As the burning orb of conjured sunlight was swelling, incinerating the lovely floating lanterns with its white-hot flames, Fourth Prince Aglarel was running. Despite the very palpable sense of impending doom he felt permeating the air no one seemed possessed of the desire to flee for their lives; they all stood witness to the horror, their faces upturned to the ceiling, their twisted expressions of terror clearly illuminated in the harsh golden glow emanating from the orb. He shoved his way through the crowds, oblivious to those who lost their balance and even fell as he passed – he hadn't the time for sycophantic lesser nobles with his veil of shadows unraveling around his body at an alarming rate. Anyone who looked too closely would easily notice that the sunlight wasn't burning his flesh away and he just couldn't risk the inevitable scrutiny that would follow.
His ears were filled with the agonized screams of shades who were writhing in the golden rays, their strangely skeletal bodies helplessly exposed, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw his brother Dethud clutching his own face with malnourished-looking claws as his eyes simply melted out of their sockets; he caught a glimpse of Soleil, one arm thrown up to shield her eyes and the other hand tight upon Escanor's wrist, and as he barreled past she cast him an apologetic glance. In that moment, Aglarel couldn't fault her for wanting to retreat.
"Take him and go!" he barked at her, for he remembered well enough that Soleil herself was a target of the drow and he wasn't about to take any more chances. The mountebank nodded gravely once and the pair of them vanished as she invoked the powers of her ring, and then he leapt.
Aglarel plowed into his sovereign in the instant before the conjured orb of sunlight burst, his nails scrabbling for purchase in the High Prince's magnificent robes as he dragged him to the ground; to his credit Telamont didn't fight him, though Aglarel reasoned his sovereign may have been anticipating his favored fourth son to intervene in such a way. They were tangled on the ground for an instant in which Aglarel was struck momentarily stunned by just how frail the High Prince seemed crushed beneath him and then the brilliant golden globe burst, its rays lancing through the ballroom like bolts of lightning, its brilliance manifesting into streams of molten gold that burned hotter than any flame. Aglarel sought the Shadow Plane with all haste, dragging the High Prince's seizing body along with him, but not before a great gout of lava-hot sunshine lashed across his back and scorched through his clothing and all the way to his bones. The Fourth Prince gritted his teeth and growled the pain away, darkly determined not to lose his focus, for those who underestimated the vast expanse of shadows that comprised that dimension had been known to wander lost there and he would be damned if he allowed that to happen now. He navigated that plane as quickly as his searing wound and his twitching, unresponsive patron would allow, hoping against hope that they would not be set upon by any of the ravenous shadow creatures that dwelt in the vast darkness, and felt distinctly relieved when they tumbled back into the Material Plane and collapsed in a heap upon the cool, smooth black marble floor of the High Prince's audience hall.
With a certain amount of effort Aglarel managed to roll away, soothing the livid burn against the cool tiles as his body's accelerated rate of physical regeneration replaced the scorched flesh with healthy, unmarred skin; sunlight couldn't kill him, that much was true, but no mortal creature could say he was altogether fond of the blistering, viscous liquid that was a result of a masterfully casted daylight spell. Thankfully the pain resided quickly, and the moment it had Aglarel lurched up onto his knees and crouched over the motionless body of his father. The High Prince hadn't sustained any burns from the spell's explosion – doubtless as a result of Aglarel's quick and selfless intervention – but the harsh illumination had burned through the protective veil of shadows that clung to any shade's body and left the High Prince helpless beneath the sun's rays. Aglarel looked on, numb with horror, as first a minute passed and then two and the shadows still did not regenerate.
"Holy Father," he choked out, his hands clutching the High Prince's shoulders, but the body beneath his trembling hands was still.
Silently Aglarel swore to himself that if the Most High did not wake he would march into the Underdark himself and slaughter every last drow he could get his hands on.
It was only by virtue of the fact that the pillar partially concealed them that they weren't killed in the initial blast.
As Phendrana was reeling backward blindly his arms windmilled for something, anything that might break his fall; his right hand clipped someone else's shoulder and he grasped it desperately, using that physical contact to root his chaotic mind back into the present situation and perhaps make sense of what was happening. He reached out his mental influence and was so relieved to find that Third Prince Lamorak was alive beside him that the sensation was almost crippling; as it was he stumbled two steps backward, recovered his balance, and hauled the prince alongside him as his other flailing arm sought the surface of the marble pillar he knew to be nearby. After three blind grabs he at last slapped his palm flat against it and dragged Lamorak with all his might beside him, his chest heaving with exertion as he crouched within the blessed deep shadows cast by the pillar that the daylight spell could not touch.
Remembering his companions he glanced up, squinting through half-formed eyes and struggling to discern something of meaning from the formless, colorless shapes surrounding him. There was a soft exhale from somewhere above and to his right in the place where he recalled the other three to be standing, a breath of surprise or pain or helplessness, and his vision cleared just in time for him to watch the smoldering body of one of his comrades collapse lifelessly to the ground. Unthinkingly Phendrana recoiled from the stench of reeking, charred flesh that curled into his nostrils but he forced his discomfort away, reaching out his free hand and dragging the smoking body into the shadows on his other side.
It was fortunate that they had Aveil with them, for not only did the sunlight have no effect on her but she was in her element; stretching out her right hand she summoned her badge of office, the dread scepter called Stygian Invidia, and holding it aloft she conjured a thick cloud of shadows that encircled both her and the single shade convulsing at her side. This timely act might have saved the shade's life, for he stood at least three feet from the darkness of the pillar and had taken the full brunt of the daylight spell; as it was Aveil reached out to steady him, and after a few heartbeats he was strong enough to stand without her aid.
"The other princes!" she howled, her voice high-pitched and desperate, and with a nod of grim determination the shade at her side thrust out one hand and conjured a globe of impenetrable darkness around a small cluster of shrieking, thrashing shades grouped near the high table. Phendrana knew little of the Underdark races – all the knowledge he possessed he had once gleaned from Alax and Zerena, in a simpler and happier time when he could still feel their comforting presences lingering within his subconscious mind – but he did know that all drow possessed the innate ability to create spheres of magical darkness; glancing down with newfound horror he recognized the twisted and scorched body of the seneschal Hadrhune and wondered if he was doomed to be the first casualty in their silent and brutal war with the emissaries of Lolth. He looked to his other side, suddenly very afraid of what he might find, and felt an abrupt wash of relief when Lamorak tiredly met his eyes.
There was movement in the thick cloud of darkness that Aveil had conjured, and when she and Lim had joined them in the relative protection of the shade cast by the wide pillar she dispelled it; Lim was clutching at his chest and gasping for breath, his once fine clothes hanging in singed tatters around his seemingly-frail body, but it was evident at first glance that he was much better off than before. Aveil's eyes fell upon Phendrana, who aside from feeling violently nauseous perceived that the worst of the danger had passed for the moment. "Can you detect them? Are they alive in there?"
Phendrana thrust his wellspring of telekinetic energy away from him and allowed his mental facilities to wander the expanse of the room, gravitating naturally toward the deep darkness that was Lim Tal'eyve's conjured orb of shadows. He could sense vague, disjointed thought patterns in several familiar voices emanating from within the orb's darkness, but there were notable absences that seized his shadow orb in a vicelike grip of pure terror.
"There are several whom I cannot detect," he told them gravely, his voice possessed of a note of weakness that had nothing at all to do with physical frailty. "Whether they have perished or fled I cannot say."
"Who?" Aveil demanded. "The High Prince?"
The mindmaster struggled with the frayed edges of his consciousness, feeling his mental facilities wane and unravel even as he fought to maintain them, but could sense nothing else in his weakened state. Slumping back against the pillar he murmured, "I'm sorry… I can tell you no more."
