Firelight from the braziers flickered around the dark and muted room, giving forth a sepulchral atmosphere. Silence reigned while the collection of students all looked up from the floor in wonder, for their master was demonstrating their next lesson.

Master Xavier’s face was lost within the shadows of his hood. He muttered arcane words that only his most gifted pupils could decipher, and then only on a purely rudimentary level. The spell he weaved was similar to—yet remained very much unlike—anything they had learned before in their limited knowledge of necromancy.

Out of the darkness of his cowl, two white eyes opened stark against the Erudite’s ebony skin. Slowly lifting his hands outward to rise over his head, the necromancer became surrounded in a gyrating glow. Pulsating spheres swirled about his tall figure, twisting and distorting the light until his form faded away and was completely gone from sight.

The students on the floor made a variety of awe-filled sounds, greatly appreciating their teacher’s exhibition—not so much for its own merits, but for the speed in which he could cast it.

“It is not meant for travel!” a booming voice shouted from behind, causing the entire room to jump in unison. Turning about in their sitting positions on the floor, the startled gathering discovered that their instructor had played a cruel trick on them.

Having fully broken the tension, the stern master’s ebony features broke into a self-amused grin as the students gasped and muttered amongst each other in low voices.

“It is meant as an escape,” the man continued in his resounding bass as he slowly sauntered his way back to his place at the head of the room. “A temporary respite to deceive and confuse your attacker, or!” He whipped out an attentive index finger from within his flowing sleeves, his voice becoming dramatically softer. “Or… attackers.”

The Erudic teacher found that dramatics were an indispensable tool that, if used properly, could retain the attention span of any collection of students for nearly any time span. He saw himself as the main actor in an instructional play he put on for his pupils. Not only did it provide for their entertainment, making them actually enjoy the often arduous learning process of the spellcaster, but it also gave him an edge when it came to being their mentor.

“Unlike the Gate spell each of you studied in the previous circle that can send you literally thousands of miles across Norrath to your home,” he continued with a flourish. “Shadow Step will deliver you mere paces away from where you stand.”

“Then what good is it?” one of the students said under his breath.

Freezing in mid-drama, Xavier turned his cowled head toward the dissenting pupil.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked shortly, his tone tinged with annoyance at the interruption.

“What good is it?” the young man repeated, this time louder for everyone to hear. “Why not just cast the Gate spell and make a clean escape?”

The master necromancer slowly lowered his arms and turned to fully address his questioning student. With deliberate calm, Xavier stepped away from his place to approach the upstart.

“Stand,” he commanded, gazing down his long nose.

Looking apprehensively to his neighboring peers, the student pushed against the floor and stood obediently before his teacher.

“Gate yourself home, student. Now.” Again, the necromancer’s words were abrupt, and left no opening for dissent.

Casting a second nervous glance at the upturned faces of his colleagues, the apprentice began his casting. Similar to the display they had just witnessed on behalf of their teacher, the young man became enveloped in a distorted display spherical light.

Without hesitation, the robed instructor used both hands to shove his pupil backwards. Concentrating on his spell, the apprentice didn’t stand a chance against his master’s cruel attack, and fell with his arms flailing wildly. The spell was broken amid a collection of shrieks made by the students sitting behind him. Reaching up, they did their best to protect themselves from the apprentice’s fall.

With a wry smile, the necromancer turned to take his place once again, privately reveling in the jovial laughter of his students—such a rare occurrence for so-called ‘Heretics’ studying to become practitioners of the black arts.

“Gate,” he said in his dramatic bass, “is easily thwarted. Every magic user worth his weight in compost knows how to cast it, so its weaknesses are well known. It is slow to cast. Furthermore, I don’t care how talented you are or the number of times you’ve used it successfully in the past, there is always the chance the corridor you summon could collapse, wasting an ungodly amount of energies, and leaving you at the mercy of your enemy.

“In time, you will learn to use Shadow Step in a blink!” The necromancer snapped his fingers. “And the only time it will ever fail you is due to a misstep on your part. If you are adept and attentive to the spell, it will expend far less energies and serve you better in a tight situation.”

The gathered students all nodded agreeably, unanimously seeing the wisdom in their instructor’s words.

The necromancer cast a brief glance to a dark corner near the entrance of the room.

“That will be all today. Return tomorrow and be prepared for the casting. Class dismissed.”

No matter how good the performance or how talented the entertainer, once the show was over, the audience invariably wanted to be gone. Xavier’s classes were no exception. Robed figures rose and herded their way to the exit like so much cattle. A few students even had the audacity to cast the Gate spell as they left, most of which were thwarted by a mischievous shove delivered by one of their colleagues.

As the apprentices made their way from Xavier’s school of necromancy, the dark-skinned master stared pointedly to the dark corner and the person he knew stood in it.

“You never could fully grasp that spell, you know,” he called out once the last of his students had left.

“Alteration was never my strong point,” a female voice responded from the shadows. “But I learned enough to advance to the fourth circle…thanks to you. I never forgot the technique you showed me, even though my instructors in Neriak called it ‘cheating.’”

The Erudite’s stern gaze was set in stone as he nodded. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as cheating when it came to the struggle for one’s life. It was a point of order he consistently made again and again in his lectures.

“I also remember your teaching style,” Dreketh went on to say as she stepped from the corner, her bronze armor reflecting the lambent glow of the firelight. “I found it to be whimsical, jocular, irreverent, and wholly inappropriate to the art of necromancy. I still do.”

Xavier’s aspect remained statuesque as he listened to the dark elf voice her recriminations.

“I’ve missed it,” she said, her lips cracking into a crooked grin. “Somehow you always drove the lessons home where I would never forget them.”

The stalwart necromancer’s stern expression similarly broke into a wide grin, the stark whiteness of his teeth showing brilliantly between his parted lips. What started as a deep chuckle transformed into hearty laughter as the tall man approached Dreketh, his arms wide.

“I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw you step through the door,” Xavier said, holding his former student by the shoulders at arm’s length. “This infernal metal prison they call armor threw me. I thought perhaps you had a twin you never spoke of.”

Xavier raised a stern eyebrow. Even in jest, the Erudite’s imposing height and rumbling voice could make a hardened warrior cower under his disapproving scrutiny. Adding to that ensemble, a set of piercing eyes, which were reputed to kill kobolds at the slightest glance, the necromancer earned his share of respect from students and peers alike.

