Final Gate

CHAPTER EIGHT

8 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms

Araevin and his companions did not encounter any more of the pallid, hunched giants and didn’t see the pale sphere again as they descended from the ledge into the deeps below. Araevin’s legs felt stiff and numb, and no longer answered to him as well as he would have liked, but as exhausted as he felt, his friends seemed worse off. Every time he glanced back up over his shoulder at the comrades following him, grimaces of pain and concentration met his gaze.

How many days to climb back up to the top? he wondered. Faerzress or no, he’d be sorely tempted to try a teleport spell rather than face the daunting task of making their way back up the miles and miles of stairs on foot.

They marched on and passed another switchback. As they turned back, Araevin decided that there was no doubt about it-some faint luminescence danced in the darkness below. In a short time, the light had grown bright enough that they could descry a strange city of sorts below. Like the watchpost on the ledge far above, the city rested on a great shelf in the side of the abyss. Its towers and buildings were square and squat, many with a distinct inward slant so that they seemed like flat-topped pyramids. The gray light emanated from dozens of strange pillars, each capped by a round sphere of crystal in which a faintly luminescent liquid swirled sluggishly.

“At last,” grunted Donnor. Carrying fifty pounds of steel and sixty more of pack down the miles-long stairs had brought the human warrior to the very end of his strength, and he literally swayed with fatigue. “I am sick and tired of these damned steps. Anything would be better than more of this.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Maresa told him. “The stairs might not look so bad once we get to the bottom.”

The staircase began to cut through a serried row of terraces that overlooked the city proper. Araevin found something profoundly out of place. In the terraces stood the bare skeletons of trees, pale and leafless. He turned aside from the continuous descent, though it took a surprising effort of will to do so, and stiffly walked over to the nearest of the dead trees. He brushed his fingers over the desiccated bark.

“Apple trees,” he breathed. “Impossible.”

Jorin joined him, his face set in a thoughtful frown. “How in the world did these get here?”

Araevin glanced at the terraces, stretching for hundreds of yards to each side before vanishing into the dark. “I think they grew here.”

“In this cold and lightless sepulcher? I can’t believe that,” Jorin replied. He shook his head. “They must have been brought down from the surface and planted here. But why go to such trouble to plant so many trees in a place where they would only die?”

“Because this place may not have always been as cold and lightless as it is now. Maybe it was not always like this.”

“Then what happened to it?” Maresa asked.

Araevin shrugged. “I suspect we’ll find out below,” he said. He smoothed his hand over the dry, crumbling bark of the dead tree one more time and turned back to the steps. “Come on, we are almost there. Not many more steps now.”

From the terraces overlooking the city, the great stair finally ended in a small plaza or square where one of the city’s boulevards met the wall. Even with the gray light to lessen the darkness, the place was uncannily still and cold. They staggered out onto the square, stumbling and lurching as legs inured to step after downward step fumbled for the feel of level ground again. Araevin set his hands on his knees and rested for a long time before he decided he was ready to look around.

Jorin was right to call this place a sepulcher, Araevin decided. The place had all the animation and warmth of a thousand-year-old tomb. Empty black windows and doorways yawned on all sides, silent streets and alleyways rambled off into the shadows, and the pale and broken limbs of dead trees jutted up over the stone streets. The stonework was strange to him. Like the pillars marking the steps and the way posts on the road far, far overhead, they were marked with intricate geometric patterns-zigzags and squares, triangles and trapezoids.

“Is this dwarven stonework, Araevin?” Maresa asked.

“None that I recognize, not that I am any expert in such things.”

“Who else would live down here?” the genasi asked. “Who were these people?”

“I don’t know, Maresa. It’s beyond my experience.”

“They were humanlike, at least,” Nesterin observed. “They cut steps to suit the legs of people five or six feet tall. And the windows and arches in the buildings look like they’re proportioned for humans, orcs, or elves.”

“Not the giants, then,” said Donnor. “They would have built the place to suit their own size, not ours.”

“Well, which way from here?” Maresa asked Araevin.

