" shrieked Illyria, in an unearthly wail that was so foreign Aglarel's mouth dropped open in shock, and then something happened Aglarel could never have predicted or made any move to prevent.
Illyria sat up suddenly and thrust out her bloodied arm as though the wound bothered her not at all; her outstretched hand landed upon Aglarel's chest and a pulse of bright white light erupted from her palm, accompanied by a deep rumble reminiscent of thunder splitting the sky. The wave of energy sent Aglarel careening backward at least twenty feet before he came down hard on the stone, but he managed to tuck into a clumsy sort of roll to absorb most of the impact and was not seriously injured when he landed unceremoniously upon his right side. Rising up to a crouch, his bloodied dagger still clutched tight in one hand, Aglarel watched as Illyria's outstretched hand began to glow and he braced himself for another attack –
But the gloaming never intended to attack him.
Something materialized in Illyria's hand and her fingers closed around it almost desperately; the object appeared to be a rod roughly the length of her forearm and wrought of gleaming silver, perhaps, or the finest mithril. Aglarel tensed, fully expecting her to utilize this newfound object as a weapon of some sort, but instead Illyria lifted it to her left eye – which, Aglarel noticed with a start, was now so pale that it was impossible to tell where the pupil ended and the white of the eye began. As she gazed sightlessly through it with parted lips and slackened jaw Aglarel's eyes were drawn to a cool glint emanating from the opposite end and he glimpsed a multi-faceted diamond affixed there, a stone so precious that one glance at its beauty punched the air from his lungs, and then Illyria was speaking in a voice so unlike hers that for a moment Aglarel swore some demonic entity was present in the cavern with them.
"THE TOMEBREAKER COMES NOW, BEARING THE RING OF GLASS FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE SAND. ALL WHO WITNESS HIS RETURN SHALL BE IN AWE OF HIM. ALL WHO GAZE UPON HIM SHALL TREMBLE AT HIS PASSING. ANY WHO STAND IN HIS WAY SHALL FALL BEFORE HIM. HE WILL CREATE THE KINGDOM FROM NOTHINGNESS. HE SEEKS THE KEY LOCKED WITHIN THE CRYSTAL TOWER. HE WILL PULL THE HEAVENS DOWN. THE TOMEBREAKER COMES NOW. HE IS ALMOST HERE."
Illyria lowered the spyglass then, her face shining with a fine sheen of sweat and her breath coming in shallow, labored gasps. Whatever dark, unseen force Aglarel had sensed occupying the chamber seemed to be gone, for which he was nothing but grateful – never before could he recall feeling so distinctly unnerved, as though he was in the presence of something ageless whose power dwarfed him utterly. He watched the gloaming warily, though he was certain she was herself again by the way her eyes shone as twin pools of fathomless cerulean, and then she had closed the distance between them so quickly that Aglarel had no time to even blink; as he crouched there motionlessly, unaware that he still clutched his bloodstained dagger in one hand and Illyria's mangled shoulder was still seeping blood, she feverishly pressed the spyglass into his free hand.
"Take this," she told him, her voice a breathy whisper. "I have to go now."
The news of her imminent departure got Aglarel's synapses firing again, and he at last snapped out of his trance. "Now?!" He roared incredulously, leaping to his feet, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Now wait just a moment – what was that? Explain!"
Illyria was rifling through her paltry supplies and hardly seemed interested in a word he'd said; extracting a roll of clean white wrappings she clumsily bandaged her shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. Her hands, Aglarel noticed, were trembling almost uncontrollably. "No time to explain."
For some reason he couldn't explain, Aglarel didn't argue – subconsciously he knew that no matter what he said, he wouldn't get an answer out of her today. Abruptly, he changed tactics. "You vowed to see me to the Darklake – what of that promise?!"
"I meant to," Illyria answered distractedly, haphazardly shoving the unused portion of the roll back into her knapsack and slinging it over her shoulder – the strap landed precisely on her newly-bandaged wound, but oddly it seemed to cause her no pain. "Sorry Flame Boy, but this is where we part ways. I thought I had more time, but I don't… it's all up to you now."
"You can't just - !" Aglarel's appearance was almost comical, his arms windmilling as he protested, still clutching a bloodied dagger in one hand and the shining silver spyglass in the other, and if Illyria hadn't been so pressed for time she would have laughed openly at the dumbfounded expression on his face. "Where are you going?! What could possibly be so pressing – "
"I've gotta make sure he gets here," Illyria responded cryptically, her eyes wide now with a combination of adoration and fear. "You heard what I said… he is almost here. Almost, but not quite. I gotta make sure… It's the only way…"
Aglarel gestured wildly with the spyglass still clenched in his non-dominant hand. "And what in the Nine Hells am I supposed to do with this?!"
"Nothing!" the gloaming shrieked, seeming to look him squarely in the eye for the first time since snapping out of her unexplained trance. "Don't use it, no matter what! Keep it close to you! Hide it! Don't let anybody see it – and I mean nobody!" She pumped her great wings once furiously and hovered nose to nose with him, jabbing her forefinger dangerously close to his nose as she continued, "Not your beloved Sceptrana, or even your precious High Prince, do you understand me?! If anyone ever finds out you have it… just make sure no one finds out, okay?"
Aglarel shook his head furiously as if to clear the cobwebs from his jumbled thoughts. "Then why give it to me at all?!"
Illyria's expression grew deathly serious in response to this question, and she dared to grasp the Fourth Prince insistently by the shoulders; Aglarel would never have allowed her to initiate such bold physical contact between them were it not for the almost suffocating sense of solemnity he sensed radiating from her every pore. When she at last answered, her voice was so soft that Aglarel had to strain with all his might to hear the words.
"When war comes to the gates of Xinlenal," Illyria murmured, "give it to the one who seems most worthy."
Then she released him and fluttered backward, hitching her childish façade back into place; perhaps it was because something gravely serious had just transpired between them, but her usual act seemed forced to Aglarel. Nevertheless she spared a wink for him and recovered her simpering little girl-voice long enough to say, "You can do it. You're going to save her – I know you are. Just a little further now, Flame Boy. Don't give up." And with a sound like a whip-crack Illyria simply vanished, leaving Aglarel standing alone in the lightless chamber, his thoughts tripping over one another in his mind as he struggled to understand.
In his hand the mithril spyglass thrummed with a power so profound that Aglarel wanted nothing more than to cast it into the darkness away from him and pretend he'd never come into contact with it, but for some reason he could never explain he instead tucked it safely into his traveling gear. That was an enigma for another day, an avenue he simply couldn't afford to explore until he had come and gone from Menzoberranzan and emerged victorious with Aveil at his side.
"Just a little further now," Aglarel muttered determinedly, echoing Illyria's oddly bolstering farewell, and with dagger still in hand he took off through the tunnels of the Labyrinth at a soundless sprint.