“Would you mind explaining why a former student of mine is wearing the trappings of a warrior?” he pressed, his voice amiable yet tinged with seriousness.

Pressing her lips together, Dreketh turned her head to avoid the Erudite’s probing stare.

“A lot has happened…” she said as she looked over her shoulder.

Xavier followed her gaze to find a leather-clad wood elf emerging from the shadows as well, her hands clasped before herself demurely.

“I should say it has,” his deep voice intoned slowly. The tall man’s brow furrowed in disbelief as he gave Dreketh an astonished look of inquiry. He knew well that no Teir’Dal would so much as give a wood elf the time of day, much less travel with her.

Not entirely sure what to do, Laera raised one hand to grasp the elbow of her other arm. The arcane symbols and accoutrements that graced the room all around made her sorely uncomfortable. As a druid, she dealt in serving life in all its natural forms. Yet here she was, surrounded on all sides by the implements of death and its unnatural mimicry of what was once alive. The place sent shivers up her spine, and it showed plainly in her demeanor.

“Is there someplace where we can talk?” Dreketh asked pleadingly. Glancing at the wood elf self-consciously, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m into something way over my head, and I really need your counsel.”

Seeing clearly the desperation in the dark elf’s eyes, and recognizing the remarkably unusual circumstances surrounding his former student, Xavier didn’t doubt it.

“Come. We’ll go to my dwelling where you can eat, drink and refresh yourself.” The necromancer looked up at Laera. “Both of you.”

Xavier’s school of necromancy lay nestled in the putrid green mists of Toxxulia Forest, not far from the city of Paineel. Though spell casters by nature, the tall, dark-skinned, and highly intelligent lineage of humans known as Erudites shunned those of their race who practiced the black art of necromancy. The practitioners of such uncouth rituals were considered an embarrassment to their brethren who lived in the shining city of Erudin close by.

Of course, everything was close by on the small island-continent of Odus.

At the Erudite’s request, Dreketh paid him the courtesy of recounting all that had transpired as they made their short journey to his home. She spoke about mad Kella N’Threk and his demand that she resign her standing in the necromancers’ guild to be inducted as a shadow knight. She imparted what little she knew about the Pact of Zeranon, and explained how it was the reason she and Laera could never be far from one another. By the time they had reached Xavier’s modest, but comfortable residence, she had already concluded her story of their journey to Erudin.

Standing now in the sanctuary of his home, the necromancer remained somber and attentive throughout the dark elf’s lengthy recitation. Listening with a serious mien, the Erudite stood over a small stove as he prepared a serving of hot tea for himself and his unusual guests.

Dreketh sat on a small bench next to the quiet wood elf, who had remained silent and reserved ever since her introduction.

“I managed to steal my way through Erudin without notice,” the dark elf explained in closing. “It was tempting to walk into the Library as I passed by, but I don’t know how I’d be received there.”

“Probably about as well as I am,” Xavier said deeply. Turning, the Erudite held forth a tray laden with a kettle and three cups of steaming brown liquid. “Though I doubt they would dare challenge my right to be there, as they would you. Drink.”

“Erudian Herbal?” Dreketh asked hopefully.

The necromancer smiled and nodded.

“None other.”

“What’s that?” Laera whispered to her companion.

“It’s an herbal tea they drink here,” Dreketh answered curtly as she lifted one of the cups from off the tray.

The wood elf craned her neck to look cautiously down into the brown liquid.

“What’s in it?” she asked hesitantly.

“It is a small plant that grows only on Odus,” the towering Erudite explained with an amiable smile. “We call it ‘Sorcha Root.’ While the stems and roots are mildly poisonous, the leaves themselves make quite a unique tea with a savory flavor. Particularly when laced with a touch of cinnamon.”

Xavier’s small dissertation on the local flora fired the druid’s interest, being somewhat interested in the subject of herb lore, herself. Before she could open her mouth to comment, however, Dreketh spoke in a biting tone.

“It’s a very valuable plant that is rarely exported off the island,” she said, her expression disturbed. “Your distrustful questions are insulting him and embarrassing me.”

The Erudite glanced at the bothered dark elf briefly out the corner of his eye.

“I assure you it is quite safe, and particularly pleasing to the wood elf palate, miss…?”

“Nellynwae,” the druid said softly. Selecting a cup, she took it in her delicate hand. “Laera Nellynwae, sir.”

Xavier nodded agreeably, accepting her self-introduction with a kind manner of welcome. Laera was surprised at the necromancer’s graces. Before her very eyes, he had transformed from a daunting and intimidating authority figure to a gracious host.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” the tall man said, aiming a thinly veiled rebuke toward his former student in her breach of protocol. He sat himself down in a chair across from the two young women as he spoke. “I am Terrell Xavier. I am a scholar, traveler, and instructor of the necromantic arts.”

Laera swallowed before she spoke timidly.

“Druid of Tunare, and um…advocate in the Pact of Zeranon.”

The Erudite’s majestic features twisted in an amiable smile, welcoming the wood elf into his home. With a small grin, Laera took a sip of tea from her cup. Her taste buds were quickly tantalized by a bittersweet flavor that was complemented by the familiar bite of cinnamon. She’d never had anything quite like it before, and decided she could easily find it to her liking after acquiring its taste.

“Anyway,” the dark elf piped in with a businesslike tone, “I was hoping the Library would hold some reference to the name ‘Zeranon.’ It’s not a term anyone at Neriak is familiar with—nobody besides the priest, that is. There’s no telling if it’s a name or an ancient phrase of some sort. Have you come across this word in your studies, by any chance?”

“I’ve not heard it before, but then the study of history is not something I have indulged in to any great lengths,” came the necromancer’s response as he sampled his own tea. “Though I would gamble my finest totem that it is a proper noun. There is a commonly used human name of ‘Zertaenon’ that could very well be a derivative. One thing is certain—I know you to be a devout advocate of Hate, and it is plain that our Miss Nellynwae is a devout advocate of Life. For you two to be brought together mutually by the wills of your principal gods presents a circumstance of profound import. From what you have told me, I have no doubt something colossal is near, or perhaps happening even as we speak.”

“Kella N’Threk has made it clear that the future of Norrath lies in the balance of what we do together,” Dreketh spoke seriously. “But what purpose does our joining serve? To what ends? How is this serving either of our gods? I think the largest question in our minds right now is, what are we expected to do?”

