"You do not know what you ask, child.” Xon Quexill’s measured tone echoed softly, its calm timbre resounding from the silent walls.

Dreketh knelt in the midst of the simple guildhall, her eyes fixed to the floor in solemn respect to her master of six years. Six years—six eternities since he took her under his wing, and inducted her into the company of his necromancers as an initiate.

“No, master,” Dreketh whispered. “I do not.”

Quite the contrary, Dreketh knew fully well that her request would be the proverbial powder keg to the denizens of the hall. Nevertheless, for her to contradict the word of her guild master would have been a severe breach of protocol.

Along the surrounding walls stood the stalwart denizens of the Neriak Hall of the Dead, their taciturn manner more unnerving than any impassioned cry of outrage. Among their numbers stood a massed assortment of dark elf aristocracy including the prominent guild masters of both the necromancers and shadow knights—Xon Quexill and Nezzka Tolax, respectively.

Master Quexill’s ash-colored eyes narrowed as he looked down upon Dreketh kneeling before him, the tendrils of her hair falling unadorned about her blue-skinned face. To date, Dreketh had been an exemplary necromancer and protégé. Considering the circumstances under which she came into his company, her assimilation into the guild was remarkably effortless.

Which was why her request to leave his guild and join another came as such an unexpected shock. Not only was it a thinly veiled declaration of rebellion on her behalf, but the temerity among his membership to make such a request was unprecedented. Indeed, the mere utterance of Dreketh’s request would have far-reaching political impact on the standing he maintained within the consortium of guilds. Guild members had been outright executed for less, without trial or quarter.

Nevertheless, Dreketh’s request had been made for all to hear, and the consequences must be dealt with expertly. Quexill donned an air of arrogance—a display for those present to focus on. When he spoke, it was with careful consideration to his words.

“Such a request is… unusual at best, child. What has brought about your dissatisfaction of our sect?”

“No dissatisfaction, master. I assure you,” Dreketh responded.

“None?” Quexill raised an eyebrow, a hint of irritation added to his tone. “None whatsoever?”

Dreketh shook her head in silence.

Quexill stole a furtive glance at Nezzka Tolax, standing clad in his full plate armor next to him. Tolax was always a resolute and steadfast colleague—this day being no exception. Unperturbed, the imposing man stood in silence, watching events unfold in his usual manner. Breaking his granite-like disposition, Master Tolax returned Quexill’s glance with a slight shrug. Obviously he, too, had no prior knowledge this was coming—no idea that Dreketh desired to become ranked among his knights.

Quexill returned his attention to his protégé.

“I find that difficult to believe, child. Very difficult, indeed.” Quexill’s domineering tone left nothing to the imagination. He was confounded by her behavior—even frustrated. “You hold no contention among the rank and file? No resentment with your tutors for the constraints placed upon you in your studies? Nothing regarding the demands? The work? The devotion?”

Quexill placed his hands upon his own chest in a gesture of self-martyrdom. “Nothing I have done to turn you away from our comradeship?”

Having reached a peak in his dramatic display of chastising this upstart for the benefit of those present, he paused. The silence was a deafening roar to Dreketh’s ears. Understanding that his question was rhetorical, she made no effort to answer. Consequently, every muted second that passed seemed an eternity. Feeling every eye in the hall focused on her, she fervently wished he would continue his tirade and shroud her humiliation with the sound of his voice.

Mercifully, Master Quexill resumed.

“I remember the enthusiasm with which you met your induction into the necromancers’ guild, Dreketh. Barring a few minor initial occurrences, your performance has been outstanding. You have met the requirements for your studies with equanimity. Your field performance has been well above reproach. From all indications, you have fulfilled all that is demanded your station and more. These are not the qualities of one who desires an end to her services.

Maintaining her harrowed silence, Dreketh slowly nodded her head, eyes kept firmly to the floor on which she knelt.

“Yet here you are,” Quexill sniffed. Pausing, he calculated his next move—tried to devise a politic means of handling the situation without losing face too drastically in the eyes of his peers. At length, he tilted his head to one side and leaned forward near Dreketh’s obeisant form.

“Look into my eyes, child.”

