Necri now understood why she had awoken. The death of Magister Dawnspell, the one who had cast the spells that kept her from resurrecting, would have released that magic and allowed her body to finally begin to regenerate.
But ... murdered? Necri realized she needed to be especially cautious. "I take it you don't know who did it, or why." She and the rangers had stopped walking.
"He was killed with dark magic," Jaela replied. "A demon was involved. But no, we don't know who was responsible."
Necri was suddenly glad that Galarax was not immediately present. "And I stand accused, then?" Her mind flashed over the possibilities. Perhaps Galarax had...? But no, that was impossible. All of her bound demons were under the same restriction: they could take no action without a direct, conscious order from their binder. And by the physical condition of her incarceration, she was certain that her own body had not been disturbed either.
"Currently, no. All will be explained. In the meantime, you will come with us."
Necri ground her teeth but didn't see a way out. She still needed answers, and trying to escape from Elven rangers on their home turf would be a difficult proposition, especially without her mount. "Fine. I will go."
Jaela nodded, her face schooled into a polite smile. The six of them set off again, this time in complete silence.
As the sun fell below the horizon, they finally crossed a river and broke out of the forest's burnt area. Laid out before them was the twinkling expanse of the living Eversong forest. Even in twilight's fading glow, every leaf and blade of grass sang with golden light. Crimson dragonhawks, their graceful wingspans as wide as a ship's sails, ghosted above the treetops, ignoring the little group.
The rangers stopped for a short rest and a meal, but with typical Elven endurance, pushed on through the night. They wound their way north through the forest, along paths carved artfully into the sides of hills and along bubbling silver streams. An hour after dawn, with the forest's waking life in full bloom, the elegant towers and ivory walls of Silvermoon City finally came into view through the trees.
Damage from the Scourge invasion was still very evident. The western half of the city had a wide path blasted through it; every wall and building torn completely down to its foundations. But so single-minded had the attack been, that the rest of the city had remained untouched.
So, it was to the Eastern half of the city that she was led. The main gate loomed as large in her memory as it did in reality: fifty feet high, edged in gold and crimson, and decorated with imposing statuary of past Elven leaders.
Inside, the city was bright and clean. Magic was everywhere; floating crystals of light left few dark corners, and animated brooms kept even the most minute speck of dust or mud from marring the roadway. Several individuals floated past her, cross-legged on magical carpets supported by nothing more than wisps of mist. Overhead, illusions of colourful leaves and exotic birds dipped and swirled through the air.
The Elves she had known had certainly utilized magic in their daily lives; it was a tool, meant to accomplish particular ends. But these excessive and wanton displays were new to Necri. When Ropart had told her that the Elves were addicted to magic, he had only been half right; they were positively obsessed with it.
She was taken deeper into the city. She noted wryly that she was being led down back alleys and side streets instead of main roads... perhaps she wasn't so welcome here, after all. This didn't stop her from figuring out where she was being taken: Sunfury Spire. The tallest and most graceful tower in all of Silvermoon, a shining testament to Elven presence and beauty. Hung with crimson banners and flanked by a pair of carved, golden wings, it sparkled in the morning light.
Necri was led through a side gate, where three of the rangers stopped to stand guard. Jaela and the other two guided her down a number of narrow hallways into the bowels of the tower. Her footfalls were silenced on thick red carpeting. She passed doorways hidden behind translucent purple silks, with hushed conversations half-heard within.
Cautiously, Necri decided to try for more details. At the same time, she didn't want to reveal too much of her own knowledge. "You said there was a demon present at the murder scene?"
Jaela eyed her. "The guards rushed to the Magister's chamber at the first sound of a disturbance. They didn't arrive before the screams had stopped, but they reported seeing a shadowy, red shape, vaguely dog-like, disappear into thin air as they arrived."
Necri nodded, filing this detail away. It was only moments later that Jaela stopped and turned to face her. They stood before an unremarkable doorway, with the silks pulled aside. Beyond them was a large, circular room, dimly lit by a cluster of green crystals that hung in the centre of the arched ceiling. What were once neatly organized desks and bookshelves were scattered and smashed. Splashes of dried blood were everywhere. A pair of Elves picked their way delicately around the debris.
She could smell the demonic taint in the room, even from here.
"Your staff, please." Jaela held her hand out.