Lim was crouched at Hadrhune's side, one hand planted firmly in the center of the seneschal's chest and the other hovering just millimeters above his nose and slightly-gaping mouth; the shadows that typically engulfed his body had yet to return, and in their absence Phendrana would easily have mistaken him for a drow still. After a moment's contemplation Lim sat back on his heels and ran one hand down his face, harassed, before glancing up at Aveil. "I cannot feel him breathing, and I cannot sense any life within his shadow orb. I fear he is lost to us already."
"Give me a moment," Phendrana begged them, stubbornly fighting against the onset of fatigue. "I will study his mind for signs of activity and see what I might learn."
"We must reach the other princes," Lamorak insisted, sitting up a little straighter, his breath coming in soft, shallow gasps. "The globe of darkness will sustain them, but for how long? If this is a drow we are dealing with – and I have no doubts that it is – the globe will be dispelled before long. We must secure them and transfer them to another location – they are not safe here."
Lim gestured angrily at Hadrhune, waved his arm wildly to indicate himself, Phendrana, and Lamorak, and shot back, "We are not safe here!"
"We are armed with Phendrana's prophecies, and that is more than my brothers have," the Third Prince reminded them, and Lim's shoulders slumped a little as he begrudgingly conceded the point. "We must act, because no one else will."
Aveil was pressed flat against the pillar and peeking cautiously around its rounded surface, sizing up her next move; presently she came to a decision, and glanced hastily back toward them. "I will go to them," she volunteered, "for I am the only one who can brave the sunlight and I will not place any of you in further danger. Phendrana, do what you can for Hadrhune. Prince Lamorak, Lim, steel yourselves for the battle ahead – we have no way of divining just what we are facing."
"Is it wise for you to go alone?" Phendrana protested bleakly, hardly expecting his words to stop her and doubtful that he could physically restrain her if the need arose. "The drow is here for you, Aveil. I have seen as much – don't play into her hands!"
"I hardly have a choice." The Sceptrana barked out one harsh, helpless laugh that served to remind them all just how dire their situation was, and when her attempt at mirth died away she forced a rueful smile onto her lips; in that moment, Phendrana couldn't help but admire her bravery. "I am bound to serve the High Prince, and Prince Aglarel delivered me from a fate worse than death. I will continue to aid them until they cast me aside, or I cease to draw breath." Then she whisked around the side of the pillar and rushed off at a sprint, and they were so in awe of her devotion that they could only stare after her with slightly-gaping mouths.
Aveil navigated the corpse-strewn floor as best she could at her frenzied pace while wearing her delicate stiletto heels; all around her the shriveled and emaciated bodies of lesser nobles lay scattered, already little more than charred skeletons as the sunlight had flayed the shadows and skin from their bones. The thought of the High Prince and his progeny in a similar state spurred her on faster, prompted her to kick off her heels and fly barefoot across the floor as she tore the half-moon mask from her face –
A geyser of sickly-green acid erupted just inches in front of her and purely on instinct Aveil strafed to one side, growling away the pain of the stray droplets that settled upon her bare arms and burned through her flesh; she kept her eyes forward and locked stubbornly upon her goal, despite her every instinct warning her to survey her surroundings for her adversary, for she was now only twenty feet from the globe of darkness beneath which the Princes of Shade lay wounded or perhaps worse. Another geyser tore through the smooth marble floor and burst right in the middle of her new path forward but this time she was ready for it; without breaking stride Aveil whipped her staff in a half-circle and launched a flurry of oversized icicles at the spout, freezing the acidic spray before any of the sizzling droplets could find her skin. Muttering a hurried command word she summoned a thick cloud of shadows that blanketed the space between herself and the globe of darkness that Lim had conjured, and with her adversary's vision thus impaired the Sceptrana completed her approach and all but hurled herself into the globe. Once there she jammed the butt of the scepter into the ground and hurried through a quick trigger phrase, and with a series of ear-splitting shrieks of protest the globe of darkness changed consistency and hardened into black glass; just seconds later she heard the telltale gentle pattering of droplets raining down upon the dome and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Acid rain," she growled beneath her breath, sickened at the thought, and turning her eyes to the ground she surveyed the true scope of the destruction.
Never before had she seen the proud Princes of Shade reduced to such a wretched and deplorable state, and the sight of it made her stomach churn as she fought down a sudden violent wave of nausea; those that remained entombed beneath the globe of darkness-turned-glass were withered, gaunt, hardly more than piles of blackened bones with weakly-pulsating shadow orbs thudding softly against shriveled ribcages. For a moment she stood there stunned into motionlessness, the scepter the High Prince had crafted for her hanging uselessly at her side and her eyes sweeping involuntarily about the scene of the carnage, and it took half a minute or more before her senses returned to her enough to discern that there were only nine bodies scattered within the perimeter of the globe. Stumbling one disbelieving step forward Aveil shook her head vigorously – was she so disturbed by the sight that her wits had completely flown from her? – and made herself count a second time. Then a third. On the fourth she had no choice but to believe her eyes and accept the grim conclusion.
Either a handful of their number had somehow managed to escape the devastation of the conjured orb of sunlight, or they had been completely incinerated in the blast.
The nearest figure to where she stood, hardly more than a complete skeleton of charred, cracked bones, turned its head toward her and uttered a dry, wordless moan; Aveil descended upon him immediately, laying her staff at his side while her hands hovered uncertainly over his smoldering ribcage. Beneath the bones his shadow orb pulsed feebly, wisps of viscous black shadowstuff bleeding from the hemorrhaging organ, yet somehow he still lived; Aveil couldn't help but wonder if even the perpetual shadow bound into the bodies of the shades possessed the capability to heal such grievous wounds, or if his natural regeneration would fail to sustain him. The skeletal fingers of his left hand twitched, inches from her knee, and Aveil gasped and flinched back only to watch as they scrabbled futilely for the shaft of Stygian Invidia; unable to even guess what he could want with her staff the Sceptrana slid it closer until the tips of those grasping fingers were resting upon the smooth ebony wood.
The azure stone set into the head of the scepter blazed with sudden radiance, so brightly that Aveil shied away and shielded her eyes from the glare; a thin tendril of shadow as faint and inconsistent as vapor seeped from the glittering stone and curled like the smoke of a recently-extinguished fire around the shade's fibrillating shadow orb, and fearing the worst Aveil cried out and waved her hand in a desperate attempt to dispel the smoky haze. Only after the first of the shadow particles drifted into the organ did she realize that his shadow orb was growing stronger, not weaker – the vapor was rejuvenating that life organ, repairing the chalky-looking bones, and as she looked on in awe the smoke began to solidify into a definite shape. The gaseous shadow darkened until it was opaque, and when the particles had knitted themselves as closely together as they could manage they formed a new suit of flawless ebony flesh within which to house the precious shadow orb that was so central to the shade's life; features began to form, fingers and toes and ears and nose and rich silver eyes, and with a ragged intake of breath Second Prince Rivalen removed his fingertips from the staff of the scepter and allowed his hand to fall limp upon the floor.
"I thank you," he told her, his voice hoarse as though he had breathed in a lungful of flames and scalded his own throat, yet still Aveil was so relieved to hear his voice that she choked out a sob of purest relief. "I fear without your help I would surely have perished. I owe you much."
"I did nothing," the Sceptrana insisted, shaking her head in disbelief. "I did not even know that I had the power to aid you."
Rivalen tapped his index finger upon Stygian Invidia once more, and with a start Aveil came to understand. "This weapon of yours is mighty indeed," he gasped out, though it seemed to her ears that perhaps his voice was a little stronger than before. "I can feel the blessings of the Night Mother bound into the wood, and the resilience of your Frostfell throbbing through its icy core. The High Prince made this for you when you took your new office, yet he did not tell you what it is capable of?"
"Shadow and ice," Aveil told him honestly, "and nothing else."
"The two strongest types of matter in creation." Rivalen barked out a laugh, and Aveil's spirits lifted at the sound; the Second Prince's fingers curled into a fist, flexing, testing the depths of his strength, and it seemed to Aveil's eyes that perhaps the thinnest sheen of shadows formed around his body as a result of the reflex. "You truly do have the High Prince's favor. We should never have doubted you, and if we survive this I will personally ensure that no further prejudice befalls you. I would ask that you help me up – my strength has yet to return, and there is much to be done."