The sun elf surveyed the silent boulevards leading off into the shadows. Arbitrarily, he decided to follow the largest of the boulevards their staircase met. It marched off into the darkness as if the maddening descent above simply continued straight on in a level road.

With a few creaking joints and stifled groans, they set off into the cold ruins of the city. But they had only traveled a block or two when two of the pallid, crouching giants padded into the road ahead. Araevin set his hand on the wand holster at his hip, and his companions rustled softly as they eased weapons from sheaths and spread out, ready for a fight.

“Do we strike first?” Maresa asked.

“No,” Araevin decided. “Let’s see what they do.”

The dark-eyed giants moved closer, eyes fixed on the small party but not a trace of expression on their faces. They wore sarks of small stone discs and carried enormous hammers like the giants Araevin and his companions had fought on the ledge watchpost. For a moment Araevin feared that they were simply going to lumber up and attack, but the creatures halted a good distance short of them and silently beckoned.

“It seems we’re expected,” Maresa observed. “Good. I think I’m too tired to fight anyway.”

The giants turned and led the way, guiding the mage and his companions through the empty streets of the city. They walked for a few hundred yards, following twists and turns of the road. Then the strange creatures brought them out into a square before a large, rambling palace. A whole row of columns carved in the likeness of ancient human warriors fronted the citadel, looking out over the city beyond like a phalanx of stone. And standing beneath the columns, a company of human-seeming guards stood quietly before their stone champions, imitating their impassive watch. Two more of the giants waited there as well, but the whole assemblage stood motionless, speechless, simply watching Araevin and his friends approach.

“I don’t like this at all,” Maresa murmured. The genasi scowled, searching all around for easy avenues of escape.

“Araevin, the guards are not alive,” Donnor Kerth said. The Lathanderite stared at the warriors in their ancient armor, his face set in a determined scowl. “They are undead of some kind, I am sure of it.”

“I can see it,” Araevin answered.

In fact, Araevin could clearly distinguish the necromancy that pulsed in their cold veins in place of living blood. He hesitated, unwilling to approach any closer. He had never held with necromancy, and in fact had avoided the study of the black arts for all the long years at Tower Reilloch. It was an unwholesome thing to make the dead answer one’s bidding. Yet having come so far, they did not have any choice other than to go on.

“I think that someone here wishes to parley, not fight,” he told the Lathanderite. “But remain on your guard nonetheless.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Donnor said with a snort.

They followed the two giants into the square before the palace, and there six of the cold warriors took up the task of escorting them into the palace proper. They climbed up a wide set of shallow steps leading to the palace’s gate, and followed them inside. The interior was resplendent. Columns of beautiful pale marble veined with gold marched through the halls, and richly appointed rooms gleamed in the dim light of low-burning lanterns worked in the shape of flowering vines.

They came to another great hall, and found a pale queen waiting for them on a small dais.

She was white-skinned, with a complexion that reminded Araevin of snow on some distant mountaintop. Even Maresa was not so perfectly colorless, since the genasi possessed the faintest tinge of blue-white, like a high cloud in a springtime sky. The queen’s flesh, on the other hand, had a strange cold luster like polished marble. Her hair was long, black, and straight, bound by a simple fillet of silver on her brow. She wore a flowing gown of white that was gathered at the torso in an ornate silvered brocade, and a long, slender rod of black platinum lay across her lap.

“Welcome to Lorosfyr, Araevin Teshurr,” she said. Her voice was soft and rich, with a purring accent that Araevin had never heard anywhere else. “I am Selydra, whom some call the Pale Sybil. May I offer you refreshment? The Long Stair is a difficult path.”

“You are most gracious,” Araevin said carefully.

Apparently she had observed them through the medium of the white sphere they had encountered on the stairs. He was not at all sure that it would be wise to dine at her table, but he certainly did not wish to offend her within the first few moments of meeting her. He offered a slight bow.