Obediently, Dreketh raised her face and stared into the intense gaze of her mentor. It was worse than she had imagined. With a single glance, she saw within his eyes the conundrum of puzzlement and worry he was experiencing at having his prize pupil show, for all to see, that she wished to turn her back on him and all he stood for.

Detecting, too, a hint of hurt in his gaze, Dreketh realized it also went much deeper. Xon Quexill had gone so far as to personally nurture her development—not just in the art of necromancy, but as a young Teir’Dal woman. The loss of both her parents in the Battle of Butchers left Dreketh without sponsor at the early age of adolescence. It was Tolax, in fact, who petitioned Quexill on her behalf to accept her into the necromancers’ guild two years prematurely of the requisite age. As guild master and military commander of her late parents, it was his personal request that provided her sponsorship for survival in Teir’Dal society.

Demanding no added recompense, Master Quexill took it upon himself to single-handedly supplant her absent parents and teach her the ways of Innoruuk. He taught her how survival meant domination over one’s enemies, how the path to domination was victory, how victory was achieved through hatred, and how hatred was the path of Innoruuk—Prince of Hate, wellspring and creator of the dark elves.

He was her mentor, teacher, spiritual guide and friend. He was her truest father in spirit, if not in flesh.

“Why have you asked this of me?” Quexill spoke with an audible whisper, his words rimmed with outrage and disbelief.

Dreketh’s already intimidated gaze froze in place, her expression pleading. The vision of her guild master’s striking features blurred, her eyes quickly filling with tears.

Quexill’s disapproving face loomed closer as he lowered his imposing form to one knee. Assertively, he reached out to cup Dreketh’s supple jaw in his hand.

“Why?” he whispered again, this time softly enough so only she could hear him.

She winced as though he’d shrieked the word at her in heated rebuke. Paralyzed in fear of his fury, the tendons in Dreketh’s neck constricted as she struggled to bite her tongue. She wanted desperately to cry out the answer for all to hear, yet was compelled by forces beyond her power to remain silent.

Trembling in her master’s caress, Dreketh’s brow furrowed as she closed her eyes painfully, unable to look at her master any longer. Because of her refusal to answer, she knew what was inevitably to come next. Yet the pain of his gaze hurt more by far. A tear escaped her control, spilling down her blue cheek and onto her master’s unrelenting hand.

Quexill’s expression remained stone cold. Not a twitch betrayed any inner emotion as he let loose his power into his reticent child.

Dreketh’s world exploded in an eruption of searing pain coursing through her entire body. Through it, she felt the strength of her limbs weaken. Her skin felt as though it crawled over sinew—a sensation not unlike a waterskin whose contents were spilling to the floor. The normally quiet hallways throughout the Lodge of the Dead reverberated with Dreketh’s agonized screams. The denizens calmly observed, their forms silent and monolithic as Quexill’s spell bored into her very soul and sapped her life’s energy in a slow, tormenting remise.

It was the art of the necromancer to manipulate pure life energy as an artisan manipulates clay. The feared and reviled art encompasses many ways of tapping into such energies and controlling them. Among these techniques is ranked the vilest, yet most widely used spell that every necromancer learns from the earliest stages of their talent: the vampiric draining of another’s energies into one’s own self. The process is excruciating as the victim’s essence is brutally stripped from their body—their life’s force ruthlessly stolen, as they remain powerless to retain it. This tapping into one’s soul was a rape the likes of which no other perversity could surmount. For many, it remained the primary reason for so much repugnance of its practitioners.

As guild master, Quexill excelled at this ability. Methodically, he stripped Dreketh of her energy. He could feel her taut jaw muscles in his grasp as she continued her incessant cries. He could feel her tremble violently as wave after wave of suffering engulfed her. Through his arm, he could feel the influx of her energy entering his own body, enhancing his already formidable might.

Dreketh’s life was held literally in the palm of Quexill’s hand. Had he wished it, he could have ended her existence there and then, and the entire matter would have been considered settled by all. His contemplation brought him dangerously close to doing just that. His standing as guild master would remain unaffected. Teir’Dal law gave him the right to destroy her for such impertinence. A portion of him would even receive a certain amount of grim satisfaction in delivering her due for so maliciously turning on him, as she had.