Aveil scrambled to her feet and thrust out her left hand toward him, though she knew she must look foolish indeed helping the brute of a shade to his feet; Rivalen, however, seemed to have taken his vow to heart and did not mock her small stature, taking his time, careful despite the fact that he dwarfed the diminutive snow elf by two feet or more. When he was able to stand on his own – a little unsteadily, perhaps, but without fear of falling – Aveil clutched her staff tightly in both hands and respectfully averted her eyes until he had conjured for himself a new set of priest's robes. Breathing deeply, moving slowly – even the slightest movement seemed to tax him – Rivalen surveyed the bodies of his fallen brothers with horror and despair; indeed his expression was so deeply mournful that Aveil felt as though she were intruding, and had to resist the urge to sidle away from him. Only when he shuddered and clutched at his chest with one hand did she move closer, holding her staff out earnestly toward him, pleas tumbling clumsily off of her tongue. "Take it, use it, please, we must save them – "
"It would be disastrous to attempt to siphon any more power from your staff," Rivalen overrode her impatiently. "Had I taken any more than was necessary I may have left it powerless, and you will need it to defend yourself before long. I dare not fight in my weakened state, and I must utilize what strength remains in me wisely if I am to save my brothers."
Aveil's wide, tearful eyes swept the massacre at her feet again, suddenly very afraid. "Are they - ?"
"Dead?" Rivalen supplied, and she had to work to suppress yet another sob. "Even now a few of them are likely gazing upon the face of the Night Mother, though if Shar smiles upon me I may yet be able to lead them back to their bodies." He lifted one arm and pointed to the pile of ashy bones furthest from them, barely contained within the perimeter of the black-glass dome, and said, "Clariburnus was closest to the blast, and tried to shield Mattick and Vattick – fool. The shadows that bind him have almost unraveled. I must be quick."
The High Priest of Shar moved as quickly as his ragged body would allow, Aveil hurrying along in his wake; as they drew level with the dying shade that Rivalen had identified as Fifth Prince Clariburnus he knelt and lifted his hands as if in prayer, but not before Aveil managed to stutter through a question. "How can you tell one from the other?"
"Because the shadows that bind them are the same shadows that bind me," Rivalen told her tersely. "We were all born from the loins of Telamont Tanthul, and raised above the mortal coil by the deep darkness that birthed Lord Shadow – in this way, we are all the same. Now be quiet. I must commune with the goddess uninterrupted if my divinations are to succeed."
She waited for what seemed like an eternity, pacing back and forth behind him as he prayed ceaselessly in the ancient tongue of the Netherese archwizards; the staff in her hand felt strangely cold, as though a great deal of its power had been drained away in exchange for regenerating Rivalen. Her eyes swept over the piles of charred bones yet again, stubbornly counting, wondering morbidly who among the High Prince's court had been obliterated in the blast. It may have been five minutes or five hours – the concept of time was utterly lost on her – before the gentle cadence of Rivalen's voice grew silent and she whipped her head in his direction; a second shade was struggling to sit up, and with one of Rivalen's hands supporting him Clariburnus managed to rise into a sitting position.
"The Most High," the Fifth Prince gasped out, his eyes flitting desperately over the bones littering the ground within the black-glass dome. "Where is he?"
"Not here," Rivalen insisted darkly, "and he isn't the only one. Escanor is gone, and Aglarel too – though where I cannot say. Soleil would have made it her priority to take Escanor away from here – part of her vow as the High Prince's mountebank is to place his life above all others, for he is first in line to the throne in the event that the Most High perishes one day. As for Aglarel, he would have hastened to deliver the High Prince to safety – I have no doubt of that."
The vice that had been gripping the Sceptrana's chest since she had stumbled upon their blackened corpses mercifully loosened a fraction, and she inhaled deeply for the first time in what felt like hours. She opened her mouth to speak when a horrible screech sounded upon the outer surface of the glassy shell, the nearly-deafening protest of something sharp scraping against its smooth surface, and Aveil couldn't help but clap her hands over her ears.
"What is it?" Clariburnus demanded, his head whipping from side to side, but Rivalen was busy about his work and chose not to answer; he was kneeling over the body of one of the twin illusionists now and already deep within his healing prayer, but Aveil noticed that his voice was softer and more disjointed than before and she knew he wouldn't be able to continue in this vein for long.
"This drow conjurer that the Spider Queen sent is mighty," Aveil said aloud, more to herself than to Clariburnus. "If she penetrates the barrier before Prince Rivalen's work is done we will find ourselves in dire straits indeed." She glanced Clariburnus' way then, appraising, and finished reluctantly, "If I were you, I would flee this place."
"Are you mad?!" Clariburnus roared, though a great deal of the effect was lost when his voice broke on the last syllable and he gasped for breath that was hard to come by. "And abandon my brothers here, when such an awful fate surely awaits them?!"
"Yes," said Aveil coolly, her head darting to and fro as she attempted to discern precisely where the shrieks of protest were originating from. "We will need to spare as many lives as we can in the event that things go sour for us here – I will hold this conjurer off as long as I can, in the hopes that before she is through with me Prince Rivalen has managed to save the rest."
"I will fight alongside you," insisted the Fifth Prince stubbornly, his hands grasping for weapons that were not accessible to him. "I could never flee knowing in good conscience that I had left you to face the dangers in my stead. I will help you as best I may."
Yet another ear-splitting shriek sounded against the dome's surface, followed by the telltale crack of the first breach; glancing up they could both clearly see where the glassy surface had begun to shatter, a handful of fractures as thin as a spider's webbing branching out from the point of impact. Aveil growled and clutched her staff even tighter, and faced the Fifth Prince of Shade with sudden anger in her eyes. "No! You can help me by saving yourself, and delivering the others to safety! Prince Lamorak is out there, barely clinging to life – haven't you a care for him? What about Phendrana and Lim, who would be no match for the conjurer if she could but pinpoint their location? What about Hadrhune, who cannot be long for this world? I swore on my life that I would protect all of you – too long I have lived selfishly whilst leaving a trail of broken promises behind me, Prince, and this is one I mean to keep!"
Clariburnus opened his mouth hotly, but it was Rivalen's voice that rebuked him. "Do not argue with her," he warned, sitting back on his heels, a fine sheen of sweat bathing his brow and his fingertips trembling over Eighth Prince Mattick's frighteningly still chest. "We have few options. Only the Sceptrana and Soleil are fit to fight in such conditions, and Soleil would never risk leaving Escanor's side now. Better to take what survivors you can scrape together and flee – return to the Palace, where the High Prince is sure to fortify you against the aftereffects of the daylight."
"Go with him," Aveil insisted, alternating fearful glances between the slowly-lengthening cracks in the black glass dome and determined looks deep into Rivalen's eyes, but after a moment's contemplation the High Priest was shaking his head.
"They are fading," he confided, laboring for breath, and only then did Aveil notice that the thin veil of shadows that had returned shortly after his rejuvenation had faded and his skin had taken on a sickly gray pallor. "I can feel them slipping away. The Night Mother will answer my prayers. She has never neglected to do so in the past. I am her most devout follower. If I remain diligent, she will grant me the strength to save them."
"You are fading," the Sceptrana shot back, gesturing wildly with her scepter. "You are wasting away before my eyes!"
"Shar will preserve me," Rivalen persisted, turning back to the half-formed body of Mattick. "I will not fail. Clariburnus, leave now. If you think you can save those outside the dome, do, but do not place yourself in further danger – I forbid it."
There was nothing else for it – Rivalen claimed seniority over Clariburnus, Aveil knew, and so his word on the matter was final. Clariburnus ground his teeth together, vexed by his brother's order, but said no more to the contrary. The dome cracked again, shards of black glass slick with deadly acid raining down upon them this time, and with a final nod to both of them Clariburnus turned slowly on the spot and vanished into the Plane of Shadow.
