The raucous chirping of crickets rang through Rigel’s ears. He’d been sitting on the uncomfortable bench for nearly two hours now. Peering out into the pitch-black night of Greater Faydark from atop the tree city of Kelethin didn’t offer much in the way of scenery. Rigel’s only companions were the soft glow from the oil lantern dangling above his head and the occasional night watchman marching his weary patrol.

Sighing cheerlessly, Rigel adjusted his seat for the thousandth time that night. He’d considered lying down on the bench to catch a snooze before Laera decided to make her appearance, but his muscles ached at the mere thought of napping on the rock-hard wood. No, she would show up soon. The note she’d left on his bunk said she would.

Pulling out the note for the tenth time, he offhandedly scanned over the neat, concise writing left by her hand, and tried his best to read between the lines. Perhaps there was some clue what this was all about.

It had been weeks since he’d so much as seen Laera, much less been able to talk with her. He remembered the last day in Felwithe when she was called away so suddenly to the temple. He also remembered seeing her return to the inn at nightfall that same eve, a pallid look marring her face. When he approached her to see what was the matter, she distractedly waved him off with a limp hand, saying she would explain it later.

Later came, but no explanation came with it. He’d not so much as caught a glimpse of her during the journey home to Kelethin. The weeks that followed made it seem as if she had fallen off the face of Norrath. Word among the acolytes was that she was in some sort of trouble with Headmistress Netheel, and that her sudden removal from the rest of the acolytes was part of her punishment. Whispered rumors spoke of her treks into the headmistress’s office every dawn, remaining there until well past nightfall—sometimes even past midnight, only to rise again at daybreak. Something was terribly wrong, and Rigel became increasingly worried with each passing day.

At long last, his keen ears detected a soft pattering of feet against the wooden planks in the distance—quite a distinction from the usual hammering ruckus the steel-clad guards made. Rigel’s patient anticipation was rewarded as he saw his friend’s hooded figure pad its way stealthily toward him from the darkness. His heart leaped as he saw her. He wanted to cry out her name in greeting, but the note said to keep this meeting a secret just between the two of them.

Even so, seeing her approach made the past lonely weeks vanish instantly. It was all right now—she would explain it all to him.

Rising from the bench, Rigel rushed up to her. The two wood elves embraced warmly, not a word passing between them. None were needed. The eagerness of their hug spoke volumes of how they’d missed each other’s company for so long.

“Oh, Rigel,” came Laera’s whispered voice in his ear, breaking the silence. “It is so good to see you.”

Rigel’s only response was a tightening of his arms around her, comforting himself in the moment. She was with him again. That’s all that mattered, and nothing else could change it—for the time being, anyway.

Offhandedly tossing back her hood, Laera exposed her face to the flickering lamplight.

“Look at you,” she said with a fond smile, taking in Rigel’s appearance as if she hadn’t seen him for months. “You haven’t changed a bit. I know it’s only been a short while since I last saw you, but so much has happened, it seems like an eternity has gone by.”

Seeing her now, he didn’t doubt it. Rigel suppressed a look of surprise at how much Laera had changed in the last few weeks. He looked into her lucid green eyes and immediately noticed that the person looking back at him was no longer the capricious young girl he knew. Far from it. Laera’s features exuded a seriousness he’d never seen before. In the past, he had questioned whether his fun-loving friend had a serious bone in her body. Now he found himself wondering where that girl had gone.

Instead of making comment to this fact, Rigel decided to focus on their reunion.

“It’s good to see you too, Lae,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy gossip that has been flying around about you. Every time I turned around, it seemed like someone had seen or heard something new to add to the rumor mill.”

“Yeah,” Laera winced with distaste. “I’m sure they have. As wild as rumors get, I’m afraid they couldn’t come close to what’s really been going on.”

Placing a hand to her forehead wearily, she led Rigel to sit back down on the wooden bench beside her.

“By the way, I’m sorry for being so late.” She looked at Rigel with sincere regret. “I had no idea today’s lesson would go on so long.”

“No, no,” he shook his head emphatically. “Are you kidding? I’m just glad you made it.”

She smiled her thanks for his patient forgiveness.

“Oh, Rigel, so much has happened, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well…” Now that the time had come, Rigel wasn’t sure where he really wanted her to begin. “Is it true that you’re in trouble? What did you do?”

Laera shook her head with a sad smile.

“No, I’m not in trouble. At least, not like you mean it.”

A confused look crossed Rigel’s boyish face.

“Well, what’s been going on, then? Why haven’t you been around? I mean, you haven’t even been sleeping in the dorms or performing the graduation trials or anything. The most I’ve been able to gather is that you’ve been spending a lot of time with the headmistress, and that she’s refused to meet with anyone but you.”

“I know, Rigel, and I’m so sorry for disappearing like I did, but it’s been necessary. Believe me, I’ve wanted so much to be close by, even just so I could have someone to talk to. As it is, Headmistress Netheel has every second that I’m not sleeping scheduled for her lessons. We even eat every meal together as we go through my studies.”

Rigel’s face turned incredulous.

“Studying?” he stammered. “You’ve been studying? For what? It can’t be for graduation… the others-”

“No, it has nothing to do with graduation.” Licking her lips, Laera frantically tried to think of how to broach the truth. When at last she spoke, it was with hesitation. “It’s to… prepare me. You see tomorrow night I’m… I’m leaving.”

Rigel’s incredulous look returned, his eyes growing wide as coins.

“What?” he asked breathlessly. “Leaving? Where? Why? Laera, please tell me what’s going on!”

“Shush, please. I’m not even supposed to be here,” Laera placated her friend softly. Turning her head, she checked to see if there was anyone nearby who might have heard her friend’s outburst.

“What about graduation next week?” Rigel’s piercing whisper was hardly covert.

Turning back quickly, Laera’s features shown surprised in the flickering light. His comment about graduation had the unexpected result of disturbing her otherwise imperturbable aspect. Though he couldn’t fathom what it was about graduation that distressed her so, Rigel saw her gaze turn unfocused.