“And why have you not been informed?” The Erudite finished his cup and picked up the kettle from off the tray to pour himself another helping.

The dark elf pressed on to support the necromancer’s question.

“It would seem to me that if things were as dire as N’Threk implies, we should be armed with as much knowledge and instruction as we can. What possible reason could there be in not telling us about our goal?”

Not touching his newly poured tea, the Erudite sat forward, pressing the palms of his hands together before him in thought. The dark man turned to gaze upon the wood elf.

“You too have reaped nothing from your masters in Kelethin, I presume?”

Laera shook her head slowly.

“Well then, the answer you seek is simple,” he said, addressing both his guests. “The answer to this question, at any rate.”

Dark elf and wood elf looked at each other confusedly, neither one able to divine how any part of this situation could be considered simple.

Xavier stood, raising his arm in his accustomed role as teacher. Dreketh sat back to make herself comfortable, knowing fully well that the master necromancer preferred to educate by using imagery and parable over any other method.

“Imagine, if you will, the one person you love and care most about in the world,” he started off. Before the shadow knight could dispute the Erudite’s words, he held forth a silencing finger. “And don’t give me the tired rhetoric that the Teir’Dal harbor no love. I know the dark elf heart, and know fully well the devotion that can exist between them. Do not forget who you are talking to, young Dreketh.”

The shadow knight shut her mouth, neither conceding nor refuting the Erudite’s claim. She knew well that while Xavier’s manner as an instructor could often be easygoing at times, he tolerated no open debate on any point of his lecture until after the lesson was concluded. She also knew Xavier was well aware of the rapport that existed between her and her surrogate father, Xon Quexill.

The necromancer turned with a theatrical flourish to the druid.

“And you as well, Miss Nellynwae. Imagine the one person who means more to you than anything else. A parent. A lover. A child. It doesn’t matter, so long as they are the most important person that you know and care for more than any other on Norrath.”

Laera pondered. The family unit was not as closely knit among wood elves as one might think. Although ties of kindred did exist, the innate wanderlust of the race typically transcended any nesting instincts they might have harbored before adolescence. More often than not, individuals of her race ended up turning their backs on their homesteads for sake of adventure and exploration of the world. This being the case, emotional ties for a wood elf typically involved a lover or a dear friend over parent or child.

Laera thought of Rigel. She remembered his ceaselessly kind nature and how he always put her considerations above his own. If it meant her comfort, there was no inconvenience too great for him to make. There were times he literally gave her the shirt off his back, just to warm her when the breeze turned chill.

Dear Rigel, the druid thought to herself. She could almost see him hunched over his desk, learning his second year’s lessons as an acolyte. She imagined how different traveling Norrath would be, had she a companion like her dear friend to keep her company. So many good times with him flooded her memory.

“Imagine that your god has ordered you to kill him,” the necromancer’s voice intruded suddenly. “You are commanded by direct mandate to assassinate this person to prove your loyalty. A show of complete devotion to your god.”

Both women looked up at the lecturing Erudite, the dark elf showing distaste while the wood elf was aghast. Xavier nodded to himself in satisfaction. The impact of his theatrics had, once again, hit home to his audience.

“If you refuse,” he chided, casting his attention between the two students, “you will have proven yourself unsuitable to the eyes of your god, and unworthy to remain His or Her follower.”

Laera cast her companion an uncertain look, finding that the dark elf had responded similarly. The druid returned her gaze to the necromancer, for the first time speaking in a voice that rose above a timid mutter.

“That’s absurd!” she complained. “Tunare would never ask such a thing of Her followers! She is the Mother of All—the font of life for Norrath! To kill anything in cold blood would be strongly against Her teachings!”

The necromancer turned an icy stare to the wood elf. Suddenly Laera was very sorry she’d spoken out of turn, as she had.

Xavier leaned down, bringing his face to loom before the wood elf’s.

“Don’t…be…so…sure,” he said slowly. “Tunare knows the hearts and minds of Her followers. What might She know about your loved one that you do not? It could very well be that with the death of your loved one, the lives of thousands would be saved. Do you dare second guess the perspective of a goddess such as She?”

Laera blinked, losing her righteous indignation. The necromancer stood tall once again.

“For the sake of argument, you are commanded to destroy your dearest one by holy mandate,” he said, returning to his theatrics. Twisting about, he brought his index finger to bear on Dreketh. “What do you do?”

Having experienced the necromancer’s melodrama in the past, the dark elf remained unflustered in her response.

“It’s impossible to say. I would have to find myself in the actual situation to be able to answer that question.”

The necromancer smiled at his former pupil’s answer.

“A wise response. Safe…but wise,” he said approvingly. “You find yourself in a quandary of loyalties, between that of your loved one and that of your deity. You are split down the center, for you know the soul of your closest associate to be what it is. Yet, your god asks a great deal in the way of blind faith.”

Xavier held up his perennial index finger.

“But…” he paused dramatically. “What if you discovered that this command of your god was insincere? What if you knew that the test was a token gesture, and that He or She intended to stop you just as you made the killing blow? What would result?”

Laera thought things through before answering.

“I see. It wouldn’t be a true test of devotion, would it?”

“Precisely,” the necromancer drawled. “Your full knowledge of the truth would taint the test of faith by de facto, therefore making ignorance pivotal in attaining success.”

“So…” the dark elf spoke up. “Are you saying this is some sort of test of faith to our gods? To see if we can hold true to our beliefs while confronting each other on a daily basis?”

“What I am saying,” Xavier corrected, “is that instead of being given as much information as possible, it was essential for you to know as little as possible in order to seek your intended ends. I contend that neither of you were meant to know the purpose of your coupling. Either that, or you were meant to discover it on your own. Which one, I cannot say.”

The young women sat next to each other on the bench, each silently lost in their own thoughts. The necromancer marveled at how the two companions reflected each other in so many ways—equal, but opposite, both in appearance and in ways not so apparent.

“Without knowing more, I will say this,” he said thoughtfully. “The word that concerns me now is not ‘Zeranon.’ It could mean anything, and will likely be defined easily.” The necromancer made a diminutive gesture.

“Then what troubles you?” Laera asked inquisitively.

The Erudite folded his arms, one hand stroking his chin as he pondered.

“The word 'Pact,'” he said eventually. “Pact, meaning what? Pact with whom? What are the portents of this Pact, and who chose to use that word?”