Necri glanced at her, her suspicions increasing. "You stated that I am not being accused."
"This is true, yet we need to have caution. This is a murder scene, and we need to limit the magics here, such that its aura is not corrupted."
As with all interactions with Elves, there was much that was not being said, but Necri didn't have much choice. Reluctantly, she handed over her scythe, and stepped into the room. One of the Elves straightened up when he saw her. Both of them recognized each other at the same moment.
Both of them had changed significantly over the intervening years.
He was taller and more muscular than she remembered, his flowing chocolate hair accented by the brown-and-gold edging on his violet robe. The bright arcane light to his eyes was new, but the elegant lips... those were the same.
"Zanien," Necri whispered, unable to stop a half-smile from forming from the memories.
"Talemma," he half-bowed to her. "Or... wait. You're going by a different name now, are you not?"
Her smile vanished as her face hardened. "You know I hated that name."
"Of course. My apologies." A smile played across his lips. He glided across the floor and accepted the scythe from Jaela, who bowed and left the room, her rangers following close behind. Zanien took a few moments to examine the weapon. "I see that your enchanting skills are still impressive, though as always, somewhat lacking in creativity."
With effort, she ignored the judgment on her skills. "So. Are you a Magister yet, or are you still an apprentice after all these years?"
There was a brief flash of annoyance on his face, which was quickly schooled into sadness. Even his long eyebrows drooped gravely. "Actually, the unfortunate death of Magister Dawnspell has opened a space in the ranks, and I have been offered the position. Though of course, it will be many years before I can possibly aspire to the power and authority of his station."
"Right," Necri growled, glancing around the room. "So since I've been brought here - yet not formally accused - I assume I'm here to help figure out who killed him?"
"Actually," Zanien brightened considerably, "I asked for you to be brought here. I knew you'd arrive, though honestly I thought it would be -much- sooner. You see, I know you didn't get along well with the old man..."
Necri's only memories of Quithas Dawnspell were of her training, of the noble and firm teacher who opened her to the magical energies that had shaped her life. She tried to keep the look of confusion off her face, but it didn't work.
"You... you don't remember!" Zanien gasped, dramatically pressing his hand to his chest. "But certainly you must remember -me-? Our last nights together?"
Necri felt herself losing control of the situation, and angrily tried to divert the conversation. "That's not important right now. We should..."
He leaned toward her, his arcane-tinged eyes level with her own. His whisper was laden with smugness and fake hurt. "I bet you don't even remember your last visit to Silvermoon."
She felt it coming. She tried in vain to fight it with every scrap of willpower and anger she possessed.
The last few weeks had been a whirlwind. She'd left Strom before the nascent Mage's Guild could force her out, and wandered northward, never admitting to herself that she was moving toward Silvermoon again. At some point, her tears had dried, replaced by a simmering determination to show her countrymen the strength and correctness of her choices.
She arrived in a city that seemed large and alien. Without almost five score of her fellows beside her, she was alone, stared at and ostracized for nothing more than being human in a city of Elves. Now that the Trolls had been defeated, it seemed the Elves had no further need of their allies.
Until the young Apprentice Zanien found her.
The Elf whisked her away and soothed her ills with kind words. She was provided the most comfortable bed she had ever known. Her days were spent in vibrant discussion of the fine points of arcane theory, and the nights... the nights were unworthy of being described by words.
She met again with Magister Dawnspell, who brought her back into his classroom alongside his apprentices. She, who had learned so much and so quickly, expanded her knowledge even further.
Those were the happiest days of her entire life. But it didn't last.
She took pains to play down her practice of demonic magic, but inevitably, it was revealed. There were shouts, there were arguments and tearful justifications, but in the end, it was Zanien turning his back on her that she remembered; Zanien who rejected her. His angry finger, jabbed toward the door like a sword through her heart.
The Magister's words, as she slunk out, were the death-knell:
"You shall never again be welcome in our lands."
Her heart stopped beating sometime during the flight from Silvermoon. She didn't notice for days.
She was kneeling on the floor, her wrists bound with mithril chains, and her power utterly drained. Zanien had obviously seized the opportunity of her distraction. A female Elf, dressed in a similar robe, stood beside him.
"We accuse you," Zanien's voice intoned imperiously, "of murdering Magister Quithas Dawnspell."
The female Elf's laughter sang out throughout the room.