“Graduation,” she said distractedly. “It’s so soon, is it? I’d lost track of time.”

“Lae,” Rigel placed his hand on hers. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

Focusing again on her friend’s face, Laera sheltered his grasping hand with her own.

“Rigel, I-… I’m afraid I won’t be at graduation,” she spoke with a wavering voice. “You see, I’ve already… I’ve already had my ceremony. I’m a druid now. I have been since leaving Felwithe.”

Rigel’s world was being torn apart at the seams. Just when he’d come to grips with his life as an acolyte, some unseen power decided it was time to change things yet again. Here was his friend—the only friend he’d had since coming to study at the school, and the best friend he’d had in his life—telling him that not only was life changing, but it actually had changed weeks ago and he never knew it. What was happening? Who was doing this? More the point, why did it have to be her? Didn’t they know he needed her? Didn’t they realize what she meant to him?

Rigel could only stare into Laera’s eyes, his mouth agape.

Dropping her gaze to their joined hands in his lap, Laera swallowed.

“Rigel, I know this is hard,” she whispered. “But, I’m asking you to try and understand. I don’t know much about what is happening, and what I do know I can’t tell you much. What’s important right now is that I’m leaving on a journey far away. I can’t tell you where I’m headed, and I probably won’t be coming back for quite a while.

“You see, something is going on—something very big, and like it or not, I’m caught up in it. I’ve been given my instructions, and that’s all I’ve been given, but I suspect-” Laera paused, looking again into the darkness for eavesdroppers. Leaning in closely, Laera spoke in confidence. “I suspect it has something to do with the Teir’Dal.”

Rigel drew in a quick breath—Laera quickly placing her hand over his mouth.

“Keep it down,” she whispered tersely. Removing her hand from his alarmed face, she went on. “I’m being sent out as some sort of emissary or something. That’s all I can say.”

“What are you talking about, Lae?” Rigel was frantic, but at least he kept his voice moderate. “The Teir’Dal… If what you’re saying is true, then… then…”

Laera nodded solemnly. The Teir’Dal were the mortal enemy of the wood elves—or any other light-dwelling, race for that matter. Whatever business she was tangled up in, if it involved the dark elves, the portents were dire. Either Laera was on her way to Nektulos Forest—an unthinkable notion—or the Teir’Dal were on the move en masse outside their homeland, which could only mean one thing.

War.

“I’m sorry, Rigel,” Laera spoke with remorse. “I really wish I could say more, but I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t even know much more than I’ve told you—they won’t tell me what this is all about. Here I’m training feverishly in battle techniques and spells I’m hardly qualified to learn yet, about to be sent off to a continent I’ve never seen before. Most of the lessons I’m being taught are whirlwinds of information I can barely grasp. I’m lost, alone and confused, and I-”

Laera cut off her sentence, her words catching in her throat.

“And I’m scared,” she whispered. Breaking down in frustrated despair, Laera fell to lay her head against her friend’s comforting shoulder.

Rigel mentally beat himself over the head as he placed his arms comfortingly around her, the soft fabric of her thick woven robe feeling warm against the chilling night. All this time he was selfishly thinking about how her absence affected him and his own situation, resenting for his own sake the powers-that-be that were taking her away. He hadn’t stopped to think about what might be happening on her end in this mess and how it could have been affecting her. Seeing his once jovial and waggish companion in such despair broke his heart. What in Tunare’s name could possibly be happening that they should do this to someone so kind-hearted and carefree?

In Laera’s rushed and fragmented explanation of things, Rigel was able to piece together that something was definitely happening that would probably touch the lives of everyone in Kelethin—perhaps even beyond. But such things were for heroes and champions to contend with—not acolytes fresh out of training. What role Laera could possibly play in something so grand eluded him. If they had found in Laera what they were looking for, why couldn’t it have been someone—anyone—else? It’s not as if Kelethin wasn’t overflowing with young, guileless wood elf females. Why did they have to pick his friend?

Not only that, but sending Laera out alone was plain recklessness, in his piqued opinion. Any number of things could happen to her in the cold, heartless realms. In the untamed wilderness, you never knew what was lying in wait to dole out its own variety of harm. Bandits and vagabonds hid around the bends in every pass. Bloodthirsty orcs infested every land in some capacity or another, searching for unwary victims. The hosts of the undead haunted more than their share of lands at night. All this, and they were sending her without any escort?

Pulling back gently, Laera placed her hands on Rigel’s forearms in a gentle mountaineer’s grip. Her eyes downcast, they didn’t see the darkening scowl that crossed her friend’s face.

“I need to be going,” she spoke sadly. “I have preparations to make before leaving tomorrow evening, and only a few hours left tonight to sleep.”

Rigel didn’t know what to say. All the things he’d planned on saying at her graduation completely fled his mind, and probably wouldn’t have fit the circumstances anyway. Defeated, only one question mattered to him now.

“Can I be there?” he asked with a somber bearing. “Can I be there to say goodbye as you go?”

Smiling her sweetest smile, Laera kissed Rigel’s forehead.

“Please do. It wouldn’t be right if you weren’t there,” she whispered. Standing, Laera placed her hand fondly on Rigel’s shoulder. “Be at the training ground lift at dusk. I’ll be there waiting for you.”

Turning quietly, Laera replaced her hood and stole off into the darkness beyond without a sound, leaving the crestfallen acolyte behind in the lamplight.

Raising his hand, Rigel gently placed his fingertips against his forehead. It still tingled in the spot where her soft lips met his skin as if he could still feel their sweet presence. He was certain he always would.

Dreketh practically ripped the door from its hinges as she entered her quarters. Slamming the door shut behind her, she cursed a vulgar oath under her breath as she stalked her way toward the closet across the cold, unyielding granite floor.