Dreketh spoke diffidently.

“I assumed that once we discovered who or what this Zeranon is, we’d know the rest…”

“What is the fifth ordinance of wisdom?” Xavier asked pointedly of his former student.

Dreketh sighed, speaking from repetitious experience.

“Assumptions never lead to knowledge. I know, I know.”

The necromancer nodded, returning to his musings. He paced slowly under the watchful eyes of the two companions, their expressions longing for answers.

“Nothing more can be said until more information is revealed,” the Erudite said with finality. He reached out to take up his traveling cloak and flung it around his shoulders. When he spoke, it was with confidence. “I will return with that information shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you both remain here. The fewer questions that arise about a wood elf and a Teir’Dal keeping the same company so far from their homelands, the better.”

The dark elf stole a glance at her companion, finding Laera pensive and lost in thought. Xavier tended to have that effect on people.

“Dreketh,” the necromancer said commandingly. “I would have a moment with you.”

The dark elf nodded and stood to follow the Erudite to the door, leaving her companion to her thoughts.

“Child,” Xavier’s voice was solemn. “I want you to know, you made the correct decision in coming to seek the Library’s knowledge.”

Dreketh smiled at the praise she received from someone she greatly respected, not only as a powerful necromancer, but as a truly wise man.

“But I fear you allow your blood ties to cloud your judgment,” the necromancer concluded, adjusting the lapels of his cloak over his shoulders.

“I… I’m not sure what you mean?” the dark elf asked, confused. “If it’s the way I chose to define the meaning of the Pact, I-”

“No,” the tall man said. Without another word, he jutted his chin toward the wood elf sitting on the bench.

Dreketh looked at Laera a moment, wondering what Xavier could be referring to. Unable to decipher the Erudite’s meaning, she turned back to him with a questioning look.

“What do you know of your companion, shadow knight?” he asked darkly. “Do you know who she is and what she is capable of? Have you taken the time to acquaint yourself with her? How best does she fight? What magics does she possess by merit of her goddess? Who are you trusting with your life, Dreketh? Can you answer me but one of those questions?”

The dark elf returned her gaze to the wood elf. Laera remained sitting in the distance, her head downcast.

“I pride you in your wisdom in coming to me,” the necromancer continued. “But I see a foolishness in the way you deal with your new consort. Especially if what you suspect about the Pact is true. You may be called upon by Innoruuk to meet that person in bitter combat—perhaps to the death. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps you are both to use your combined strengths to defeat an otherwise intractable foe. Either way, I would wager you have no idea what she harbors inside, or how she will react under most situations.”

Dreketh swallowed, thoroughly chagrined at the Erudite’s words. Silent, she remained motionless as she observed her unlikely companion. In many ways, the dark elf was seeing Laera for the first time. The wood elf looked somewhat haggard and out of place. She saw that the druid was tired, but not so much in a physical way, as it was fatigue of the spirit. The stress of their situation had taken its toll on the wood elf, and Dreketh couldn’t understand how she failed to see it before.

“I advise you not to let time slip away any more than it has already… shadow knight of Innoruuk.” The necromancer pulled his traveling cloak tightly about his chest, and opened the door to embark on his jaunt to Erudin.

Closing the door behind him, Dreketh slipped into her own bout of dazed thoughtfulness. How was it that, even now, the master necromancer could so adroitly point out the obvious to her—things she somehow missed?

Xavier, she thought, truly had the gift to look past the trees and still see the forest.

“Shh! I hear it. It’s coming.”

Laera nodded in silence, at once acknowledging and obeying her companion’s alert. Her pointed ears could also detect the growling noise given off by the approaching kobold.

The wood elf fought many of these savage creatures during her druidic training on Faydwer. Though intelligent enough to foster their own bizarre language, the furry, dog-like brutes were not considered to be the brightest stars in Tunare’s sky. They grouped together in packs, often rampaging the countryside for whatever meat they could kill—be it animal, man or elf. Unlike gnolls, whose roots were similarly canine, these creatures held no sentient thoughts that weren’t of blood and conquest.

Laera stood crouched behind the enormous tree, gripping her ill-gotten staff tightly. The kobold’s approaching footfalls sounded heavily, so she knew it couldn’t be one of the smaller runts. No matter. The druid had every confidence that she and Dreketh together could easily defeat it.

Laera tensed at hearing the shuffling steps grow louder, bracing herself for Dreketh’s signal to attack. When it finally came, she rounded the trunk while swinging her staff in one swift motion. Although the wood elf’s attack swung wide, her staff’s vicious arc threw the kobold off its footing.

The creature screamed a howling cry of warning to any of its comrades that could be nearby. At seeing its size, Laera determined that this was likely a scout. Chances were that it was venturing into this area to scope out anything useful the pack could scavenge.

Wasting no time, the shadow knight jumped in and swung her two-handed sword in a deadly sweep that would have decapitated the kobold, had it hit its mark. As it was, the kobold anticipated the attack, ducking below the whirling blade in time to save its life. On the shadow knight’s return swing, the kobold parried the blade deftly with the back of its forearm.

It became clear to Laera that a distraction was needed. Closing her eyes, the druid reached inside her leather tunic to pull out a hidden spell component. Whispered words escaped her lips as she raised her hand out toward her target. Immediately, the kobold’s mottled fur erupted into flames. In a panic, the kobold yelped as it tried to douse the magical fire with its hands.

Dreketh saw her chance and took it. With a tremendous chopping motion, she buried her father’s blade into the kobold’s shoulder, resulting in another cry—this time of pain. Placing her foot against the kobold’s furry chest, she pulled back on her blade, releasing it from the creature’s bleeding wound.

The wood elf twirled the staff about expertly, lending momentum to her weapon as she struck the creature across the face. Seeing it stagger, she decided to press her advantage and alter her defensive position into a backhand return swing.

Unfortunately, the kobold’s stagger turned out to be a feint. Sweeping below Laera’s maneuver, it made a miraculous recovery and swung its leg over the ground near her legs. The creature’s sheer strength combined with the wood elf’s own ambitious momentum resulted in her being knocked off her feet to fall hard against the ground.

Had the kobold been wielding a weapon, the wood elf would have seen the end of her fighting days. It leaped atop her and maliciously began to go for her throat with its gleaming collection of sharp teeth.