Aveil took a step forward toward the perimeter of the dome, preparing to confront their adversary, but a quiet groan at her feet brought her up short and she glanced down; the bones of yet another Prince of Shade that she couldn't immediately identify were there, barely inches from her bare feet, and lifting one skeletal hand the charred remains beckoned her closer. Aveil drifted nearer, her attention caught by something glittering brightly upon his ring finger, and when he held his hand up toward her she understood without asking that she was meant to take it; she grasped it carefully and pulled, and though she moved as gingerly as possible the brittle bones dissolved into a fine black powder the moment the ring had been removed. It was lovely – a mithril band that formed the infinity symbol, a flawless round diamond nestled within the graceful curve of each of its two loops, and it hummed with faint white radiance and felt pleasantly warm to the touch. Glancing questioningly back in the skeleton's direction Aveil thought she could see the faint outlines of feebly-shining irises within the skull's eye sockets, but there was no telling what color they might be.
His voice was fainter than a whisper and would have been lost upon the slightest breath of wind. "Take it… to Phendrana… Tell him… Tell him I…"
The words she was meant to share never came, as in the next moment a devastating impact rocked the entire outer surface of the dome; the force was enough to rattle Aveil's bones and she braced herself from falling with her weight leaned heavily upon her staff, the precious ring clutched safely in her free hand and imparting its gentle warmth upon her palm. And before her eyes the rest of the shade's too-fragile bones shuddered and simply disintegrated, leaving nothing more than a pile of ashes and a barely-visible outline of a swiftly-shriveling shadow orb to suggest that there had ever been someone there at all.
The shadows blazed to life with the suddenness and intensity of a flash fire, and a pair of wrathful platinum eyes shone from within the perpetual gloom; Aglarel stared, awestruck, as High Prince Telamont picked himself off the floor and meticulously dusted his robes as though more irked by the dirt they had accumulated than anything else. When he seemed certain that his appearance was a little more dignified Telamont glared down at him, and Aglarel took the nonverbal cue and hastened to his feet. There was no questioning his sovereign now – the forbidding, steely glint in his eye spoke volumes. He was hatred and retribution and death personified, and in those dark emotions the Fourth Prince silently rejoiced – when High Prince Telamont Tanthul cast off his pride and regality and love of democracy, when he allowed anger to consume him and he chose to live solely for vengeance, he was mightier than a god.
Now at last they would bring unholy dread down upon the pitiful race that had dared to oppose them.
"You did well," Telamont told him, his praise strangely warped by his rage, yet Aglarel bowed his head in wordless thanks all the same. "These drow are becoming increasingly more irritating. Are they not just as weakened by the sun as we are? I swear upon all that Shar has given me that one day soon I will pluck that damned orb from the sky and cast it into the Underdark, and while the black elves are screaming their last we will dance upon their funeral pyre, you and I."
"I look forward to that day," Aglarel told him sincerely, shuddering with very real anticipation at the thought, but he calmed quickly. "Tell me how I can serve you, Holy Father. I am willing to do anything to pay these stinking drow back in kind for what they have done here tonight."
"I will hold you to that promise," the High Prince swore, and lifting one arm he settled one slender, long-fingered hand grievously over the place where his heart had once been. "We haven't time to bandy pleasantries, I fear. Your brothers are dying; already I feel the life waning from a few of them, and if we do not act they will soon be beyond even divine intervention – when light unmakes shadow there can be no return to the land of the living. You must go to them, my dearest son, my beloved tainted one, my precious devil. No one else now is possessed of the strength to keep them alive."
Something in his father's tone left Aglarel momentarily speechless and he stared back into those platinum eyes blankly, unable to comprehend what had been said. The fact that he was half-Netherese and half-Erinye, a creature of the blackest corner of the Abyss, was his most closely-guarded secret – in all his centuries of life he had yet to divulge it to anyone, and his sovereign had threatened his now-deceased mother with certain unspeakable death if she ever so much as breathed a word of the truth to anyone. Telamont continued to stare back at him, appraising his expression with his characteristic unnerving focus, until Aglarel slowly attempted to formulate words with his suddenly-clumsy tongue. "You are asking me to expose myself."
"I am asking you to save your brothers," Telamont corrected icily, "and if the truth of your heritage becomes known, so be it. All these years you have served me faithfully, never faltering, never wavering from your pledge – on this night when I so desperately need you, will you at last abandon me?"
The idea of anyone becoming privy to the truth of his parentage was abhorrent, but the idea of losing the High Prince's cherished favor was even more so; Aglarel fell to his knees at his sovereign's feet, his head bowed in a show of complete and utter servitude, ready to accept his father's punishment if he chose to offer it. "Never. I will go at once. You have only to tell me if you would like me to drag this drow conjurer back to the foot of your throne alive, or if you would prefer I delivered to you her corpse."
When he looked up Telamont was smiling serenely down at him, and Aglarel felt more peaceful than ever before despite the grisly nature of the work he was poised to perform; the smile he wore made his edict that much more chilling when he decreed, "There will be no need to question the Bitch Queen's miserable emissary – I want her killed in the most painful, repugnant way you can imagine, and then I want her remains to be offered up to Dark Lady Shar as thanks for your victory. I want the Night Mother to spread the word of our swift and merciless vengeance to all those who follow her, so that the supreme might of Thultanthar is no longer a question in anyone's mind. I want you, and no other, to be the instrument of my wrath."
The honor was such that Aglarel couldn't speak, could scarcely breathe for the fierce pride that bloomed within his chest; he rose sinuously back to his feet and the High Prince took his face between his hands and kissed him upon the forehead, and the instant his sovereign's lips grazed his flesh Aglarel felt the shackles of his remaining humanity fall away from his body. Into himself he eagerly accepted his father's determination and pride and glory and fury and retribution, and lastly he took in the smallest fraction of the High Prince's own power; it was smaller than the most miniscule grain of sand, yet it still made him feel as though its terrifying potential might burst through his skin and reduce him to nothingness at any moment. He breathed deeply and evenly, reining in his unwanted emotional excesses and bringing the darker and more desirable ones into sharper focus; never before had Aglarel allowed that red tint of inconsolable, almost uncontrollable rage to fully taint his vision, yet in that moment when he did so for the very first time it made him feel almost giddy with joy. It was sweeter than any other physical release he had ever found, and the power – he veritably trembled beneath the weight of it, and found that he could not wait to deliver the High Prince's judgment unto the poor unfortunate soul who had the misfortune of being named his target.
He breathed deeply once more, and fully succumbed to that all-consuming wrath.
Aveil's fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft of Stygian Invidia as she stepped out of the relative protection of the black glass dome, the very tips of her fingers tingling and her knuckles white; something crunched painfully beneath her bare feet as she made her way out into the open but she didn't dare look down, knowing that it was only thin shards of the brittle shell of the dome she had cast that had flaked away beneath her adversary's assault. She remembered well enough the particulars of Phendrana's vision and had a feeling that the soft undersides of her now-bleeding feet would soon be the least of her concerns.
Her other hand was curled tightly around some other small object that was digging ever more into the tender flesh of her palm, and with a great effort she willed her fingers to relax; it was the small ring that the dying Prince of Shade had entrusted to her, entreating with what very well may have been his final breath for her to deliver the trinket to Phendrana. The two diamonds entwined in the infinity band shone merrily in the too-bright aftereffects of the daylight spell, a stark contrast to the otherwise hopeless atmosphere that enshrouded her. Aveil had a feeling she knew the identity of the shade whose death she had just witnessed, but better not to think of that now. She needed all of her conviction and every last ounce of strength she could muster if she hoped to provide a suitable defense for the Princes of Shade.