Selydra smiled coolly, as if she were amused by his caution, and made a small motion with her hand. A lantern in the shadows at the side of the hall brightened, revealing a small banquet already set out. Divans and cushions were arranged nearby. She descended from her dais and led the way to the table.

“Please, eat and drink your fill,” she said over her shoulder. “Travelers are a rare treasure in this place, and I have always been fascinated by the World Above. I am eager to hear how you came to the Long Stair.”

Araevin hesitated. He was indeed hungry and thirsty, but he reminded himself of the deathless warriors who stood watch at Selydra’s door. “If you will allow us, my lady, my comrade Donnor would like to speak a small prayer before we eat,” he said to Selydra. “It is our custom.”

The Pale Sybil inclined her head, though Araevin thought he sensed a flicker of irritation in her gaze. “By all means.”

Araevin glanced at Donnor, and to his credit the cleric understood perfectly without another word. He stepped forward and spread his arms over the banquet, looking up to the ceiling, and he murmured the words of an ancient Lathanderite prayer-followed rather subtly by a divination to determine if everything was safe. After a moment, he nodded.

“As Lathander rises,” the cleric finished. “We may eat now.”

Araevin and his friends helped themselves to the strange viands laid out for them-dark slices of some sort of broiled meat, small salty fish that were completely eyeless, a coarse gray bread, and even a few small, tart, blood-red fruits that he had never seen before. Cold, pure water and decanters of a black wine accompanied the meal. Selydra simply helped herself to a goblet of the wine, and reclined on a divan while Araevin and his friends shed their packs and sampled her table.

“What realm of the surface do you and your companions come from, Araevin?” Selydra asked, sipping at her wine.

“I am from Evermeet. Donnor Kerth, here, hails from Tethyr. Jorin and Nesterin-” Araevin nodded at the Yuir ranger and the star elf-“come from the land of Aglarond on the Sea of Fallen Stars. And Maresa is a native of Waterdeep.”

“I have heard of these places,” Selydra murmured, “but I have never seen them. Only a rare picture or two in the tomes of my library. How strange.”

“You named this city Lorosfyr, my lady,” Araevin said. “Who built it? What is the story of this place? And why do you choose to dwell here?”

“It is an intriguing mystery, isn’t it?” Selydra said. She studied Araevin with that same amused half-smile on her lips, and Araevin sensed a deep stirring of something within her, a whisper of avidness, hunger, that she carefully concealed. “This was once a city of humankind. Long ago a race of great wizards fought and lost a terrible war in the surface lands. To escape the vengeance of their foes, they fled into the farthest depths of the Underdark, and founded hidden cities such as Lorosfyr.”

“But why here, my lady?” Jorin asked. “How could they survive in this place?”

“Long ago, Lorosfyr basked in the daylight of magical suns,” Selydra said. “This place was once a great, shining realm of golden mists, brilliant as the morning. I imagine that during its day it was not at all unpleasant.”

“What happened to it?” said Araevin.

“A disaster befell the place many centuries ago. The spells sustaining light and warmth in this great darkness failed.” Selydra shrugged. “I have not discovered the cause. I came here years ago in the hope of uncovering the secrets of Imaskari magecraft, and I have never managed to unravel the story of the city’s end. Whatever doom came to this place, it fell so swiftly upon the people who lived here that they made no record of it.”

“You are a student of the Art, then, my lady?”

“I am,” the Pale Sybil admitted. “As are you, Araevin Teshurr. Now, I confess I am quite curious as to why an elf mage of such skill would venture into Lorosfyr.”

Araevin did not glance at his companions, though he felt their eyes upon him. “I believe that you have come into possession of a shard from a magical crystal,” he said. “I have great need of it, my lady. I was hoping that I could persuade you to allow me to make use of it for a short time.”

If Selydra was surprised, she did not show it. She simply sipped again from her goblet, studying Araevin over the golden rim of her cup. “Unless I am mistaken, you also have a shard of this same crystal,” she said. “It may be, Araevin Teshurr, that I would like to make use of your shard for a short time.”