That overbearing, self-righteous demagogue of a guild master had no business treating her the way he did. None of the other shadow knights had to live up to the insane expectations Nezzka Tolax demanded of her. During all nighttime hours, Dreketh was to dedicate herself heart, mind and soul to the study of melee combat in the arena. Come daybreak, when the other knight recruits went to bed to rest up, she was taken—often forcibly—into the Neriak library to study military tactics and strategies. It wasn’t until well past noon—the equivalent of midnight to a dark elf—she was finally allowed her tidbit of sleep. It was absurd, the standard she was expected to live up to.

Swinging aside the closet door, Dreketh gripped the straps of her traveling pack resting on the top shelf. With a great heave, she flung it across the room to land on her ascetic bed in a heap.

He had no right to impose such responsibility on her, simply because she happened to be an inconvenience on his little group of tin soldiers. It wasn’t her fault that deranged priest N’Threk demanded this imposition of him by transferring her to his guild. She was every bit a victim in this fool arrangement, too. The entire situation was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever experienced.

Unlocking the chest next to her nightstand, Dreketh threw open the lid and began stashing her belongings angrily into the pack.

She was a necromancer, by all the gods—a fully ordained and named practitioner of the dark arts. You don’t take a gifted spell caster out of her element, throw her in the midst of some over-glorified foot soldier lackeys, and expect her to perform as if she were the first born of Rallos Zek. You just don’t! Not only that, but you don’t train her in the art of two-handed weaponry for five weeks straight, then hand her a short sword and expect her to defeat an ogre wielding a club twice her height!

Having emptied the chest, Dreketh moved on to the bureau. Sliding open the drawers, she began to unload its contents onto the floor, intending to sort them out into those pieces of clothing she needed to take with her and those she could leave behind.

On top of it all, what really got to her was how Tolax felt the need to make her look the fool in front of all the others. Wasn’t it difficult enough for some freakish necromancer to make acquaintances among the rank and file of his knights already? His screaming about how useless she was in front of her so-called “peers” guaranteed that the already slim chance of melding with the others was made downright impossible. Nobody wanted to befriend a screw-up.

Having emptied the bureau, Dreketh whirled about angrily to face the stack of clothes lying piled in the center of the floor. Her frustration getting the best of her, she kicked at the pile furiously, sending her garments flying scattered through the air. Collapsing to her knees, Dreketh gnashed her teeth together in impotent rage. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she took deep breaths and tried to get a grip on herself.

Nostrils flaring, Dreketh managed to rein in her emotions, becoming once again their master as she’d been taught. The words of her tutors spoke silently in her mind. Anger was a weapon. It was the fire that fed the burning power of hate. But like any weapon, its power must be used responsibly. A finely balanced blade in the hands of its master presented deadly power to defeat an enemy, while the same blade in the hands of an incompetent would likely skewer him. Similarly, the same fires of anger that could reduce an enemy to ashes could flare out of control and become the enemy’s most valuable exploit.

Opening her fingers, Dreketh ran them tediously through her long, white hair. Her vision clearing, she let out a long, drawn-out breath. The once immaculate room was now a disaster area. Clothes surrounded her, covering nearly every square foot of her private chambers.

Sighing, Dreketh let her hands fall limply next to her as she knelt on the floor, despondent. What was the use? She was leaving come moonrise, and she would finally be free of the mad priest and his cohort Tolax. If nothing else, at least she would finally get a full sleep for the first time in countless weeks.

Dreketh rose to her feet and stepped wearily to her bedroom window overlooking the courtyard below. Absently toying with the pendent drawstrings of her pale shirt, she sat on the sill and watched the comings and goings of her fellow Teir’Dal down at the gate. Seeing the small blue figures as they went about their ordinary business, she silently envied them. To be ordinary with ordinary concerns and ordinary tasks to perform seemed oddly compelling to her. It was strange how most people spent their lives trying to break free of the menial things, attempting to gain some excitement in life, while Dreketh sat in her window longing to return to a time when she wasn’t always the exception to the rule.

From this distance high above in the Lodge of the Dead, everything seemed so peaceful. Dreketh imagined the gods viewed Norrath in a similar way. She offhandedly wondered if they looked down upon the mortals scurrying on the ground below and felt similar feelings of longing as she did.

A knock at the door interrupted Dreketh’s musings.

“Who comes!” she called out, casting an irritated glance toward the entrance.

Unannounced, the latch clicked and the heavy oaken door began to swing open silently on its hinges. Alarmed at this sudden intrusion, Dreketh’s burdensome training kicked in. Almost of its own accord, her dagger slipped from the sheath strapped to her thigh, finding its way to her hand. Poised and ready to be released at a moment’s notice, the blade rested in the grip of her blue, lithesome fingers.

Dreketh’s keen reflexes were checked, however, upon recognizing the one individual she gave leave to freely enter her dwelling. Seeing Xon Quexill’s familiar face instantly drove away the shadows of gloom that so haunted her thoughts.

“Master Xon!” Her dagger hadn’t hit the floor before Dreketh was nestled in the strong embrace of her mentor, her arms draped around his neck. The powerful hands that had nearly destroyed her in the Hall of the Dead scant weeks before now reached up to hold her tenderly.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she continued. “I feared your sabbatical would keep you away long after I was to leave.”

“Fear not, child. I am here,” came Quexill’s soothing tone. “And rest assured, my sabbatical remains.”

Drawing back, Dreketh looked her surrogate father in the eyes questioningly.

“I have returned for one purpose only,” he continued with a fond smile gracing his striking face. “To see you once more before you depart on your mission.”

Looking from one of his eyes to the other, Dreketh grasped for words to express her gratitude. Searching in vain, she could only resume her fond display of affection by holding him close once again.

Quexill wondered at his protégé’s curiously tight embrace. While such displays between them were commonplace in private, he sensed her enthusiasm was more than mere excitement at his unexpected arrival. Glancing over her shoulder, he suddenly noticed the disarray her room was in.

“What is this?” Quexill gently broke their embrace. Leaning down, he picked up a silken dress shirt from off the unusually cluttered floor and held it up, inspecting it. Tilting his head, he cast Dreketh a pointed look, silently asking her what this was all about.