Before he was given the liberty of fully deciding her fate, a voice rang clearly over the din throughout the hall—a voice that clearly did not belong to one of the familiar denizens.

“Stop!”

Xon Quexill immediately dropped his attention to his pupil’s torment, and whirled about to meet the new threat of an intruder within the sanctum. Dreketh’s body fell to the floor in a limp and seemingly lifeless heap, her magenta robes settling about her lithe form. In one fluid motion, Quexill raised his hand, palm outward, poised to unleash a magical attack. In a single heartbeat, this newfound threat would be reduced to a quivering mass of flesh.

His enraged vision clearing, a flash of recognition crossed Quexill’s face as he caught a glimpse of the trespasser he was about to dispatch. Immediately, he checked his spell. Clasping his hand firmly into a tight fist, he drew it to his own chest, clenching it rigidly as if to suppress a tremendous force from being unleashed.

Standing in the archway was an aged man dressed in dull gray robes, his hands hidden within the sleeves. His blue skin shown ashen, revealing his advanced years. His hair was a healthy white, cascading to his shoulders in unkempt masses overshadowing his face. From within the natural cowl shown the cool glimmering of the man’s eyes, each framed by an assortment of crags and wrinkles. More disconcerting was the calm with which he faced Master Quexill, seemingly undaunted about facing any threat this master of the necromantic arts might pose.

Quexill remained on one knee above Dreketh’s inert form, his face a display of malevolence. He scowled darkly at the gray-robed figure as it stepped forward, entering the muted light of the hall.

“Cease now, Xon Quexill, or we shall all suffer consequences of abysmal proportion,” the old man’s quivering voice spoke.

The light of the hall revealed the robed man’s eyes to be clouded over in blindness. Though typically no dark elf would be allowed the privilege of survival with such a debilitating malady, Quexill knew this particular dark elf was anything but typical.

He was Kella N’Threk, priest of Innoruuk.

“You are not a denizen of The Dead. By what authority do you enter this sanctum?” Quexill stood upright slowly, his face a mask of incensed, but calm vigilance.

“I arrive by no lesser authority than Tal’Shyen. I invoke Innoruuk’s name and speak with His tongue.”

For the first time, the hall’s occupants stirred.

Tal’Shyen was the highest prerogative of Innoruuk’s priesthood by which their authority was stated. Once declared, the word of the priest or priestess was to be considered as though spoken by the Prince of Hate Himself. For a priest to declare Tal’Shyen was a profound occurrence, reserved for times of deified prophecy or indoctrination, and only directly from the mouth of the priest who received such revelation. Tal’Shyen ascended the priest even above that of high sovereign, and transcended any mortal law—including guild statutes of autonomy.

It was commonly rumored among the Neriak populace that, in his youth over three hundred years ago, Kella N’Threk went on fast and prayed to Innoruuk for two consecutive months. Consuming only purified saprophyte and water, it was rumored he prayed ceaselessly day and night to possess the wisdom of a god. After a display of such devotion, he was granted an answer to his prayers, and given a glimpse into the mind of Innoruuk. Once his mortal brain saw and understood that which only the gods could comprehend, his mind was instantly driven insane by such cognition—his eyes blinded by such countenance.

If course, Quexill knew of Kella N’Threk and his history. He knew of his affliction and the rumored rationale surrounding his survival when any other Teir’Dal would have been mercifully executed after such an ordeal. Word had it that the conclave of priests refused to destroy a soul that had possibly seen into the mind of the Prince of Hate, claiming that to do so would be reckless, considering the insight they would be sacrificing.

Xon Quexill didn’t believe a word of it.

This did not negate the fact that Kella N’Threk was still a priest of Innoruuk—one of the spiritual leaders of the Teir’Dal. Mad as he might be, his authority had been stated and sanctioned by the cleric’s guild. Should Quexill decide to censure this authority, it would have profound repercussions should N’Threk’s declarations be genuine in the eyes and mind of Innoruuk. Ironically, the master necromancer found himself facing the same dilemma the conclave faced so many years before.