Dreketh had been about to make a thrust with her sword in an attempt to get the creature off her companion when she heard Laera shout a single, resounding word of magic. The kobold was immediately thrown off the sprawled druid in an explosive blast of fire. The creature flew through the air to land on its back several feet away.

Without time to consider exactly what her partner had just done, the shadow knight bounded over to the stunned kobold. Placing a bronze foot against the creature’s injured and bleeding shoulder, she thrust her blade down to embed the tip deep in her enemy’s throat. The kobold’s life ended with a whimper, blood welling up through its muzzle to spill onto the forest floor.

Dreketh released her grip on the sword, allowing it to pin the creature’s body to the ground. Turning, she reached up to wipe sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, and discovered the druid still lying prone on the ground.

“Hey…you all right?” she said, and uncommon look of concern marking her tone.

Laera swallowed and nodded

“It had me worried for a minute there,” she said, her throat dry.

“You had me worried for a minute there,” the shadow knight said, offering a hand to help the wood elf to her feet. “What was that spell, anyway?”

The druid reached up to take the dark elf’s hand.

“It’s a simple burst of fire,” she said, yanking on Dreketh’s capable arm to stand. “Not overly impressive, but it’s never failed me when I needed it.”

Laera decided to change the subject.

“So, that’s about the third kobold we’ve butchered this afternoon. Would you mind telling me what we’re doing out here?”

The dark elf glanced up briefly.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve practiced with the sword,” she said distractedly. “I need to keep my skills honed in case we get into trouble. I figured it’s been just as long a hiatus for you, too. There’s that, and I wanted to see how good you are.”

“How good I am?” Laera asked, unsure of the shadow knight’s meaning.

“That’s right.” Dreketh pulled out a water flask. “I need to get a feel for your skills and prowess. If things get rough, I need to know what to expect from you. You and me, for that matter. We can only do that if we practice together.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Laera commented, searching her own provisions for some water. “I suppose it beats staying in the Erudite’s house, staring at the walls.”

The two companions sat, their backs against a large tree near the kobold’s fallen body. Together, the young women drank from their flasks, trying to forget the heavy green mists of the forest surrounding them. Though not poisonous in the strictest sense, the ubiquitous cloud encompassing Toxxulia Forest made breathing markedly more difficult. After their minor scuffles with the wandering kobolds, the two companions found themselves unusually tired and panting for air.

Dreketh replaced the lid on her flask, looking up into the mist high above, noting the slight loss in the ambient glow all around.

“The sun must be setting,” she said. “I wonder how long Xavier plans on being away.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” the wood elf replied, similarly looking about. “So, what’s the story about you two?”

Dreketh lowered her gaze to look over at the druid suspiciously.

Laera continued staring up into the towering trees as she spoke.

“How is it a dark elf in Neriak has come to meet and even befriend an Erudite from Odus? More the point, why does he seem to be the only person you treat with any amount of civility? Respect, even?”

“Hmph,” the dark elf said with a slight smile. “I suppose that’s a fair question.”

The druid turned an expectant look to her companion.

“Very well,” Dreketh said with a small sigh. “If you must know, Xavier is a necromancer who works and teaches independently. Once in a while he feels the need to journey to Neriak for the use of some of our resources he can’t find here on Odus. As part of the arrangement with the Teir’Dal, he has agreed to instruct dark elf initiates in what knowledge he has to offer. He is a grandmaster of the art, and I have yet to meet anyone who could best him. Not even my old guild master at the Lodge of the Dead.”

“He’s certainly not what I would expect from a necromancer,” Laera commented. Drawing her legs up, she hugged them as she listened.

“To his fellow Heretics as well,” Dreketh nodded. “His teaching style is so unorthodox, it made the denizens of the Dead begin to doubt their wisdom in asking him to contribute. The only problem was that his technique worked extraordinarily well when it came to making the lessons stick with the students. I can’t tell you how much he helped me during the times I struggled to grasp the techniques of Alteration.”

Laera blinked curiously.

“So, what happened?”

“He took me under his wing,” the dark elf shrugged. “He showed me methods none of my Teir’Dal tutors would have dreamed of teaching me. In fact, when it came time to pass my tests, I was often accused of cheating because of these tricks he’d shown me. It caused quite a stirring among the denizens. Come to think of it, that was probably part of his plan all along.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I never would have achieved the fourth circle without that man.”

“Fourth circle?” the wood elf asked, blinking. “What circle are you now?”

The shadow knight cast her companion a hesitant look.

“Before I became a shadow knight, I was a necromancer of the sixth circle.”

Laera gasped, “Sixth!”

Dreketh looked down and nodded, her expression solemn.

The wood elf glanced around at the noxious woodland, a look of stunned disbelief clouding her features. From what little she knew about the various schools of pure spellcasting, the sixth circle was a noteworthy achievement.

“You’re not much older than I am,” she observed. “How did you achieve such a rank in so few years?”

“Let’s just say I held the special affections of the guild master,” Dreketh said dryly.

“Oh,” Laera turned slightly flush. “I see…”

“Not like that!” Dreketh snapped. “He’s my father! Name of Innoruuk, is that all you wood elves ever think about?”

“Oh!” The light dawned on the druid’s face. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well,” the dark elf spoke sullenly, her gaze returning to the forest around them. “Between my father and Xavier, I learned quickly all the ins and outs of necromancy. Being constantly bombarded by it as I was, my learning curve was so accelerated that I think I intimidated the other initiates. So, naturally I didn’t have a lot of… well, friends. I think that was why Xavier singled me out the way he did.”

Laera lay her head on her arms as she listened.

“During that time, he told me all about the great Library of Erudin and of all the vast knowledge kept there,” Dreketh continued. “He made me promise that some day after I left Neriak that I’d come visit him. Our situation seemed appropriate to the task.”

“And you gave up sixth circle necromancy to become a trainee knight? Whatever for?” Laera asked quietly, feeling rather awkward about discussing things she considered so dark and unthinkable a month ago.

“For that answer, you’ll have to ask Kella N’Threk,” Dreketh replied in a dark tone. “He insisted on it. And I haven’t given up necromancy, exactly. Shadow knights practice much of what makes necromancy unique among the arcane disciplines—just not in its entirety. In time, a good portion of what was taken from me will return.”

“And now you wield a sword instead of a staff,” Laera nodded, understanding.