Reaching up resignedly, Dreketh snatched the shirt from Quexill’s fingers and absently began to fold it with uneasy hands.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “I was just… I needed to blow off some steam. That’s all.” Her hands worked of their own accord, distractedly tucking and folding the shirt into a variety of misshapen forms.

“Well,” Quexill made a show of glancing around. “At least I see no broken shards of glass or pottery strewn about this time. Either your temper has improved during my absence, or your current predicament demands no irreparable damage.”

Glancing up with a furtive smirk, Dreketh couldn’t help but release a self-deprecating chuckle, her hands still absently fidgeting with the shirt to no avail.

“I trust your studies have been proceeding adequately?” Quexill ventured a guess at what vexed her, raising an eyebrow.

Giving up on the shirt for a lost cause, Dreketh heaved an exasperated sigh. Tossing it by the wayside, she stalked her way to the foot of her bed where she slumped down to sit. Her jaw worked voicelessly as she tried to figure out where to begin her tirade. Giving up, she decided only one question would cover the extent of her anxiety.

“What am I doing?” She threw her arms up in resignation, allowing them to land in her lap as she looked across the room at her mentor.

“I don’t understand,” Quexill tilted his head and stepped forward.

“What am I doing?” she repeated. “Here, I mean. The past weeks of furiously working to build up my strength, learning battle techniques, studying all about becoming a knight… for what?”

“To serve the will of Innoruuk,” Quexill shrugged, as if the answer should be self-evident.

“But how is this serving His will?” Dreketh challenged. “By running off to meet with some ghastly light-dweller, who I should sooner see burn in Ro’s fire than allow to even speak my name? Please try to explain how this serves the will of Innoruuk, because the mad priest can’t seem to focus his dullard mind long enough to give me a straight answer.”

Blinking momentarily, Quexill carefully considered what to do. Having heard the prophecy of Zeranon and having seen the visions of Innoruuk, he had to be careful how much he told his young charge. In fact, a large part of his time away had been spent wrestling with the dilemma of what she was to know and what she wasn’t. Weeks of soul-searching had taken their toll on the master necromancer, to little avail. Now he was confronted with the inescapable decision that weeks of evasion could not spare him.

“Dreketh,” he spoke delicately, sitting down on the bed next to her. “I know the demands being placed on you have been excruciating. I know all the things you have been forced to endure these past weeks are completely unjust, difficult even for an experienced knight. Though it pains me to say it, I fear your hardships have only just begun, child. Please understand that they were—and are—completely necessary. The skills and knowledge you have gained as a shadow knight are imperative to the success of your mission.” Quexill placed his hand on his chest. “And they were lessons I could not teach you. Because of the efforts of your relentless training, you are now a stronger person ready to undertake the mission you have been selected to fulfill.”

“To bond with and protect my light-dweller counterpart,” Dreketh spat the quoted words of the high priest bitterly. “But to what end? Where are we to go? Why have I been given such explicit instructions without meaning or purpose behind what I am to do?”

“Why care?” Quexill opened his arms wide. “Just look at what you have become in just a few short weeks. Compare it to what you were before, under my tutelage. You now know how to wield a blade measuring longer than a mere dagger. You have an excellent grasp of fundamental combat tactics. Your very touch alone can literally obliterate the life force of your enemies—a skill I will never know. In time, you will be allowed to exercise the greater part of your necromantic powers once again, ascending you to a level where you can do anything you wish, so long as the Pact is served. Is that such a high price for the opportunities you’ve been given? For all you have worked for with sweat and blood?”

Rubbing her forehead, Dreketh considered the words of her mentor.

Quexill pressed on.

“As of tomorrow, your fast and furious training will be at an end. You must admit, the torment was really quite transitory. You will have learned in a blink what it takes any other trainee years to grasp. Years, Dreketh. Your remarkable accomplishment shines as an example of what is possible under Innoruuk’s hateful eye, and I am insurmountably proud to be your father.

Her brow furrowed, Dreketh appeared ashamed of her earlier cynicism.

“The pride upon my name stems from your wisdom,” she whispered. Placing her arms around Quexill’s neck, she embraced her surrogate father again. “I won’t let you down. Not ever.”

Xon Quexill basked in the moment of her warmth, as he knew it was likely to be the last time he was to feel her tender touch. Through this girl, his cold Teir’Dal heart had discovered a purpose above and beyond that of obtaining power. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was to care for someone more than he cared for himself. Had Dreketh asked, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t have done for her. Considering what he had seen in the old priest’s vision for the Pact of Zeranon, it was probably fortunate she remained unaware of this fact.

“I have something for you, child,” he whispered. “Something very important.”

Curious, Dreketh withdrew to give her mentor a quizzical look.

“In fact, it is remarkable how coincidence can present itself to be taken advantage of at times,” Xon Quexill spoke with irony as he stood and paced his lengthy stride to the open door.

Leaning down into the hallway outside, he dragged an enormous metal crate into the room by its baroque handle. Rising quickly with the intention of helping him with his burden, Dreketh was quickly waved back down by her mentor.

“When Nezzka Tolax came to me years ago and asked if I would take you into the necromancer’s guild, he did so out of a sense of duty,” Quexill explained. “Your parents, you see, served under his command. To introduce you into his own guild following their… untimely deaths would have caused some complications, needless to say.”

“I know all this,” Dreketh said with a shrug and a patient half-smile. “You explained this to me a long time ago.”

“Yes, indeed,” Quexill responded, raising his index finger. “But what I didn’t tell you is that I was also named the trustee of your parents’ estate.”

Placing his hand atop the enormous crate, Quexill made a show of displaying it for her benefit. “Until now, I had debated with myself when the proper time was to give it into your possession. After all,” the necromancer unfastened the latch and pulled open the lid effortlessly, “until now, you really had no use for it.”

Quexill watched as Dreketh’s cautious face approached the crate and peered over its edge. Her clear azure eyes turned to him in wonderment, seeking unspoken affirmation. Seeing her mentor nod, she returned her gaze to the contents of the box.