The staff in her hand felt hollow somehow, and as she came to a halt in the center of the ballroom with the corpses of shriveled lesser Shadovar nobles at her feet she wondered if Rivalen had taken everything that Stygian Invidia had to offer and left her with nothing to defend herself. Silently she reasoned that if expending all of the artifact's magical potential resulted in the preservation of the High Prince's sons, she would meet her death admirably and without fear. She had started life anew when she had taken on the title of Sceptrana of Thultanthar, had pledged herself to something greater the day she had struck an accord with Aglarel to protect Most High Telamont at all costs. She had meant every word of her oath. It was the only thing she had that boasted any real worth.
Something was stirring within the curtains of intertwining light and shadow, undulating strangely as it moved forward through those two contrasting forms of matter, and Aveil found herself facing the drow she assumed was responsible for all the irreparable damage wrecked. She was barely taller than Aveil herself with supple skin as black as midnight and hair the hue of the untouched drifts of snowfall upon the tundra; her eyes were the dark crimson of mortal's blood, her curves graceful and womanly, her dark lips curled into a sumptuous and sinister smile of triumph. Never before had Aveil found herself so in awe of another woman's physical beauty or so sickened and enraged by a gesture as simple as a smile – the urge to fling her staff aside and throttle the creature to death with her own two hands was instinctive and strong, but somehow she resisted it.
"How nice of you to come," said the drow in a voice like dark music, her tone soft and seductive, not unlike the one that Aveil herself had been known to use to coerce others into doing her bidding. "It's a pity that you waited so long to appear - had you shown yourself a little sooner your punctuality might have spared a few of these repulsive shadow lords you have chosen to serve."
Aveil tightened her hand upon the comforting shaft of Stygian Invidia, channeling the fresh wave of anger she felt at her adversary's comments into the smooth grains of the wood, silently willing its powers to return in full. It struck her then how disheveled she must look with her fine dress torn and her feet leaving dark red smears upon the marble floor and globs of molten sunlight drying in her hair, and how impressive a figure her adversary cut with the last rays of the daylight spell illuminating her figure with an almost ethereal glow, and desperately she hoped their appearances weren't indicative of what the future might hold. Even knowing she might well be powerless against her enemy Aveil stood her ground and held her head high.
"Why do you not speak?" barked the drow, a flicker of annoyance showing through her smug façade. "You are in the presence of Nhilue Xorlarrin, she who has the divine favor of the Spider Queen. And how could I not? See how your hideous shadow sorcerers shrivel and perish in the face of the sun's rays and I stand untouched!" Aveil watched, despaired, as the drow who called herself Nhilue stretched out an arm toward the last dying rays of sunlight she had cast, bathing her ebony skin in its soft golden light, and drew it back completely unharmed with a shriek of victorious laughter. "The blessing of the Spider Queen is upon me! My triumphs here are assured!"
"The sun's rays do me no harm," Aveil pointed out, more to derail her adversary's self-promoting tirade than anything else. "I was not born in the shadow, but in the heart of the Frostfell where the sun shining down upon the snow is brighter than anything your eyes have ever laid eyes on. Your meager imitation won't be enough to hurt me."
Nhilue's lips parted in an indulgent smirk as she drew a thin obsidian wand from the plunging neckline of her silken gown, and Aveil braced herself for what she knew was coming; the drow gave a single wave of her wand, the motion almost lazy, and all around her rose up an animate gray fog that swirled with a life all its own. She watched as the fog solidified into the forms of several four-legged creatures – it brought to mind the moment Rivalen had sapped Stygian Invidia of all its magic simply to revive himself, and Aveil despaired all over again at the memory – and pawing the ground with their serrated black claws the hellhounds Nhilue had conjured snarled at the diminutive snow elf and paced uneasily back and forth at their master's feet. Nhilue smiled almost lovingly down at the nearest one and stroked its matted coat with her perfectly-manicured fingernails, and the creature relished its master's caress as all the while it surveyed Aveil with its cruel, eager crimson eyes.
"The maid who protects the Lords of Shadow believes she can staunch the flow of the Spider Queen's power," the conjurer cooed softly to her demonic pet. "Let us give her the opportunity to prove whether or not that is true."
The hellhound threw its head back and loosed a chilling, mournful howl, and as the other members of its pack added their voices to the din Aveil shuddered and lifted her staff.
"There's nothing else for it," gasped Lim, leaning as far around the pillar as he dared. "If we are to attempt escape, this is the time. We will not get another opportunity." When his words were met with only silence he glanced back impatiently, to find Phendrana crouched over the lifeless body of Hadrhune with his abnormally-long fingers probing the seneschal's forehead and Third Prince Lamorak standing guard over the pair of them looking so frail and weak that Lim had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Instead he turned fully to face them and crossed his arms, adding tersely, "Will you stay here and risk allowing the shadows that bind you to be unmade by another burst of daylight, then?"
"I can hear him," Phendrana was mumbling vaguely, his bright silver eyes wide yet somehow unseeing as they searched Hadrhune's face. "His voice is faint, but it echoes within my mind. There is life left in him yet."
"In his weakened state he has little hope of surviving even a brief sojourn into the Shadow Realm," Lamorak told the doppelganger grimly, his breathing shallow, his back slightly hunched. "If we were beset by denizens of that plane as we attempted to flee to the Palace… I shudder to think what might happen to us. We cannot defend him and hope to arrive at our destination unscathed, Phendrana."
"Then let us leave him!" hissed Lim desperately, waving one arm to indicate the battle unfolding behind them, and Lamorak couldn't help but wince at the sound of guttural snarls and snapping jaws as the hellhounds closed in on their prey. "We have no other option!"
"I will be sure to inform Hadrhune that it was you who prompted us to abandon him when he wakes," spoke up a new voice that had not been among them before, and it was then that Fifth Prince Clariburnus materialized in their midst and stumbled heavily into the pillar to keep himself from swooning for the ground. "He can hardly be considered a forgiving man… Your globe of darkness saved us, drow, though for how long I cannot say. My brother Rivalen labors within it even now in a desperate attempt to keep the rest of the High Prince's brood from joining the Night Mother, but his power dwindles quickly and I fear he is doomed to fail in this. He has commanded me to flee, but I see now that my place for the time being is here. Lamorak, go with the drow to the Palace where the Most High will surely fortify you against the pains you have suffered – Rivalen has sensed that he, as well as Escanor and Aglarel, escaped this place before the blast."
"And you?" Lamorak argued.
Clariburnus' eyes were upon Phendrana now, who was still mumbling incoherently and pressing the pads of his fingers against Hadrhune's pale skin. "Phendrana can lead Hadrhune back from the Veil – the Night Mother knows I have seen him accomplish even more extraordinary feats before! – but he will undoubtedly need protection. I will stay with him for as long as I deem it safe for us to remain here, and help him all I can."
"What if you are set upon by the conjurer's hounds?" Lamorak demanded, hardly pleased with the prospect of leaving them behind.
The Fifth Prince straightened, his eyes slits of molten silver within his shadow-swathed face when he responded, "Then I will drag Phendrana back to the Palace with me, and we will mourn Hadrhune every step of the way."
"No." Though he hadn't so much as lifted his gaze from searching Hadrhune's face no one could question that it was Phendrana who had spoken; he continued to work diligently, his expression still vacant, but the crease that had formed between his eyebrows suggested he had heard something he did not care for. "You cannot stay here – you haven't the strength to even defend yourself, let alone me. I beseech you, go with Lamorak and Lim. I cannot ask any of you to stay here and place yourselves at risk on account of me."
"Out of the question," Clariburnus protested immediately, his posture stiffening with stress.
"Phendrana…" Lamorak began, but he would say no more on the subject; the snapping of jaws had grown almost unbearably close as they stood there arguing, and they were out of time to debate the matter. Stumbling forward a step Lamorak seized his younger brother by the elbow, ignoring Clariburnus' protests and curses, and had Phendrana spared the Third Prince a glance he would have taken note of the deep regret and sorrow chiseled into his every feature as he fled.