“It is a matter of great urgency, my lady. Thousands of lives may depend on this. I will be happy to explain.”

Selydra rose to her feet. “And I will be happy to listen, and perhaps try to persuade you of my own need in turn. We are reasonable mages, and I am sure we can reach an agreement. But I can see that you and your companions are absolutely exhausted. Before we examine this question at any length, I must insist that you rest. Recover your strength, and enjoy my hospitality for a time. We can take up more serious matters tomorrow.” She paused, her dark eyes fixed on Araevin. “I think there is much we will learn from each other.”

Araevin started to protest, but thought better of it. He had the feeling that pressing Selydra on the question would get him nowhere. The Pale Sybil meant to enjoy her role of gracious hostess. Regardless of how reasonable she seemed at the moment, he had no way of knowing what she might or might not be capable of. He thought of the broken gnome Galdindormm, moaning in terror with her name on his lips.

Patience, Araevin, he told himself. He inclined his head to the Pale Sybil. “Of course, my lady,” he said. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

“As do I,” Selydra answered. She motioned to the silent warriors standing nearby, and the creatures drew closer. “My servitors will show you to a comfortable set of apartments. You will have everything you need there, but I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from wandering about. While my swordwights should suffice to protect you here within the palace, you will find that there are many perils in Lorosfyr.”

She gathered up her sleeves and slipped her pale hands within, and glided away into the shadows of her palace. Araevin watched her go, his lips pressed together in a frown. The ancient warriors regarded him with their dead, unblinking gazes, a pale light glimmering in their haunted eyes. One extended an arm, indicating a passageway leading somewhere else in the shadows.

“I don’t trust her for a moment,” Donnor said. “This whole place reeks of necromancy. And stranger, darker arts too, I think. We’re in danger here.”

His features hidden beneath a well-worn hood, Fflar turned into the alley running behind a merchant’s residence near the back of the Markhouse, and he paused for a moment to make sure he was not followed or observed. Then he quickly scrambled up to the roof of a shed leaning against the merchant’s house and vaulted over the tall fence that separated the inn’s smokehouse from the merchant’s alleyway. A couple of conveniently located trees made it an excellent way to slip in and out of the Markhouse without being seen.

Fflar ventured into the common room and spent a short time there listening to a lutist strumming her instrument while he indulged in two goblets of good wine. He was just about to leave a tip on the table and head upstairs to his room when the dark-haired girl, the bewitchingly beautiful girl he’d seen watching from the window five days ago, appeared in the room.

Her face was heart-shaped and perfect, her hair black and straight as a river of pure night, her figure almost elf-slender but alluring beneath a snug gown of royal blue. She fixed her eyes on him, and her lips pursed in a small smile. Ignoring the stares of the mercenary captains and lordlings who filled the taproom, she glided over to Fflar’s table and seated herself without waiting for an invitation.

“Well,” she began. “You have a habit of taking long walks in the evening, don’t you?”

Fflar did his best to keep a faintly bemused expression on his face. He could sense at once that he was badly out of his depth; he had no skill for fencing with words. “And you have a habit of watching me,” he answered. “Who are you?”

“I am Terian. You are Starbrow, are you not?”

“That’s what they call me,” Fflar said. “Why have you been spying on me, Terian?”

“Now that is a truly ironic accusation, coming from an elf who’s spent each night skulking about in the alleyways and shadows, eavesdropping on the whole town.”

“If there’s something you want to say to me, better say it soon. Otherwise I think I’m going on up to my room.”

“Forgive me, Starbrow. I meant that to be clever, not rude. I truly do admire your directness.”

Fflar leaned back in his chair, regarding the girl skeptically. “All right, then. What do you want, Terian?”

She tossed her hair and glanced around the room, and she moved closer, setting one slim hand on his forearm. “You are being watched, Starbrow. Ilsevele Miritar and all of the elves in your party, too.”

“By you, apparently.”

“I am being serious. Selkirk is not negotiating in good faith. I fear he may be plotting to take Lady Miritar captive and use her against her father.”