Inside, she could see an assortment of brilliant plate armor, crafted from polished bronze and placed neatly among molded slots within. Reaching inside, Dreketh pulled forth a shining gauntlet that reflected the light of her room in a radiant display of rich, deep color.

“This was my father’s?” she asked. Turning the gauntlet about, she studied it with rapt eyes.

“Your father’s suit of armor was never recovered,” Quexill spoke with true regret. “So much confusion reigned immediately following the Battle of Butchers that his body was never found by our forces. No, what you hold was worn bravely by the hand of your mother.”

Dreketh imagined her mother’s hand sliding into the magnificent gauntlet in preparation for that momentous battle so many years before. The memories she held of her mother were fragmented and distorted, for the most part, as the duties of a shadow knight precluded any domestic considerations—including those of parenting. Holding this coveted possession of hers brought back old, forgotten memories in a rush. Feelings of those few remembered occasions when her mother was still alive flooded Dreketh’s mind.

Looking back inside the crate, Dreketh noticed a gaping hole in the otherwise complete set of armor, tucked carefully within the moldings.

“Wait…” she said, reaching in to fish around among the contents. “I don’t see the breastplate.”

Xon Quexill swallowed softly.

“No,” he said sadly as he resumed his seat at the foot of the bed. “You won’t find one. You see, it was the one piece of armor that was unsalvageable.”

Gingerly returning the gauntlet to its place inside the crate, Dreketh faced him, a look of dismayed uncertainty on her face.

Wetting his lips, Quexill prepared himself. He had known that soon after he delivered Dreketh’s birthright that she would notice the missing piece and ask him about it. For years, he had known this moment would come, but the knowing didn’t make it any easier. Squaring his shoulders, he began to tell his pupil the bitter details surrounding her parents’ deaths, or at least what he knew.

“After the struggle at the Battle of Butchers was over and a stalemate declared on both sides, the soldiers began to wade their burdensome march through the bodies of the dead—or nearly dead—that littered the battlefield. As they went about their gruesome task of collecting the bodies of their fallen comrades, a downpour ensued. Rain fell from the skies in a torrential deluge, as if the gods, too, wished to cleanse the land of the carnage.

“Through the foul mists, the soldiers eventually came upon the body of your mother. She had apparently tracked off to a secluded area, probably having chased some cowardly scout into the brush. She lay resplendent in her armor—the very armor in this case. With the exception of a dent or gash here and there, it remained unscathed, for the most part. All except her breastplate, which was evidenced to have collapsed under the repeated beating of some enormous hammer.”

Xon Quexill interlaced his hands rigidly.

“No,” he continued, his voice tense with revulsion. “Not repeatedly. Relentlessly. The battered and broken shards of her breastplate mingled in the strewn, gruesome remains of her viscera. The relatively untouched condition of the rest of her armor and the spread-eagled position of her corpse suggested not a massive battle, but a futile struggle on her part.”

Quexill stopped suddenly to stare into his pupil’s horrified gaze.

“What met their eyes—what made hardened knights and warriors retch was not the result of war,” he shook his head slowly, “but a gruesome, detestable display of murder.”

Standing suddenly, Quexill retrieved the gauntlet from within the crate. Holding it before him, his voice rose angrily as he spoke.

“The finery of her armor tells of its craftsmanship—even your newly trained eye sees this as being plainly obvious. It would have taken at least fifty swings of an ogre with the mightiest hammer to do what was done. Fifty… telling… swings, Dreketh.” Quexill spoke succinctly, and paused to let that fact sink in. “No battle is that heated. There is no doubt in my mind that a band of despicable cowards held your mother helpless to the ground as she was pummeled over and over until her breastplate simply gave way, and then she was pummeled even further… until she perished.”

Losing his ardor, the necromancer let the hand holding the gauntlet to drop to his side. Hanging his head slightly, Quexill spoke with the finality of one defeated.

“This is why you were taken into my custody as a necromancer. Unable to explain why it happened specifically to your mother, Nezzka Tolax questioned the wisdom of taking you into his guild for fear history might repeat itself. He therefore tried to save you from this fate by petitioning me on your behalf, and on behalf of two of his fallen knights.

Standing, Dreketh approached the crate as if stalking a ghoul. Placing her hand delicately on the lip of the opening, she stared down at the armor within, the mark of livid calm across her face. Polished and flawless, the armor winked back up at her in the room’s light. She could almost see it the way it must have looked that day amidst the mud and the splashing rain as both mingled together with her mother’s blood. She could nearly hear her mother’s cries as each blow fell, slowly breaking down the robust bronze plating bit by bit, bringing the pain of death closer by inches.

“One thing more,” came Xon Quexill’s voice, breaking the deathly silence. Reaching into the crate, hidden between the moldings and the crate’s inner wall, he drew forth a sword nearly as tall as she. Crafted of the finest steel, it too gleamed as the light of her room bounced off it in a myriad of reflections.

“This was found clutched securely in your mother’s hand,” he said with reverence. “It belonged to your father and his lineage. How it left his side and found its way into your mother’s possession remains a mystery.”

Placing her supple hands upon the hilt, Dreketh gently lifted the sword from the necromancer’s grip. Her placid eyes took in its every detail as she turned it over.

“I hardly knew my mother. My father even less,” she muttered, still inspecting the blade with wondering eyes. “Some malevolent force out there has left me bereft of this privilege every child should have.”

Turning her head with a deadly grace, she faced her mentor with a look of grim resolve. Xon Quexill saw that he was witness to the wakening of something he had never seen in Dreketh until that moment. Inside the mind of this young girl now dwelt the spirit of an adult woman—a strong Teir’Dal female bent on placing her mark on this world.

What happened next came as no surprise to the master necromancer. Dreketh took a firm hold of the sword by its hilt with her right hand. Her clear eyes falling to a deepening shade of blue, she spoke.