The silence that followed their departure was profoundly hollow, so much so that the doppelganger's concentration was nearly shattered by the unnatural quiet pressing in on him from all sides; instead he delved ever deeper into Hadrhune's broken mind, picking his way carefully through the fragments of consciousness that was all that remained in the wake of the devastating daylight spell. The cacophony of contrasting sounds and images that met him as he infiltrated that chaotic expanse was so jarring that Phendrana wanted nothing more than to retreat, but he didn't dare flee after Clariburnus and Lamorak for fear that Hadrhune would be forever and truly lost. There was screaming from somewhere far off, and a disjointed sobbing that seemed at once just over his shoulder and yet miles away; Phendrana stumbled after both sounds, unable to decipher which path was the way to his goal, meandering aimlessly through the seneschal's shattered mind and increasingly in danger of losing himself there with each passing moment.
The slavering and growling that was the only external stimulus Phendrana remained coherent enough to perceive was now so near that he knew they were in immediate danger, but the doppelganger was so lost within the chaos of Hadrhune's mind that he couldn't return to his own mind to protect them.
Something struck the marble not far from where he knelt and skittered along the cracked surface with the sound of a clear, rich bell tone; so great was his confusion and so insistent his curiosity that it served to wrench Phendrana back into himself, and focusing his eyes he glanced down. A small, faintly luminous trinket had come to rest just inches from where Hadrhune's lolling head lay supported upon Phendrana's lap; upon closer inspection the doppelganger identified the object as a band of mithril that twined intimately around two small, round diamonds that shone like teardrops lit by moonlight, and instinctively he found one hand darting out toward it. There was some curious magic bound into the precious metal, something about the purity of the stones that called out to his very soul, and even before his fingers plucked it from where it lay Phendrana knew that it was somehow meant for him.
The moment he opened his hand the band worked its way onto his left ring finger as though magnetized to that very spot, and when he closed his hand into a fist around it everything changed. The mental fatigue and chaos and white noise he had been battling since the daylight spell had erupted around them abruptly vanished like the breaking dawn banishing a lingering fog; his mind, previously alive with panic and hopelessness and fear, suddenly became as eerily quiet as a barren, forgotten wasteland. The uncertainties he had been harboring since he had first become a shade dissolved into nothing, and in the absence of those doubts he could see the true scope of his powers for the very first time – they were joyous and terrifying and almost limitless, and he embraced his full potential with manic fervor.
Phendrana's head snapped to the left, to the hellhound that had circled around the left side of the pillar and was even now slinking predatorily toward them, and the moment the mindmaster's chilling gaze landed upon it the hulking creature stiffened violently before collapsing lifelessly to the ground. There was no physical strike, no signs of struggle, yet instinctively Phendrana knew that it was but a fraction of his mind's potential that had utterly killed the aberration. Dimly he was aware of other external stimuli striking up all around him, a gout of flames licking the walls and the dreadful howling of beasts in unspeakable agony and the high-pitched, maniacal laughter of a voice he was certain he would recognize in any other circumstance, but the unerring calm and focus he now felt wouldn't quite allow him to center his attentions on anything other than the immediate task at hand; looking down into Hadrhune's lifeless face Phendrana dove headlong back into the seneschal's mind, no longer overwhelmed by the chaos he encountered within. The fragments of consciousness looked more like an easily-read map now than they had before and he raced along it, knowing without asking where those splinters of thoughts would lead him, no longer afraid of what he might find but greedily seeking it out like a dying man searching for water –
Were it not for his impeccably-sharpened instincts Phendrana might not have noticed what remained of Hadrhune's subconscious when he came upon it, for there was nothing left to distinguish the High Prince's chosen emissary from the ruined debris he now sifted through. He simply turned a corner and stopped short, morbidly mystified by the shards of broken black glass and viscous, oily shadowblood and grains of ebony ash and wispy gray vapor that he knew was all that remained of the man whose consciousness he now sought to repair. There was an incomprehensible whispering coming from the grains of ash that somehow Phendrana recognized, though, and with unnerving calm he descended upon the debris and plucked a jagged piece of black glass from the hard, cold ground.
Leave it, breathed a tired, harried voice that seemed borne upon a breath of frosted wind. Just leave it, there's nothing left, look at me –
Shut up, damn you, Phendrana shot back without missing a beat, and he watched with the detachment of someone caught in an out-of-body experience as his hands worked independently yet at one with each other to repair the terminal damage; beneath his capable hands glass became scraps of flesh, oil became blood, ash became inklings of thought and vapor became shadow, and before he could even begin to explain how he had known what to do he had created a fully-functioning stream of consciousness from thousands of pieces of shattered thoughts in barely a handful of seconds.
Then without warning he returned to himself with the suddenness of the tension being released from a taut bowstring, and Hadrhune was standing before him wearing an expression of awe as he stammered, "How did you…?"
"There isn't time," Phendrana interrupted, his voice oddly hollow and inflectionless, and though he hadn't an inkling of what was happening around them he knew at least that this much was true; the ballroom was bathed in flame now, everything that could be incinerated in the blaze serving as fuel to feed the raging inferno, and the maniacal laughter was mounting into a startling crescendo as the otherworldly shrieks of unspeakable agony joined in like the most macabre symphony. "The other princes are dying."
Hadrhune's hands were roaming his own body, arms and chest and face like animate lightning, and it was clear in his expression that he could scarcely believe he was alive. "Can we - ?"
"Yes," the doppelganger overrode him yet again, though for the present the seneschal seemed content to follow his lead. "But I'll need your help." Then he seized Hadrhune by the wrist, and they ran.
The daylight had long since died; molten lava was oozing along the floor in steaming rivulets, melting through the marble and making each step more treacherous than the next, yet Phendrana didn't slow. The heat was almost unbearable and the stench even more so, the pungent odor of sulfur mixed with the sickening smell of burnt animal hair as the last of the hellhounds melted away with a piteous whine; the voice that had been screaming was now sobbing brokenly like a small frightened child, begging nonsensically for mercy, but the answering voice was still rolling in peals of wicked laughter that raised chills upon every inch of Phendrana's skin and something told him that mercy was a luxury their adversary would not be granted this night. He skipped nimbly over each patch of magma they encountered, towing an unprotesting Hadrhune along in his wake in the direction of the half-shattered black glass dome that was crumbling in the center of the smoldering ballroom. A slab of the ceiling broke away and tumbled down mere feet away but they were both sure-footed and focused on their destination and so did not sway from their course, and the instant they had sprinted within the perimeter of the swiftly-collapsing dome Phendrana dropped Hadrhune's hand and cast an appraising look around.
Only the ring upon his finger rooted his thoughts in a numbing, placid calm and kept him from flying into a rage at the sight of several small piles of charred bones littering the ground at their feet; at his side Hadrhune gasped, at a loss for words, but for Phendrana their objective was clearer than ever and he did not allow himself to become distracted.
"Your powers will have returned by now," the mindmaster told his unlikely companion, secretly pleased by the deep curtain of shadow that enveloped the seneschal's body and the wellspring of slumbering shadow magic he felt emanating from every fiber of Hadrhune's being. "You must lead them back into darkness before they lose their way."
Hadrhune nodded, and if he was at all perplexed by what the doppelganger was asking him to do he did not show it; he cast one brief glance around them, taking in the smoking husks of skeletons that had once been the Princes of Shade with hatred in his eyes, then he lifted his darkstaff high overhead before driving the butt of the scepter into the ground.
The force of the blow sent a fissure trembling through the foundation of the palace and with a resounding crack the darkstaff splintered in Hadrhune's hand; from the core of the scepter spilled a deep darkness the depths of which even Phendrana's piercing gaze could not penetrate, and it crept along the ground at their feet like a noxious poison. The clouds of shadow thickened, bringing to the ailing shades a sense of peace and rejuvenation, but Phendrana knew it was too early to relax – the flames were bearing down upon them in earnest, their crimson tongues lashing, eager to consume everything within reach –
Phendrana flexed his left hand into a fist and the mithril band responded to his urgency; reaching deep within himself the doppelganger took hold of the intangible barrier that the ring had constructed to keep unwanted stimuli from infiltrating his conscious mind and flung it outward, letting it breach his defenses and spiral out of the confines of his body, stretching it, molding it –
Every fracture in the black glass dome that Aveil had erected to defend the Princes of Shade shone silver for a half second before simultaneously smoothing into a new, impenetrable barrier; the external shield Phendrana had summoned to protect them from the flames stretched to accommodate his needs and settled into the consistency and hardness of a diamond, its facets shimmering with a translucent radiance and its flawless surfaces unyielding even in the harsh environment they now faced. Phendrana could feel the flames lashing against the perimeter of his shield, seeking weakness, but the heat ceased to faze him and the boundaries held against the inferno. The flames intensified and with it the light, but beside him Hadrhune growled in denial and rage and the thick clouds of darkness billowed into a dense fog that served to blot out even the harshest ray of light shining on the outside.