Quexill once again looked askance to Tolax, silently seeking counsel. Tolax shook his head slowly, his expression one of calm prudence in the face of these events.

Perhaps he was right, Quexill mused silently. So be it. He would play N’Threk’s game for the time being. He altered his expression to one of affability as he turned back to confront the priest.

“Very well,” he said. “Enter and welcome, priest of Innoruuk. We are honored by your presence, and the Presence you bring with you.”

The entire hall bowed graciously, paying a short-lived, but no less sincere homage to their spiritual leader.

“I come to speak on behalf of your protégé, Xon Quexill. In private counsel I will speak my words to your ears and no other.”

The blind priest’s condescension was agitating. By his own standards, Quexill considered himself a tolerant man. Nevertheless, for an outsider—priest or no—to enter his domain and begin making demands in this manner was presumptuous. The fact that it was N’Threk made the situation even more precarious.

The master necromancer bit back his instinctive retort.

“Most… certainly.” Quexill bowed once again in a tremendous show of restraint for the benefit of those present. He raised his voice to address the hall. “We will adjourn for the meantime and reconvene at the hour of whispers.”

The denizens began to shuffle their way from the hall as quietly as could be expected after such events. During this transitional time, Nezzka Tolax stole the opportunity and approached Xon Quexill. Placing a hand upon his colleague’s shoulder, he leaned in to whisper confidentially.

“The old fool is mad, my friend. The gods only know what he is capable of. Are you certain you wish to be alone with him?”

Quexill eyed N’Threk warily, sizing up the situation as those clouded eyes stared unerringly in his direction. The old priest stood resolute as the denizens exited the hall around him.

“He is many things, knight, but a threat he is not. If he speaks with Innoruuk’s tongue, it is in the best interest for me to hear what he has to say. If not, then he is merely a delusional old man worthy of contempt and pity. He may be deserving of wariness, certainly, but not fear. I will handle things well enough.”

Tolax nodded his reluctant assent. Turning, he marched toward the exit behind N’Threk, glancing a meaningful look at the priest’s undiscerning face as he passed. The metallic clang of his footfalls echoed down the hallway outside, leaving Quexill alone with the priest in the Hall of the Dead. Dreketh’s still form lay on the floor, apparently forgotten by all.

“We are alone.” Quexill’s firm voice broke the silence.

“No,” N’Threk responded. “We are not alone. No longer shall we be. Innoruuk’s divine presence remains over us here—over all Neriak. For we have been given a new dispensation from the divine Prince of Hate.”

Quexill stood, staring at the priest, unmoved by his words. N’Threk continued, undaunted.

“By His hand, we are about to enter into a new age. His age! And by our allegiance to His name, it is to be our age as well. At long last, the Teir’Dal shall ascend to their rightful legacy on the lands of Norrath!”

Quexill continued staring, his face expressionless.

“Do you not understand my words?” N’Threk strode forward urgently, bothered by Quexill’s lack of fervent emotion. “Or has your work with the dead made you daft as the cavorting bones you beguile?”

“Cease your drivel, and speak of something substantial, priest. Perhaps then you will receive the response you seek.”

N’Threk pursed his lips in a stylized scowl. With a flourish, he pointed to Dreketh’s unconscious form lying on the floor nearby.

“This is a matter of substance, guild master!”

“Oh?” Quexill glanced down at Dreketh offhandedly, his tone as close to mockery as it could be without turning blasphemous. “And how might that be?”

“Fool!” N’Threk’s quivering voice rang sharply. “Before you lies the instrument of the future—the vessel through which comes the very deliverance of Teir’Dal destiny, and here you stand before it more blind than I!”

Quexill’s expression turned dire, but he remained silent as the priest continued.

“Have we as a people lost our way so hopelessly so as not to see the truth of things? Have you, Xon Quexill, become so prideful with your eyes sighted upon the heavens that you become tripped upon the very thing you seek, as it lies prone at your feet?

“I may be a ‘blind old madman,’ but I do recognize the works of Innoruuk when they are about me. And you… Can you, with your perfect vision, see it? I think not!”