“By the blood of my mother, and with my father’s blade, I swear vengeance toward that which stole their lives.” Bringing her father’s blade to bear on her left arm, she sliced a clean incision from which welled a crimson stain. Her own blood marred the blade and tunic alike. “So witness, Innoruuk, this vow of hatred.”

“So witnessed,” Xon Quexill’s voice spoke deep and solemn. Placing his hand atop Dreketh’s shoulder, his face shown overwhelmed with pride in his protégé. “Go forth at the appointed hour, daughter, and fulfill His Pact and your own. I wish to say my farewells now, as I shan’t be present when you leave. My journey is long and wearisome, and so I must embark upon it tonight.”

Feeling more herself now that this ordeal was done with, she looked up at him with concern shadowing her features. After being the recipient of such a shocking legacy, all she wanted to do was curl up in her master’s comforting arms like a babe. Looking into Quexill’s eyes, she recognized similar feelings tinged with an unspoken regret that it wasn’t to be so.

“I wish you could stay,” she pleaded solemnly, knowing her efforts to be fruitless.

“As do I, child, but I’m afraid it is unavoidable,” he spoke with sincere lament.

His hand still placed on her shoulder, the necromancer tilted his head to take note of the bloodstain inexorably spreading across the damaged sleeve. Blinking, Quexill moved his hand down to her midriff, taking the loose fabric in his grasp.

“Might I retain this?” he asked plaintively.

Dreketh looked down at the unremarkable cloth tunic she wore, curious why he should make such a request. Her oath in no way sanctified the article of clothing. Its pattern was wholly nondescript—it held no real value other than, perhaps, that it was worn by his surrogate daughter. Seeing no reason why he shouldn’t keep it as a memento of her oath, Dreketh shrugged.

“Certainly,” she said as she unlaced the drawstrings crisscrossing her chest.

Favoring her injured arm only slightly, Dreketh reached up behind her neck and drew the tunic off over her head, placing it into the hands of her mentor. Now exposed, the fresh cut shown plainly against the healthy curvature of her arm muscles, a small trickle of blood blending against her blue skin.

Carefully hefting the breezy fabric wadded loosely in his hand, Quexill regarded it as though he held a king’s ransom.

“Thank you,” he said with an appreciative smile.

“My pleasure,” Dreketh shrugged offhandedly. She flourished her hands wide at the clothes strewn all about her quarters. “I have plenty of others I can tear up for your safekeeping…”

“No, no. This is quite enough.” Quexill smiled, gazing fondly at the young shadow knight.

Fondness quickly turned to earnest, however, as he broached the most serious subject he had ever discussed with his pupil throughout the years.

“Don’t underestimate the importance of Zeranon’s Pact, Dreketh,” he said ominously. “The task you undertake tomorrow as you leave is vital, and must never be broken. You must guard and protect your companion against any threat. Should either of you be killed, all might be lost.”

For the first time since entering her room, Quexill heard Dreketh speak of the Pact without any hint of her well-practiced resentment.

“I know,” she nodded solemnly. “I don’t understand any of this or why I’m doing it.” Taking her mentor’s virile hand in hers, she placed his palm against her chest, over her heart. “But as long as you say it’s important, I will do it without question. It is for you I willingly accept this task—not for N’Threk or Tolax or even the Teir’Dal. I only pray that this path Innoruuk has seen fit to place me on crosses the throats of my parents’ murderers on the way.”

Xon Quexill could feel the steady pounding of Dreketh’s heart inside her chest. The reassuring heat of her skin against his palm nearly brought tears to the eyes of the hardened necromancer. Removing his hand, Quexill absently adjusted the strap of her undershirt to rest untwisted against her shoulder, as would any doting father.

Taking Dreketh’s hand, he enshrouded it in the tender grasp of his own.

“Goodbye, daughter,” Quexill spoke in a whisper. His gaze upon their joined hands never wavered. “I’ll leave you now to your preparations.”

“Thank you for all you have done for me,” she replied in a smooth tone, seeing his distress. Craning her neck, Dreketh placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Nodding his goodbye, Quexill patted his child’s hand one last time before he turned to walk hurriedly through her doorway, disappearing out of sight down the hall.

Far off beyond the haze of Greater Faydark, the sun made its gradual descent across the western sky, bringing a close to yet another day. The only hint of its presence to the murky woodland was the filtered rays that shown ambient in the mist. Nevertheless, Kelethin’s inhabitants instinctively knew of the night's imminent approach. One by one, the windows amid the lofty network of platforms and bridges high above the forest floor winked on, aglow from lamplight within. The combined efforts of Kelethin’s lights had the effect of rivaling the teeming glow of fireflies below as they too celebrated night’s approach.

Like gigantic beasts dipping their heads to graze upon the dewy landscape, the tremendous Kelethin lifts rose and fell slowly with majestic grace, carrying the city’s inhabitants down to the forest floor and back again. As the only means of entering or leaving the city high above, the immense mechanical lifts were almost constantly in use during daytime hours.

As the onset of night approached, however, lift traffic waned with the daylight. The occasional late-comer to the tree city would make an appearance out of the hazy darkness from time to time. Waving a slovenly hand to the guards on watch, the new arrival would plunge the attendant lever close by to activate the lift. Had they not typically been so weary-eyed by their nighttime journey, the late-comer would see the forest floor falling into obscurity below them as the lift made its lengthy ascent higher and higher into the treetops.

Those few late arrivals that evening saw something that wasn’t normally seen every night upon arriving at the top of one particular lift. As they disembarked, an unassuming cloaked figure stood off to the left. While not entirely unusual to see the random night dweller among Kelethin’s citizens on their way out of the city, this figure had an unnerving aspect. As a rule, most figures standing at the head of the lift would immediately step on to the plank and waste no time in beginning their descent. Those who didn’t were expected to beg for a hand-out of some sort with which to line their presumably empty pockets. This individual made no such gestures. She merely stood motionless, her face lost in the folds of her hood, calmly looking out into the darkening night of the forest.