Dreketh looked at her father’s sword, still impaled upon the fallen kobold several feet away.

“It’s a fair trade,” she said, considering the truth of her words. “I didn’t think so at first. But I’ve since realized that in some ways I rather enjoy being able to take out my frustrations with cold steel instead of suppressing them so I can concentrate on spellcasting.”

Standing, the dark elf walked a leisurely pace over to the kobold’s corpse, the druid’s eyes watching her every move from behind. Grasping her sword’s hilt, she pulled it from the body and looked at the crimson, bloodstained metal with a blank expression. Reaching out the index finger of her spare hand, she ran it slowly across the flat of the blade, catching a portion of the blood on her fingertip.

“The tool of bloodshed,” she said softly to herself. Bringing the blood to her lips, she sampled it with a flick of her tongue.

“My true parents were knights, too, you know,” Dreketh said over her shoulder. “It led them to a gruesome end. Nezzka Tolax, their guild master and my new trainer, thought it unwise to allow the daughter of his troops into a similar situation, and so asked a favor of Xon Quexill to accept me into the necromancers as an initiate. Not long after that, Quexill adopted me and took on the responsibilities of being my father.”

The dark elf fell into a morose silence, leaving Laera to her own thoughts. The more the wood elf listened to her companion talk, the more she began to understand what made the shadow knight tick inside. The thought comforted her and alarmed her all at once. As more time passed, the more often she had to remind herself that this was a Teir’Dal—sworn blood enemy to all elvenkind. Yet somehow Laera was secretly beginning to form a mental rift between Dreketh and the rest of the dark elf race.

“Okay, enough about me,” the dark elf said suddenly, turning about to approach the contemplative druid. “Stand up. I want to get a feel for your skills with the staff.”

The wood elf stood with an inquiring look.

“What do you want me to do?”

“We’re going to spar,” Dreketh said, lowering her head and taking on a battle stance with her sword. “Come at me using your weapon so I can get a feeling for your opponent’s perspective.”

Laera looked down at the staff lying on the ground next to where she’d been sitting. Bending over, she picked it up in her capable hand, hefting it lightly with accustomed ease.

“You know you’ll defeat me in mundane combat,” she said uncertainly. “You’re a knight. I’m a druid. There’s no way I can match your skills without using my magic.”

“Relax,” Dreketh replied in a bothered tone. “I’ll only use defensive maneuvers to counter your blows. I won’t take the initiative or attack.”

Laera glanced back down at the staff in her hand dubiously, considering how much she believed in Dreketh’s motivations with this little contest of hers. Shrugging, she figured if anything went awry, she could always fall back on her magic anyway.

She therefore closed her eyes and calmed her mind, bringing the peace and light of Tunare into her soul. Uttering the magical words of nature, she cast a spell to enhance her defenses. Immediately, her soft and supple skin turned hard and rough as tree bark, helping to protect her from minor injury as they went about their practice session.

Opening her eyes, she saw Dreketh’s crooked grin, the dark elf’s battle stance having been forsaken for an air of deliberate patience

“Don’t trust me?” the shadow said wryly.

“Accidents happen,” Laera responded, nonchalant. She took up her own battle stance, taking the staff firmly in the grip of both hands. “I’d just rather not be sliced open from a wayward swipe of that blade, thank you very much.”

Dreketh shook her head in a burlesque display of marvel.

“You healers are too skittish, you know that? To my people, scars are badges of honor.”

“Are you ready?” Laera asked testily.

The shadow knight nodded and immediately brought up her blade to parry the nimble wood elf’s preemptive swing.

“What I don’t understand is why you go to such great lengths to avoid even the smallest injury,” Dreketh said slowly as she went about defending herself from her companion’s lighthearted attacks. “If a truly serious blow fell, that little spell of yours wouldn’t absorb a sixth of the damage dealt.”

“There are two ways of looking at it,” Laera replied, twisting about to confront the shadow knight with a roundhouse swing. Dreketh blocked the move with ease. “One way is an investment. The more protection you lend to protection, the less energies you’ll spend in keeping them alive after they’ve been injured.”

The wood elf swung low, intending to catch the shadow knight off her guard, penetrating her defenses below her knees. Having just parried a higher attack at the other end of the druid’s staff, Dreketh chose to evade rather than block. She quickly jumped with both feet, allowing the staff to whistle harmlessly through the air just above the ground.

“Makes sense,” she conceded. “What’s the other way of looking at it?”

“All life is sacred,” Laera said, thrusting the center of her staff at Dreketh’s chest, hoping to catch her off balance. “We are taught that the best way to preserve it is to give it the best possible chance of survival, even if it means a fraction of a percent.”

Swinging high, the wood elf’s attacks became more rapid. Swinging the staff back and forth with both hands, she brought the ends down on the knight more rapidly in a shower of strikes. Watching the dark elf’s reflexes, she was impressed at the speed her opponent moved to defend herself.

“The best way to do that,” she continued more slowly, the increasing impetus of her tactics causing her to become winded, “is to take them from harm’s way in the first place. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Dreketh ducked below a particularly wide swing, feeling the wind from Laera’s staff passing just above her head.

“It’s a sound battle principle. Dodge a blow to free up your weapon, and deliver the killing thrust.”

“Perhaps,” Laera began going through all her previous attacks in order, only more strident this time around. “Except we do it to serve life, not destroy it.”

“Is that so?” the dark elf drawled mockingly, blocking another of the druid’s swings with her blade. “And about that kobold behind me? Was that Ro’s fire or yours that burned it to a crisp?”

“That’s different.” Laera’s attacks became more insistent. So much so, Dreketh had to concentrate more in order to keep pace. “Kobolds, orcs, goblins and countless others in this world do nothing but seek out life just to kill. If given the chance, they would slaughter everyone. They have no respect for life.”

“But you do?” Dreketh placed the sword’s blade in her other gauntleted hand, using it to block the wood elf’s vertical chopping attack above her head.

“Of course I do!” Using her stance to its advantage, the druid reversed her swing and brought the opposite end of the staff to meet with her opponent’s armored torso, below Dreketh’s raised blade.

Air left the shadow knight’s lungs in a whoosh. Dreketh brought down her sword, its blade against the ground lest she collapse from the unanticipated blow. Falling to one knee, she came to lean on her sword like a crutch.