“Speak plainly, old man.” Xon Quexill had had enough of being mocked in his own guild hall by this daft fool. “Or I will personally escort you back to the feet of your master and renounce you for invoking Tal’Shyen needlessly, without representation.”

N’Threk closed his mouth abruptly, his nostrils flaring. For a priest to invoke Tal’Shyen without the true authority of Innoruuk was the height of mortal sin. If renounced, the offending priest was stripped naked, and slowly tortured in public for days until death finally claimed him.

Stepping forward, N’Threk stood within a hand’s breadth of Quexill’s face.

“You are witness to a nexus, Xon Quexill,” N’Threk said in a soft, rasping voice.

“If such were the truth, a high sovereign would be sitting in judgment on the monarchy,” was Quexill’s evenhanded reply. “A high sovereign has not ruled the Teir’Dal in over fifteen centuries.”

“Nor will it ever again be so until we have redeemed our ways in the eyes of the Prince.”

“The Teir’Dal will never fall from grace, old man.”

“That…!” N’Threk brought an index finger before the guild master’s face, quivering with ardent rage. The old man’s serious face slowly transformed itself into a grin of irony. “That… is precisely why there will be no high sovereign in our day—that arrogant, prevailing sentiment that we as a people are untouchable.”

“That does not negate the truth. There can be no nexus born to us without a high sovereign.”

The priest’s voice echoed through the hall.

“It is the truth because there was no birth of a nexus!”

“You speak nonsense, old man!” Quexill raised his arms in exasperation. “How can a nexus exist that had never been born?”

“You do not understand!” N’Threk pointed to Dreketh again in his tirade. “She is but one part of the nexus. The other half of her destiny lies beyond!”

Quexill looked at the priest incredulously as he stepped forward.

“A nexus is born through immaculate conception by divine power granted of a high sovereign. Everyone knows that! It is one person!”

N’Threk sighed, downcast. His disposition switched instantly from irate to sullen as he turned away.

“No, you have no notion of what a nexus truly is,” he said, throwing an arm up in dismissal. “And the others are no more knowledgeable than you, with their noses buried in ancient tomes and withering scrolls. I am about the here and now.”

Nonplussed, Quexill watched the old priest as he made his way across the hall toward one of the benches lining the walls. Reaching out an unsteady hand, he probed the air before him for a suitable berth.

Unwittingly, the master necromancer stepped forward and guided N’Threk down to a wooden chair near the entrance. The old priest’s sudden reprieve from fury made him regret his earlier tone. N’Threk might have been mad, but he was still Quexill’s elder, and deserving of at least some token respect. Sitting on a nearby bench, Quexill looked at the priest expectantly for an explanation.

Blinking habitually from the days of his former sight, the priest collected his thoughts before speaking.

“Listen to me, necromancer. We are entering into great and terrible times. Innoruuk has granted us a boon by which we may ascend over our enemies for all time. Understand the repercussions of what I am saying when I tell you that Innoruuk has invoked prophecy, and is acting upon it even now.”

The obvious skepticism on Quexill’s face was apparent even to the blind priest.

“Prophecy, necromancer.” N’Threk nodded emphatically, as if to reaffirm his own words.

“What prophecy?” Quexill’s voice was fraught with doubt.

The priest glanced over his shoulder, as if somehow he could see any eavesdroppers about. Leaning in closely to the necromancer, Kella N’Threk whispered in a soft, raspy voice.

“The Chalice.”

“What chalice?” Quexill asked with a small shrug.

N’Threk shook his head in disbelief. How could the guild master not know?

“The Chalice!”

“You’re not speaking of the Chalice of Zeranon…”

“Oh yes.” N’Threk nodded emphatically.

Quexill’s expression turned from one of skepticism to plain disbelief. Any reservations he held about the priest’s insanity were quelled. Something had to be done, and quickly before this crazy old man’s rumors started to work their way to paranoid ears. Quexill reached out and took the priest by the arm, fully intending to take him back to his isolated chambers in the Temple of Innoruuk where he belonged.

“You step far beyond your boundaries, old fool. Far, far beyond-”

N’Threk stood bolt upright.

“The Prince of Hate will not be mocked!”