Inside Phendrana's shield and Hadrhune's blanket of shadows everything was still and serene, and within that blissful darkness even the most critically wounded shade found solace from his ills.
They stood together working tirelessly against the all-consuming flames for what might have been days; after an immeasurable period of time Phendrana perceived that all that threatened them simply ceased to be, and when that moment came he lost the ability to comprehend anything further. The last thing he glimpsed was the inconsistent vapor-image of a vaguely humanoid shape hovering over him, smiling faintly with pride and a familiar liquid warmth that stirred something both agonizing yet blissfully familiar deep within the depths of the doppelganger's chest, but whether it was real or a phantom born of his mind's exhaustion he couldn't be sure.
The hellhounds slunk into predatory crouches and moved with the grace and synchronicity of a well-trained pack, and for her part Aveil could only back away slowly and allow herself to be herded into a position of their choosing. Experimentally she lifted the head of her staff a fraction but was unsurprised to find the artifact depleted, the azure stone gleaming a dull, colorless gray. She had known from the moment Rivalen had laid a hand upon her treasured scepter that she would be unable to defend herself when this moment arrived, yet she couldn't find it within herself to resent him. If there was even the barest fraction of a chance that he could safeguard the rest of the High Prince's progeny, could she really regret coming to his aid?
One of the slavering beasts leapt out of their tightly-knit formation, its over-eager jaws snapping and its acidic drool burning holes right through the marble underfoot; Aveil strafed clumsily to one side, catching her trailing foot on a jagged piece of debris and stumbling backward, and unable to regain her balance she flung her arms out to break her fall. The moment she opened her non-dominant hand the ring she had been holding bounced away with a clear ping, and the knowledge that she had lost such a precious trinket brought hot tears to her eyes. She had utterly failed the last task she had been given. Surely there was no hope that she might deliver the ring to Phendrana now.
A second hellhound lowered its head and charged, its anticipation at claiming its next meal outweighing its pack mentality, and Aveil rolled to one side to avoid it; its jaws caught her ankle and its teeth sank through the flesh, tearing through tendons, robbing her of the ability to walk. Aveil lashed out with her staff and landed a crippling blow to the beast's temple, leaving it momentarily stunned, but the damage was done – unable to walk and completely defenseless she could only buy herself a handful of seconds before gnashing teeth descended upon her from all sides. Unable to watch her death as it came for her she closed her eyes tight, her fingers tight upon the shaft of Stygian Invidia, the tears spilling unbidden down her cheeks –
She heard the scrabbling of claws upon marble and the vicious snap of a ruthless creature as it leapt for the kill, but she did not feel the cruel tearing jaws as they stripped the flesh from her bones; the urge to open her eyes and survey the totality of the damage as it was wrecked upon her body was strong but Aveil resisted, more out of fear for what she might find than anything else. The silence was broken by a helpless whine followed by the sickening snap of bone, and at last she couldn't resist the temptation and allowed her eyes to open a fraction.
A familiar silhouette had her at its back, and with one hand it held the hellhound that had lunged aloft; the creature's neck was twisted at an unnatural angle and its extremities twitched as it suffered its final death throes, and as she watched the figure cast the dead aberration aside. Standing behind the now-hesitating pack of hellish canines Nhilue Xorlarrin scowled and tossed her hair over her shoulder, surveying the intruder with no small amount of disdain.
"You Netherese are disgusting," she spat with a shudder of revulsion, and Aveil felt bile welling in the back of her throat at the drow's words. "Your people are like cockroaches – you won't ever just stay dead."
As if in response to some nonverbal command the remaining members of the hellhound pack leapt toward the shade that stood in their path.
Turning his head a fraction Fourth Prince Aglarel fixed one eye upon the cowering Aveil and said, "You should get back."
There was a faint aura of dark crimson shimmering around the prince's right hand and he squared himself up to face Nhilue Xorlarrin, curling his fingers into a fist and growling low in the back of his throat; as if in response to that guttural, animalistic sound the hazy red glow intensified and before Aveil's disbelieving eyes the extremity simply burst into flame. The ebony skin of his right arm rippled and hardened beneath the extreme temperature; deep, angry crimson fissures blazed as the extremity took on the consistency of volcanic rock, and when he opened his hand and the first sizzling drops of molten magma dripped onto the marble underfoot Aveil scrambled backward, the searing agony in her torn and bleeding leg all but forgotten.
Aglarel closed his eyes and breathed deeply as if to steady himself, and when he opened them again they blazed with livid red fires all their own; dropping into a crouch Aglarel cocked his fist back and slammed the appendage into the ground, shattering the marble with the force of the impact and sending a gout of steaming magma flowing out of his arm in all directions. A pair of the hellhounds were incinerated in the initial blast, lost beneath the first swell of lava that exploded out in all directions, and the others skittered backward with yelps of terror as they struggled to avoid the burning, viscous substance now oozing toward them. Aveil crawled away frantically, trembling and crying freely now, flecks of lava searing through the flesh of her arms and legs as she sought refuge from the blaze –
The lava crept like a silent, remorseless killer along the ground with Aglarel at its epicenter, and when the hellhounds began to backpedal toward their master he moved to close the distance between them; the first step he took melted through the fine leather of his supple boots and incinerated the hem of his slacks but left not so much as even the hint of a burn upon his skin. His second step was less experimental and far more confident, no longer speculative of what the consequences might be, and on the third step he sank into a predator's crouch and stalked forward toward the cowering beasts with a hungry gleam in his eye. The slowest of the hounds could not altogether avoid the first swipe of Aglarel's blazing volcanic arm and it sprawled to one side, its jaws hopelessly mangled by the blow, its right eye burned from its socket by the magma, and as it sank into the slowly-undulating lava it died without a sound. The next nearest aberration growled and leapt in a rage, its jaws sinking into Aglarel's unchanged left arm and shaking its head with manic ferocity; the Fourth Prince did not recoil, did not show pain in any way, but simply seized the canine's skull in his streaming hand and crushed it with seemingly no effort. Aglarel dropped its lifeless corpse to the ground at his side and continued forward, and Aveil watched in horror as the lava washed over the hellhound's body and reduced it to ash in mere seconds.
The hellhounds were breaking rank now, scrabbling every which way to avoid the magma lake as it oozed across the ballroom floor with increasing swiftness; Aglarel lifted his hardened, dripping hand and conjured a ball of sparking flame in his palm before launching it as easily as Aveil might cast a spell with her staff. The burning orb struck one of the fleeing hounds in the flank and scorched a hole right through it, leaving little more than a charred mess of blackened bone and singed hair in its wake. The lava was catching Aglarel's clothes on fire now, stealing up his velvet cape as though it possessed a life of its own; the flames leapt ever higher around him and the inferno blazed out of control, smothering the tattered tapestries, scorching the fine table furnishings, swiftly reducing the grand ballroom to a cesspool of living flame. The hellhounds were out of places to flee to, for by now every exit out of the ballroom was either obstructed by smoldering slabs of marble or entirely engulfed in flames; Aveil at last succeeded in dragging herself around the other side of a cracked and crumbling pillar, wondering how long she could use the failing structure as a refuge as the once-lavish chamber collapsed all around them.