Fflar narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

Terian raised a finger to her lips. “Not so loudly. I am in the service of a Sembian lord who believes that peace with your people is the only path that can lead us out of this disaster. He has sources of information close to Selkirk who have warned him of the prince’s duplicity.”

“Who is your master, then?”

“I can’t tell you that.” The girl frowned, chewing on her lower lip. “But… I think I might be able to arrange a meeting. Your delegation is to meet with Selkirk tomorrow afternoon, correct?”

“No, in the evening. He returns from Ordulin late in the day.”

“The evening… even better. You will need to slip away from the delegation before they reach the Sharburg. There is a manor on the east side of the town that belongs to the Elgaun family, of Yhaunn. Meet me there one bell after dusk.”

“Let me guess. I should come alone?”

“One elf slipping out is hard enough to hide. I think you would have a hard time if you brought any more of your warriors. But suit yourself.” Then Terian leaned across the table to brush her lips against his.

Fflar was so startled he didn’t even think to protest. Then she whispered in his ear, “For the sake of those who are watching us. Let them think you have an assignation of a different sort tomorrow.” Then she pushed away and disappeared into the crowded taproom, with only a single mischievous glance over her shoulder for a good-bye.

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” he murmured to no one in particular. There was trouble brewing, he was certain of it, but if the girl had been telling the truth… then Ilsevele was in danger.

He shook his head and sighed. He didn’t trust this Terian at all. Fishing a few coins from his belt pouch, he left them on the table and returned to the rooms set aside for the elven embassy. He replayed the whole mysterious conversation in his head several times before he reached the door to their rooms, but still he couldn’t make any real sense of it.

Fflar rapped three times on the door and was admitted by the moon elf Seirye, leader of Ilsevele’s party of guards. He found Ilsevele waiting for him, her arms folded across her chest and anxiety creasing her brow.

“Starbrow!” she said. “Where have you been? I was beginning to fear that some misfortune had befallen you.”

“No such luck, I’m afraid. No one noticed my stroll through the town. Well, no one who took offense, I suppose.”

She glared at him and nodded at the door leading to her room. The other elves in the suite were doing their best to find other things to occupy their attention. Fflar glanced at Seirye, who offered a small grimace of sympathy. Then he followed Ilsevele into the smaller room and waited as she closed the door. Still, he was surprised as she rounded on him and set her hands on her hips. “Next time, ask before you slip out into the night! Do you have any idea of what could happen if the Sembians caught you spying out the town?”

“I am charged with keeping you safe, Ilsevele. To do that I need to know what’s going on around us. We’re deaf, dumb, and blind as long as we wait here.” He studied the floorboards between his feet. The last thing he wanted in the world was to anger Ilsevele.

“But you couldn’t tell me before disappearing for so long?” Ilsevele demanded. “I was worried sick about you!”

Worried about me? Fflar looked up sharply and met her eyes, green as the spring. By the Seldarine, she is beautiful, he thought. She’d never been one to hide what was in her heart, and right now her worry for him left him dumbstruck. He found himself gazing at a faint dusting of tiny freckles across her cheekbones. They lent her features a girlish innocence that entranced him, until he realized that he was staring at her. Something in his gaze must have given him away, for a strange expression flickered across her face, and she suddenly turned and moved away to gaze out the window of leaded glass.

What are you doing? he demanded of himself. You do not have the luxury of mooning over this girl!

The silence grew uncomfortable, until Ilsevele cleared her throat and spoke. “Well?” she said. “As long as you were out there flirting with peril, did you learn anything useful?”

“I didn’t pick up much from the tavern talk of the soldiers,” he admitted, glad for the chance to speak of something straightforward and unambiguous. “But something else came to my attention while I was looking around the town. A human girl named Terian approached me in the taproom downstairs. She was the one I saw watching us from the window the day we arrived here.”

“The dark-haired one?”

“Yes. She told me that Selkirk intends treachery, and that she can put me in touch with Sembians who wish to deal honestly with us. Terian said that she could arrange a meeting with her patron for me, tomorrow evening during the banquet.” Fflar smiled awkwardly. “Of course, it would involve slipping out of your sight again.”