One would question that she was even alive, were it not for the billowing clouds of her breath emerging from within her hood out into the chilled air. Those curious onlookers might have made a half-hearted attempt to see what it was that so enraptured her attention out among the trees and the rolling mists. Seeing nothing but the same forest that was there yesterday, the onlooker would shrug and go about their business.

Laera continued her relentless watch, however, for it was the forest itself that caught her attention so raptly. Just beyond the mists of the darkening shadows lay the world she was about to enter. A part of her was leaping for joy at this opportunity to serve Tunare and take Her work to other lands. Deep inside, every wood elf heard the call of their innate wanderlust, and usually answered its call at least once at some point in their lives. Laera was no different.

At the same time, she felt melancholy at the idea of leaving her homeland behind. As a child, she had explored Greater Faydark as a roving pet might explore its owner’s yard. It was her playground. She knew where to discover all its wonders and how to avoid all its dangers. It was her home—the only home she had ever known. It harbored special places full of her dreams and old childhood memories.

Casting her mind back, Laera thought about how simple those days were when the slaying of a dastardly dragon meant swinging a wooden stick against the trunk of a sapling. She remembered when being a damsel in distress meant not being able to leave a cluster of shrubbery until her rescuer came to unlock her pretend prison with a pretend key.

The little girl who once played her games of imagination and adventure stood now, grown and fully mature, on the brink of a new adventure. Only this time the dragons fought back, and the prison bars didn’t magically disappear when it was suppertime. Now the damsels in distress had far more threatening them than merely being locked in towers, and not every story ended in “happily ever after.”

Visions of memory wandered through Laera’s mind as she stared out upon the towering woods of her home, pondering. Greater Faydark was so many things to her. She had the oddest impression that she was saying goodbye to a treasured playmate. While she would certainly be returning from time to time in her travels, she doubted very much of she would be seeing it in the same way ever again. Old friends and old times can be revisited, but nostalgia can never truly recapture the past.

She heard his footsteps approach from behind. Even from within the muffling folds of her hood, the eerie silence of the night had a way of amplifying every sound. Consequently, she’d heard him coming from the moment his feet stepped from the bridge far off on the other side of the platform. The shuffling noises of his stride were unmistakable as they came to a halt not more than a few feet away. The time had come to end her goodbyes to a treasured playmate, only to say her goodbyes to a treasured friend.

“Thank you for coming, Rigel,” her muttered words spoke softly.

Rigel wanted to give some hearty, glib response. He had planned this moment out in his head countless times since their all-too-brief reunion the previous night, but now for some reason his voice refused to cooperate. His expression turning painfully acerbic, he could only gaze on the back of his friend’s hood and stand there in silence.

“I really don’t know if I could have left without saying goodbye one last time,” Laera added, the sentence conjured to fill the void of silence, more than anything. Having heard her own voice speak the words, she was mildly surprised to discover how true they were.

Rigel smiled slightly to himself, as much as his current mood allowed.

“Then I’m almost sorry I came,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Her own face grinning solemnly within the shade of her hood, Laera continued facing the forest. This was harder than she thought it was going to be. She thanked Tunare that it would have to be short, as time was quickly growing thin.

“I have something for you,” Rigel spoke, clearing his throat to break the tension.

“And I you,” Laera said in a deliberately brisk tone. Turning, she expected to see Rigel holding out some trinket to remember him by—perhaps a locket or earring of some sort. To her surprise, Rigel stood before her hefting a large sack over one shoulder.

The surprise must have been evident on her face, judging by Rigel’s smug grin. Swinging the bag from his shoulder, he let it fall with a light thump to the wooden planks at his feet.

“I made this for you,” he said, unstrapping the drawstrings. “I actually started on it a few months ago as a graduation gift.”

Laera drew back her hood, now suddenly curious as to what the gift could possibly be. To her knowledge, Rigel harbored no artisan skills nor had he shown any desire to pursue any. At least, he had never let on as such. The hesitant thought crossed her mind that perhaps he should have fixed her a traveling meal for the trip, which made her wince inwardly. Rigel’s cooking habits were affectionately called “Ogre Culinary Delights” by the other acolytes.

Reaching into the sack, Rigel pulled forth a rigid, unrecognizable article of leather. Allowing the sides of the bag to fall away, he concentrated on working the item with both hands until he held before his friend a beautiful tunic, complete with rabbit fur lining and embroidered with the caducel symbol of the druids.

Laera covered her mouth momentarily in a quick draw of breath. Reaching out gingerly, she ran her fingers down the front of the armor, taking in its curved shape. Seeing not the work of a neophyte, but the craftsmanship of a competent tailor, she looked to her friend with genuine awe.

“You made this?” she asked incredulously.

Rigel shrugged his silent, nonchalant response. It could have been the royal breastplate of King Tearis’Thex himself, and he would have had the same modest disposition.

“It’s wonderful!” she claimed, returning her eyes to the armor. “I had no idea you knew how to tailor.”

“I decided to learn,” he replied. “I had to pick a trade skill to study, and tailoring seemed more appropriate than basket-weaving. A lot of it I had to get help from the tutor for, like the lining and steel reinforcements underneath.”

The wonderment never left Laera’s eyes. Taking the tunic from her friend’s hands, she turned it about and ran her fingers through the softness of the rabbit fur lining. Normally, patchwork made by a novice would feel laden and pinched while worn, often making the wearer begin to question whether the armor was worth all the trouble of wearing it. Her fingers found the fur lining against the rigid curves rid the tunic of any such discomfort. Breathless, she held the tunic up to her robed torso experimentally.

“Will this fit? How did you know my size?” she asked.

“It should,” he said, his head tilted as he critiqued his own work before him. “The buckles here and here can be adjusted to fit your um… your figure, and the-the size was, er-”

Laera glanced up at hearing his hesitation.

“Well,” Rigel said, blushing. “Let’s… just say size is easy if you’re paying close enough attention.”

Laera blinked, unsure about what she was hearing. Though his words were plainly innocuous in nature, his manner made it seem as though Rigel were making a confession of sorts. She could clearly see that what he said somehow embarrassed him.