Aglarel completed his approach and with a snarl Nhilue Xorlarrin lunged toward him – Aveil couldn't help but admire her foolish bravery and her blind, reckless abandon. She flung her spell desperately from the tips of her ebon fingers; sunlight streaked through the burning ballroom like a stroke of lightning, so close in proximity and so blinding in its radiance that it would have incinerated any other shade in an instant.
She should have known after everything she had witnessed that Fourth Prince Aglarel was far more than just a shade.
The sunlight exploded like a flare off the surface of the sun, momentarily whiting out Aveil's vision and leaving her eyes streaming; it banished the billowing cloak of shadows that undulated gently around Aglarel's body, and the silhouette it revealed was nothing short of terrifying. He was but a dark figure outlined by brilliant golden rays, the last of his clothing hanging in singed scraps of ruined fabric about his body, droplets of molten flame still running in crimson rivulets down his smoldering right arm and pooling at his feet. Aveil squinted through the glare, certain she was about to witness the untimely demise of the High Prince's favored fourth son, only to gaze at him in awe when the light dimmed and he was standing there just as powerful as before.
Briefly Aveil wondered what manner of creature he could possibly be to withstand such a powerful spell.
The last of Nhilue's self-assurance faded from her expression and her features twisted in terror; the obsidian wand slipped from her fingers and incinerated in the lava in a puff of multicolored sparks as she backed away in fear. There might have been some other nameless emotion in the drow's face that Aveil could not determine through her streaming eyes, but whatever it was dragged a low rumble of laughter from somewhere deep within Aglarel's chest. He closed the distance between them determinedly, his left hand darting out and clamping down upon the conjurer's slender wrist, and though the movement didn't appear to be executed with any such brute force Aveil clearly heard the snapping of bone before Nhilue's screams filled the room. Above the awful din of her shrieking, Aglarel's mounting laughter was easy to distinguish.
"Please," Nhilue managed to choke out in between sobs, her ruby eyes swimming with a fresh wave of tears. "We only do the Spider Queen's bidding… We're only here for Lim Tal'eyve."
"Oh, are you?" Aglarel wondered aloud bemusedly, and Aveil scarcely recognized his voice – it was the deep but insistent rolling of thunder splitting the sky, a dread earthquake shaking the ground.
"It's true!" The comely Xorlarrin's bottom lip was trembling uncontrollably – indeed, from a distance she appeared to be shaking from head to toe. "He is a mortal enemy of the Spider Queen! She has sent us here to eliminate him, as well as those who continuously impede our path to him!"
"Ah, yes," Aglarel chortled, darkly amused. "How often I forget that you are but the tragic, enslaved pawns of your wretched goddess, and that your will is not your own. How foolish of me to omit that one insignificant little detail."
Without warning he increased pressure upon her wrist and gave her arm a seemingly gentle tug, yet even that was more than enough force to tear the drow's arm from her shoulder. Nhilue stared open-mouthed and stunned at her own appendage clutched in Aglarel's hand and half-fainted on the spot, swooning for the ground, but the Fourth Prince moved quickly and dropped the bloody extremity into the lava before catching her in the crook of his arm.
"As if you did not come to this place willingly," he hissed, all pretense of sympathy gone from his monotonous tone of voice now, and reaching up he traced one crystalline tear track the length of her angular face from the corner of her eye to the graceful curve of her jaw with his magma-encrusted index finger.
"As if you did not leap at the chance to do the Bitch Queen's bidding," Aglarel snarled, disgusted by Nhilue's renewed screams, and raising his volcanic arm he painstakingly dripped lava into her eyes one by one until she was blind.
"As if you did not relish the opportunity to mount a completely unprovoked assault upon the City of Shade." Nhilue Xorlarrin's cries of agony were now so loud that they tore the back of her throat; as she began to choke on her own blood Aglarel smothered her face with his deadly lava-smeared hand, melting through first her flesh, then her muscles, and finally her skull. When nothing remained in his arms save the charred scraps of bloody flesh the magma hadn't quite incinerated he discarded the drow into the river of molten flame in which he stood, saying, "Tell me, child of Lolth – where is your precious goddess now?"
For a moment Aveil allowed herself to feel the smallest twinge of relief as she peeked cautiously around her meager shelter – surely now that the drow Phendrana had witnessed killing her in his vision was dead she was safe? – but the sensation was short lived; turning slowly Aglarel took notice of her cowering behind the cracked marble surface and his eerie crimson eyes blazed anew, his expression deranged. He moved with new purpose through the roiling magma, his ceremonial fangs glinting ruby in the light of a thousand raging fires, his face alive with hatred and vengeance –
Aveil scrambled backward but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the frightful devilish creature that was all that remained of the man who not long ago had given purpose to her wretched existence. She could only gaze up at him, her delicate shoulders quaking and her violet eyes petrified, as he stalked right up to where she lay sprawled and seized the front of her gown with his left hand, hauling her off the ground and into the air until Aveil was suspended helplessly almost nose-to-nose before him.
"Prince," she managed to gasp out, for her sobs were now so great that she almost couldn't speak in her hysteria. "It's me. The Sceptrana."
The crackling of flames, coupled with the soft sound of Aglarel's primal growls, filled her ears. There was no hint of recognition in the depths of his crimson eyes, and Aveil thought she could see the shadow of her own swiftly-approaching death concealed deep within those hellish fires.
"Prince, please," she begged him, clutching at his arm with her desperately-swiping fingertips, hoping somehow she might stay the death stroke with some meager show of strength. "I have served you loyally… I am wholeheartedly devoted to you, and to the High Prince. Can you not recall?"
Still Aglarel said nothing. She feared she had already lost him to the hatred that so obviously consumed him, but she threw caution to the winds.
"Aglarel, it's Aveil," she sobbed, her face damp with tears, her voice thick with emotion. "Don't do this. You know me. You know that I would do anything for you – even allow you to take my life, if I thought it might please you. Will that bring you back from this dark place that has ensnared you? When my blood stains your hands, will you return to yourself?" And when the Fourth Prince snapped his dreadful fangs just millimeters from her face and lifted his magma-encased arm she nodded in acceptance, saying, "Then let it be so, dear prince."
Another groping hand seized the back of her gown and all but tore her from Aglarel's grasp, and that was how Aveil found herself cradled in the arms of High Prince Telamont; she stared up into Aglarel's cruel, unforgiving red eyes and her body wracked with sobs, so much so that Telamont tightened his arms around her until the warmth of his body sank into her skin and she quieted. The High Prince faced his son sadly, and Aveil couldn't be sure but she thought she saw regret swimming within the ancient monarch's platinum eyes.
"Come back to me, my son," he crooned, in the voice a father might use to soothe his bawling child. "It is all done, and the threat has passed. Are you so lost in the clutches of the dark creature that sleeps within you that you will murder our precious Sceptrana, who has given you nothing but limitless devotion since the moment she entered into my service?"
Something about the High Prince's voice seemed to reach the single shred of humanity that remained alive in Aglarel's mind and he hesitated, growling softly; it seemed to Aveil that perhaps his eyes were not as bright red as they had been a moment before. Aglarel cocked his head minutely to the side, assessing the High Prince's face, searching, remembering.
"That's it," Telamont encouraged. "Come back."
A sob ripped itself involuntarily from Aveil's lips and Aglarel's eyes flitted to her face as though struck dumb by the sound; though she was more frightened of him than of anyone else she had ever met Aveil held his gaze and did not allow herself to look away. And then without warning recognition sparked electric in the Fourth Prince's eyes and the crimson fires within his face dulled; he blinked once, mystified, confused, and abruptly they were the calculating silver eyes of the man she had once knew. Aglarel lifted his hand as though reaching out for her, his expression brimming with self-loathing, some ill-formed apology on the tip of his tongue –
"You did well," said Telamont, the words saturated with praise, and the moment Aglarel tore his eyes away from Aveil's to regard the High Prince she felt unconsciousness rising up to wash over her.
Aveil let it take her gladly, half wishing she would never wake again.