The priest’s words resounded throughout the empty hall with such jarring force that Quexill was thrown off his bench, collapsing to a half-crouch on the floor near the oblivious Dreketh.

Kella N’Threk, priest of Innoruuk, stood tall, his form towering over the now forcibly prostrate necromancer. No longer was he an aged, hunched and shuffling priest, but a strong and virile cleric wielding the awesome power of his god. When he spoke, his voice echoed arduously in Quexill’s mind.

“Heed you now the words of prophecy, and tremble in the fire of Innoruuk’s hate, mortal!”

“Tears of the slayer upon the brow of the slain shall herald the unsealing of the Cup of Ages. Sundered light and shadow will be cast upon mortal soil, wielded in the hand of innocence. And the whispered convergence of power will reign unleashed upon all lands of Norrath by privilege of its keeper.”

Innoruuk’s raw and unholy hatred flowed through Xon Quexill like a specter. N’Threk’s radiance shown like a beacon in the Hall of the Dead, his unkempt hair floating about him by an unseen wind. Reaching forth a gnarled hand, he placed his palm against the necromancer’s forehead.

“See, Xon Quexill, and bear witness in your trembling silence!”

Quexill’s mind exploded in a frantic vision of light and sound. Within moments, he saw in his mind’s eye the enormity of all that was to happen, all that Innoruuk planned, and how Dreketh was the key to the Teir’Dal’s ascension over every other race on Norrath. He saw endless possibilities and consequences, mingled with visions of war, fire, and blood spreading like a scourge born of supreme hatred. The vision was horrifying and seductive all at once, and Xon Quexill could not deny it was truly given of the Prince of Hate.

N’Threk released his hold, causing the necromancer to drop. Falling forward on his hands and knees, Quexill gasped for breath like a man half-drown as the old priest returned to his former debilitated state, his hair resting about his stooped shoulders.

Quexill reached up with one hand and grasped at his own dry, rasping throat.

“No,” he croaked.

“Yes.” N’Threk’s voice left no room for argument.

“No!” Quexill’s face upturned to glare at the priest standing above him. “She is not the one you seek!”

“The selection has already been made.”

Quexill struggled to regain his feet, sneering his contempt. His breath escaping through clenched teeth, the master necromancer advanced on the indifferent priest.

“Who made the selection?” he asked.

N’Threk pursed his lips noncommittally.

“Who!” Quexill shouted, his own voice an imitation of the priest’s former ire.

“The arbiter’s identity is not relevant. The selection is made.” N’Threk turned his back on the irate guild master.

“You cowardly bastard.”

“You disappoint me, necromancer,” N’Threk spat the words over his shoulder.

“I do not exist for your approval or that of your conclave. My only concern is for my student.”

N’Threk held up a correcting hand.

“Former student. She is no longer yours. Nezzka Tolax will now oversee her studies as a shadow knight, effective immediately. Disobey under pain of Hate’s divine vengeance.”

Quexill looked down at his protégé sullenly. Dreketh was as close to a daughter as he would ever have. No other could have hurt him so deeply as she had earlier—or so he had thought at the time. Knowing now her involuntary motivations was of little comfort to him. He was losing someone he had allowed himself to care a great deal for—something no dark elf did easily, as it left them open to vulnerability. Now Quexill knew why this was so, in its most cruel sense.

“I will see to the arrangements,” was his leaden response. He’d be damned to the judgment of Cazic-Thule before he allowed the priest to share in his anguish.

“See that you do,” N’Threk spoke meaningfully.

Having said his peace, the priest turned to take his leave of the Hall of the Dead when Quexill reached out and grasped the shoulder of the man’s course, gray robes, halting him mid-stride.

“Your unannounced visit was foolish, old man,” Quexill said. “What would you have done had I not seized my power in time?”

Kella N’Threk turned his head slowly to peer straight into Xon Quexill’s face, giving the master necromancer an uncanny impression of sight within those two eyes.

“I would have died,” he said flatly. “And had I one ounce of breath left within me… I would have thanked you.”

Dismissing Quexill’s hand from his robe, N’Threk walked grimly through the archway, his shuffling footsteps echoing softly about the hall.

Chapter 2 - Innocence