Ilsevele let the last remark pass. Instead, she asked, “Do you think she can be trusted?”

“I have no idea at all. But I suppose I won’t find out for sure unless I take her up on her offer.”

“The Sembians would notice your absence. But I suppose you could take ill.” Ilsevele studied him for a moment. “Can you think of a reason why you should not see what she and her mysterious master have to say?”

“It takes me away from your side. If anyone intends mischief toward you, it might be easier if I am not around.”

Ilsevele’s eyes flashed. “I think I can manage to look after myself for a short time.”

Fflar raised his hands in surrender. “You asked,” he said.

Sarya Dlardrageth soared through the luminous spires and columns of the Waymeet, impressed despite herself. She had been born in an age when the works of elves were spectacular on a scale that the folk of latter years could scarcely have comprehended. But even she had never set foot in an undisturbed work of ancient Aryvandaar. The Waymeet embodied the boldness, daring, and skill of the ancient Vyshaan Empire, capturing in its living crystal a song of elven might that filled her heart with pride and approval.

“You will live again,” she promised the cathedral of glass. “I will give you the opportunity to discharge your ancient purpose again. I swear it!”

Xhalph, flying at her side, glanced at her with puzzlement on his face. She did not respond to his unspoken questions. Soon enough she would show her son what their ancient forefathers had accomplished with this place.

She followed a single curving spar down toward the center of the complex, and alighted before a towering pillar of blue crystal-now shackled and bound by cruel bands of hellwrought iron. Malkizid awaited her there, caressing the harsh runes incised in the metal with his talonlike hands.

“Ah, there you are, Sarya,” Malkizid said in a voice of pure music. The archdevil wore his natural form: a tall and regal shape seemingly sculpted from living marble, with vast gray-feathered wings and talons in the place of his hands. His noble mien was marred by the black, seeping wound that gave him the name of the Branded King. “What brings you here?”

“I have been trying to summon you all day,” Sarya snapped. “Where have you been, Malkizid?”

“Here. I am nearly done with my work. It is only a matter of time before the Gatekeeper is broken to my will… and we will be able to employ the Waymeet for great things indeed, dear Sarya.” The archdevil made a small gesture, and sent tongues of angry red flame jabbing deep into the blue crystal before him. The Waymeet itself trembled in agitation, and the keening sound of crystalline agony thrummed through the cold air. Malkizid nodded in satisfaction and turned his full attention to the daemonfey queen. “How fares your campaign against the army of Evermeet?”

“The accursed palebloods set a trap for us at Lake Sember,” Sarya snarled. “I lost ninety of my fey’ri warriors, and they are irreplaceable.”

“Whereas my own minions destroyed in your service are of no particular concern to you.”

The daemonfey queen shrugged. “I would prefer not to lose devils and yugoloths unnecessarily. Why waste my strength? But it is true that the legions at your command are much more numerous than my fey’ri. You have an easier time replenishing your warriors than I do in replenishing mine.”

“So you wish me to provide you with yet more of the yugoloths and devils who answer to me? To increase your infernal legions still more so that you may sweep away all the enemies who beset you?”

“Yes. The palebloods can be broken. Victory is within my grasp!”

“Possibly,” the archdevil admitted. Blood trickled from the awful brand in his forehead. “But I decline to reinforce you again.”

“What?” Sarya hissed. “Can you not see how close we are, Malkizid? What sort of treachery is this?”

Malkizid allowed himself a small, cold smile. “My dear Sarya, you might recall that in the beginning of our association, I told you that the day would come when our relationship would have to be… re-examined. I think that day is at hand.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sarya demanded.

“Before I provide you with any more aid, Sarya Dlardrageth, you will bow down before me and take me for your lord and master. To help you remember your oaths to me when you leave this place, there will be certain arrangements made that will bind you inextricably to me.”

“I will not!” the daemonfey queen snarled. “The Dlardrageths call no power master, fallen one!”