“Ugh, that was good,” she said, wincing. Shaking her head to clear it of the pain, she quickly regained her ready stance. “So, I guess you don’t eat at all, then,” she continued, returning to the battle at hand.

“Oh please,” Laera said in a wearisome voice as she went through her motions. “Don’t give me that dogma about how my own standards say I mustn’t eat meat.”

“It’s not just eating meat,” the dark elf parried with words as well as steel. “Every source of food results in the death or enslavement of living creatures, plant and animal. It just goes to show how hypocritical your kind can be.”

“Tunare put those things on Norrath to serve a purpose,” the wood elf’s tone became increasingly dire at the shadow knight’s insinuations. “Killing for survival or to preserve the life of another is not a sin. Killing indiscriminately is.”

“It’s that very philosophy that proves Tunare is as flawed as Her followers-”

The ring of steel echoed through the trees and the dark elf’s words were cut off, her hands suddenly bereft of their weapon. In a flurry of movement, Dreketh found herself standing powerless with her back pressing against her opponent’s chest, the shaft of Laera’s staff being pulled against her throat from behind.

“Take back your words, inkie,” Laera’s voice muttered threateningly in the shadow knight’s ear. “How dare you lecture me in the Temple of Innoruuk about respecting your god and your beliefs? How dare you threaten my life at the slightest indiscretion I might show toward your god? Yet here you have the impudence to blatantly insult mine! If you want to talk about hypocrisy, I suggest you take a long, hard look at yourself with the same scrutiny, Teir’Dal!”

Dreketh was rendered helpless by the druid’s brash move. If she could release even one hand from the staff at her throat to make a countermove and free herself, she would have. But the wood elf’s ire lent ardor to her chokehold. Dreketh was convinced that if she relented one inch, the staff would surely crush her windpipe. Their stance was such that she lacked the leverage to throw herself forward, tossing the druid head over heels. Even if she did have the leverage, it was all she could do to keep from being strangled by the staff. The struggling shadow knight had no options.

An unexpected blow fell painfully against the wood elf’s back. Unable to see her attacker, Laera quickly tried to think of who could possibly be behind her. The mystery was quickly resolved as the telltale cackling of a skeleton reached her ears.

Immediately, she released her dark elf captive and twisted about in a startled panic to confront the new menace. Just as she suspected, standing before her was the animated remains of a skeleton grinning hideously at her.

At seeing the undead creature, Laera’s heart leaped into her throat. Her muscles seized in terror. All through her mind, unbidden words whispered “soul-stealer,” clouding all rational thought from the wood elf’s mind.

She tried desperately to make her limbs respond and attack the skeleton, but they remained obstinate. It was like Kithicor all over again. She remained helpless amid her irrational fear of these undead atrocities.

A flash of crimson steel blinked in her vision. Dreketh had apparently recovered enough to grab her weapon and force an attack on this newfound threat. The creature was not to be cowed, however, as it raised a sturdy forearm to block the dark elf’s swing. Together, the shadow knight and skeleton stood locked in a heated struggle of raw strength before the stunned druid’s eyes.

“Damn it, woodie,” Dreketh grunted angrily, her voice strained from exertion. “Wake up and kill this thing before it…“

Too late, the skeleton overpowered the shadow knight’s already taxed strength from her struggles with her companion. With seemingly little effort, the creature shoved Dreketh backwards off her balance.

At seeing her companion so readily thwarted, the wood elf’s panic rose to new heights. Inside her head, she screamed at herself to take action. But the steady glow of the skeleton’s eye sockets bore into her like a rapier. This was not one of the weak and pitiable decaying skeletons she’d fought in her homeland. This skeleton was in prime and deadly condition. Whatever energies animated this thing sent chills down her body, and try as she might, she couldn’t move a muscle.

Raising a cold, bony white hand, the skeleton reached out toward the wood elf. The hideous grin looked as though it mocked her weakness. It knew victory was at hand—the very hand that crept slowly through the space between it and her.

“Enough!” came Xavier’s booming voice from the distance. The skeleton ceased its movements, freezing in place suddenly.

Both companions remained in place as well, panting heavily—Laera standing frozen before the skeleton, and Dreketh resting in a half-crouch a short distance behind. From the wayside of a nearby tree emerged Terrell Xavier, his hands lost in the folds of his traveling cloak. The Erudite took his time in approaching the two.

Dreketh looked apprehensively to her former instructor, fully recognizing the expression on his face. Obviously he’d deliberately sent the skeleton after them to intervene as an object lesson. She braced herself for the ensuing recrimination she knew was imminent.

“Your partner is dead,” he said to her with a disapproving look. “And you have no one besides yourself to blame, shadow knight.”

“With all due respect, Master Xavier, she-”

The Erudite held up a silencing hand.

“I saw her actions as well as I saw yours. You and your belligerent mouth had it coming.”

Fuming, Dreketh closed her lips tightly to heave her labored breaths through flaring nostrils.

Xavier turned his attention to the wood elf.

“And you, my dear, have a very serious and grave weakness to overcome before you can be of any value to this partnership.” Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers, instantly causing the skeleton to fall into a pile of bones.

Laera swallowed nervously, similarly without comment.

The necromancer cast looks between two reticent companions, sizing up their mien. Grunting in his deep voice, he made no further remarks on the subject. Apparently he was satisfied with their disposition for now.

“Come with me,” he said calmly, turning his back. “My labors have proven fruitful.”

Casting each other glares of bitter animosity, the two companions complied and obediently followed the Erudite to his home without another word.

The thick book fell against the table top with a resounding thud.

“Behold, the Almanac of Arcane History, volume thirty-seven,” Xavier said grandly. “Open it and unleash the bounteous knowledge within.”

Dreketh and Laera looked at each other warily, each silently wondering of the other was going to make the first move to open the hulking book. All during their journey to Odus, they had thirsted for whatever morsel they could find regarding their predicament. Now that the time finally arrived, ominous memories of the necromancer’s words in Kithicor came strongly to mind. The mad ravings of Kella N’Threk were resurrected as well, telling omens of doom and despair for the future. In short, both young women felt an irrational hesitation to press forward now that the moment was upon them.

Sensing their trepidation, Xavier leaned down and muttered soft encouragement in Dreketh’s ear.

“Page seven hundred forty seven.”

The shadow knight took a deep breath and sat on the floor near the center table. The book rested before her, its black leather-bound surface gleaming serenely in the candlelight. The dark elf received the uncanny impression that the book was mocking her somehow, as if daring her to open it and discover the truth.