Narrowing her eyes, she gave him a searching look, noting his uneasiness. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Yes, she could see it in his expression and the way he fidgeted with his hands nervously. She became amazed as she realized he couldn’t look her in the face. How could this be? Her first thought was that this couldn’t be happening. Her second was that this couldn’t be happening right now!

“Rigel, I-” she said brokenly. What does one say at a time like this? Rigel had always been like a little brother to her. What had happened? How long had he felt this way? Did he just discover his feelings, or had he been hiding them for some time? A mass of ambivalence swept over Laera as she tried to figure out how she, herself, felt on such short notice.

“I, um…” Rigel looked about self-consciously. “I better get back to the uh… the… thing.” He nervously thumbed over his shoulder.

Laera grabbed hold of the tunic against herself with one arm while reaching out to halt Rigel’s hasty retreat with the other.

“No, wait!” she burst out, desperate to keep him there long enough for her to collect her thoughts.

Of all the things life had thrown her way in the past few weeks, this was the most unexpected. After having made this discovery about her friend, it seemed inevitable that such feelings were bound to have emerged. In a purely detached way, it was the obvious next step in their relationship. How could she not have seen it? She had to wonder if she was emotionally blind or uniquely stupid. Even more disturbing, why hadn’t similar feelings already emerged in her? She loved Rigel dearly—she had always known that, but this was altogether different. The idea of attraction or even romance between them was somehow alien to her. While not exactly an unwelcome notion now that it presented itself, it was something that simply hadn’t crossed her mind before.

To whatever consequence, the notion was certainly laid bare and had to be dealt with—all in the span of time it takes to say goodbye. Not only was it unfair that she had only a few moments in which to search her soul, but it was wholly unfair that whatever her feeling were, it had to end once those precious few moments were over.

It wasn’t enough time, no matter how she looked at it. Rigel had had months to decide how he felt. As much as she wanted to give it the honest chance it deserved, Laera knew it would be impossible for her to develop the same feelings in this blink of time. Not only that, but whatever feelings she might have fostered and allowed to grow could never see fruition.

So much had happened recently that was unfair. Until now, Laera had accepted everything that had been sent her way with equanimity, dealing with it all as best she could. With silent devotion to her goddess and her calling, Laera had maintained a reserved grip on any feelings of bitterness she might have felt. Unbeknownst to her, those feelings were held tightly pent up inside, now ready to burst with this new shining addition to their number.

With mixed feelings of sorrow, fear, love and now sheer unfocused resentment, Laera made her decision of how to handle the moment, since the moment was apparently all she had left. She chose to forget the world and its gods and its holy quests for one perfect glimpse of time. Laera turned her back on it all to live in that glimpse alone.

The leather tunic fell to the wooden floor. In a single motion, she reached for the back of Rigel’s neck and swiftly brought her lips to press against his.

Taken aback by her sudden move, his lips froze in place. As his thoughts eventually cleared, and he could feel the inviting warmth of her lips against his, Rigel gradually reached out and crept his hands up her robe-covered back, enveloping her in his arms.

Her kiss was unlike anything he had ever imagined. He could feel the deluge of her emotions in its rapture, the impassioned, urgent feel of her lips against his. He felt her hand running through the hair on the back of his head, the small movements of her lithe form nestled in his embrace. Rigel experienced it all in a rush as he shared Laera’s perfect glimpse of time.

All such moments were transitory, however, and hers was soon to end. Releasing her tight hold on him, Laera raised her eyelids and slowly disengaged their kiss. Looking into Rigel’s eyes, she silently let him see all of what that moment meant to her.

Separating from her would-be lover, Laera reached down to pick up the tunic.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching out a tender hand to caress his cheek in one final touch.

Knowing that the moment of her departure was at hand, Rigel could only stand there motionless.

Turning, Laera stepped onto the lift plank and plunged its lever. With the cold, unfeeling motions of the heartless, uncaring machine that it was, the mechanism activated and began its steady descent to the ground, taking its forlorn passenger with it.

Sinking relentlessly, Laera looked up at Rigel as he gradually became obscured by the platform upon which he stood. Her eyes rising higher and higher, meeting his, she saw that he understood everything she felt, and shared them in return. Never in her life had she heard of a romance that was so short-lived. Maintaining a tight hold on her tears, she watched as Rigel’s face disappeared behind the wooden planks of the platform.

The most recent chapter in her life was now closed, and a new one begun.

Reaching the forest ground at last, Laera wasted no time in mounting her burrow, waiting laden with supplies for the journey to Port Faydwer. The accompanying night watch guard dutifully handed her the bridle reins with a gauntleted hand.

“Any last minute affairs, miss?” he asked, a standard rhetoric the guard made to those departing the city.

Glancing sharply at the guard, Laera’s expression hardened.

“No,” she lied. “None at all.”

“Good journey to you, then,” the guard said, returning to his accustomed post.

Laera prodded the beast into moving ahead onto the path leading to Felwithe. From there, she was to move on to Butcherblock Mountains, and from there abroad to Antonica. She felt the endless miles separating her from Kelethin as if she were already there.

Turning back for one last glimpse of her beloved home, Laera saw a familiar silhouette—his silhouette—standing where she’d left him, framed by the burning glow of the torchlight beyond. Now that she was alone under the cover of darkness, what once she had under strict control fell apart in a sudden outpouring of emotion. Through her tears, Laera could see Rigel raise his hand slowly in farewell scant moments before the platform, the lift, the light, and his figure were all lost among the leaves gathering densely overhead.

Outside the great cave entrance to the Teir’Dal city of Neriak emerged a small, lone figure. Dressed resplendent in polished bronze plate—complete except for a curiously absent breastplate, which was substituted with ordinary leather—the figure marched away with a brisk stride. Though the missing piece of armor would seem odd or even comical on any other warrior, the figure wore it with an air of befitting pride as she made her relentless way into the heart of Nektulos Forest.

The Pact of Zeranon had begun.

Chapter 4 - Forget Me Not