“You truly think so?” Malkizid sneered. “Whom do you think taught your uncle Saelethil the spells he knew? Or what of your forebears, the lords of House Vyshaan? They all groveled before my throne, and in return I gifted them with unimaginable power.” The archdevil paused, savoring Sarya’s wrath. “I have many such gifts to offer you, Sarya. And you would gain everything you ever desired. I have no desire to be the king of Cormanthyr. Rule as queen in Myth Drannor, subjugate or destroy any of your neighbors that you like. I will help you to do these things… if you swear fealty to me.”

“Find yourself another slave, Malkizid. Our alliance is at an end.” Sarya whirled away, her black wings snapping out behind her. She took three steps back toward the portal when Malkizid spoke again.

“As you wish,” he said in his sweet, perfect voice. “But if that is your decision, I shall withdraw from your service the devils of Myth Drannor-they answer to me, you know-and the yugoloths I have provided you over the last six months. How long do you think you will be able to fend off Seiveril Miritar’s Crusade with two-thirds of your strength removed?”

Sarya hesitated. “I still command the loyalty of hundreds of demons,” she said. “I do not need you, Malkizid!”

“Are you so confident in the weavings of your mythal spells, Sarya? You are certain that you will have no further need of my assistance in maintaining the defenses you have raised over Myth Drannor?” Malkizid caressed the pommel of his greatsword, tracing with one talon the sinister runes graven on the blade. “Or do you think that I might have instructed you to weave your spells in such a way that you would need my assistance to continue them? How long will your ‘loyal’ demons remain in your service once Seiveril Miritar and his paleblood mages wrest control of the mythal away from you?”

“Let me punish him, Mother,” Xhalph rumbled. “His arrogance cannot be borne!”

Malkizid threw back his head and laughed out loud, a rich and melodious laughter that hinted of the celestial he had once been. “You think to challenge me, half-demon? I slew princes of your kind ten thousand years before you were spawned! Now be silent, for I am not done speaking with your mother.”

Xhalph set his hands on the hilts of his scimitars and took a step toward Malkizid, but the archdevil simply looked at him. The awful bleeding mark burned into Malkizid’s visage gleamed with dark power, and Xhalph halted in mid stride, his eyes blank and unseeing.

“I should strike off one or two of your arms while you stand there. That might teach you to show respect to your betters,” Malkizid said to the mesmerized daemonfey.

“Kill him if you must, but do not maim him,” Sarya said. “He is of no use to me crippled.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Malkizid turned his attention back to Sarya. “So, dear Sarya, what is it to be? Shame, defeat, a bitter existence of crawling through the shadows, tormented by the knowledge that you might have been queen over Cormanthyr for a thousand years? Or would you prefer power unfettered, the might to defy your enemies, a dark and glorious reign as my favored emissary to the world of mortals? It is no more or less than the arrangement I had with your Vyshaan forebears, after all. But it matters not to me. Should you decline, I will find another to elevate in your place.”

Sarya stood fuming, more furious than she had ever been in her thousands of years of life. But Malkizid had judged her all too well. Without the infernal monsters he provided to serve as her warriors, she would not long fend off the Crusade of Evermeet. And she could not bear the thought of spending the rest of her days hiding from her enemies, never daring to strike at them, never claiming openly the inheritance that was hers.

Grinding her teeth in anger, she turned back to Malkizid and slowly prostrated herself before him. “I will take you as my lord and master,” she spat. “But you must give me the strength to destroy my foes once and for all!”

“Of course, dear Sarya, of course,” Malkizid said. “You will find that I am generous with my gifts.” He reached down with one taloned hand and elevated her chin. “Now rise. I require you to offer me a token of your loyalty, if you will. And it may be instructive to Xhalph to witness your fealty.”

Sarya climbed to her feet and looked up into the pale marble face of the archdevil. Malkizid’s black eyes burned with a hot hunger that left little room for evasion. Even though her hands shook with rage, she began disrobing in submission to her lord.