Dismissing such notions as being ridiculous, Dreketh reached out and quickly opened the hard cover. Without pause, she quickly flipped through the book to arrive at the seven hundred and forty seventh page under the section heading that indicated the chronicling of prophecies throughout history as they related to necromantic magic.

Dreketh began to read, her eyes perusing quickly over the spidery words on the page. Laera sat on the bench across from the table watching the dark elf read, preferring to gauge the reaction of her companion before looking at the words herself. For an extended length of time Dreketh remained silent, her expression carefully neutral as her azure eyes traced long and winding paths down the page. The anxious druid forced herself to bite her tongue, lest she blurt out asking what the book said.

The dark elf glanced momentarily at the Erudite standing over her shoulder. Receiving nothing but a cold look in return, she turned back to the book, flipping the page. Laera nearly burst with frustration. Gaining no discernable clue of what Dreketh was reading, she seriously considered snatching the book away so she could read it herself.

Dreketh’s eyes reached the middle of the following page, and her head began to shake slowly back and forth as the passage ended.

“I don’t understand,” she said blankly. “How does this help us?”

“First things first,” Xavier replied. “I believe Miss Nellynwae here would like to take a stab at enlightenment.”

With an unusual bout of cooperation, Dreketh slid the book across the table toward the wood elf, who immediately twisted it around to face her. Flipping the page back, Laera began to read as a drowning person would gasp for air.

And so it was in the year 1214 of recorded Norrathian history that the Godslayer marched and made war upon the greater beings of Norrath. Armed as he was with the Chalice, he walked freely among the planes, unchallenged as the gods fell before his might one by one. Once unheard and hence feared, deity then knew the pain of defeat at his hand, and his hand was known by his name—Zeranon the Godslayer, bleeder of the divine, and master of the Chalice.

The Chalice was key. The Chalice was focus. The Chalice was power. In line with the necromantic practice of tapping life’s energies, Zeranon bestowed the Chalice with the ability to harness godly energies thereof. Once defeated, Zeranon bled his victims into the Chalice and drank of it, and therefore their power. Blood mingled with blood. Power mingled with power. The power of the Godslayer grew to ascension. Ascension turned transcendental until no one god was able to rival his might, or challenge his authority

Be it known that planes fell in his wake, and the nations of the divine alike crumbled beneath his heel while Norrath continued its existence in ignorance of events unfolding in the heavens. In the end, Zeranon defied the gods openly, and defeated them in unfettered combat. The rampage of the Godslayer remained absolute until the day of Erollisi Marr, Queen of Love and Majesty of Passion.

Laera turned the page, reading on.

Erollisi Marr became wise to Zeranon’s designs. The goddess saw into Zeranon’s heart and made manifest herself to him as that which his passions were unable to resist. The unwary necromancer fell victim to the trickery of the goddess, and became unknowingly locked within Her lustful clutches, a slave to his own desire. Once thoroughly distracted, the goddess served the Godslayer his own defeat with a single killing thrust, effecting the end of his reign.

What remained was the Chalice, left in the goddess’s keeping. Though Erollisi Marr defeated the Godslayer Zeranon, She knew She remained unable to defend the Chalice from the principal gods of Hate and Life without partaking of the blood of the Chalice Herself. Without recourse, She hid it within Her sacred vault and placed the vault upon mortal soil, proclaiming a prophecy from her divine lips.

‘The 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.’

Thus spoke the very mouth of Erollisi Marr, Queen of love, steward of the Cup of Ages. Thus will it come to be.

"So, Zeranon was a necromancer…” Laera mused, having finished the passage.

“Not just any necromancer,” the Erudite spoke darkly. “The word ‘prodigy’ doesn’t begin to cover it. In his day, it was rumored that Zeranon achieved a level of necromancy yet to be discovered even in modern times. As you see, his talents grew to empower him in challenging and defeating the lesser gods. Once victorious, he captured drops of their blood in his Chalice, which granted him access to their power, further enhancing his own abilities. In time, victory by victory, his power grew beyond all others, and he was no longer forced to confront the gods in secret.”

“But if he was so powerful, why is it nobody has heard of him?” Laera asked, confused. “This all took place nearly two millennia ago, but I would think that such a war of the gods would leave incredible legends behind that everyone would know about.”

“Quite right,” Xavier said, nodding his head. “However, you forget one detail. ‘Norrath continued its existence in ignorance of events unfolding in the heavens.’ During this time, mortal kind hadn’t a clue as to what was happening in the godly realms. I’m certain the occasional priest or cleric noticed the copious loss of their minor deities and their respective minions, but Zeranon was wise in that nobody knew who he was or how close he truly came to becoming their new master. We don’t even know what race he was.”

“That’s all well and good,” Dreketh spoke up sullenly. “But I still don’t see how this helps us.”

“You see now why I chose not to concern myself with Zeranon’s identity so much as I was concerned with the Pact itself,” the necromancer ministered. “To say that Zeranon was powerful and dangerous would surely be an understatement, but it doesn’t explain the present day actions of your gods.”

Dreketh rose, pressing firmly against the tabletop to stand. With a subdued look, she folded her arms and waited for the revelation she knew her former teacher was about to make. Xavier never proclaimed anything as “fruitful” unless he discovered something deeply profound.

The Erudite remained motionless except for his eyes, which followed the dark elf’s movements. Staring into Dreketh’s expectant gaze, Xavier smiled cunningly.

“I knew that the important part of the passage had been left out as soon as I saw how it mentioned nothing about the Pact,” he began, still grinning sagely at the dark elf. “Therein lies the secret that the author did not want anyone to discover. It vexed me, as this is the only reference I could find that ever mentioned Zeranon’s name. Then I made a correlation that exposed the author’s fatal mistake.”

Laera looked up curiously, unable to determine what fatal mistake the Erudite was referring to. As far as she could see, the story the book related was fairly cut-and-dry, giving away nothing beyond the events themselves.

“Therefore I present to you my posit—a theory, if you will, about events that took place after Zeranon’s death.”

Hearing no objection from his audience, the necromancer began his carefully constructed dissertation.

“It was most fortunate for the gods and mankind that it was Erollisi Marr who ultimately defeated Zeranon, ending his rampage across the planes. I have a notion that very few others could have resisted the temptation of ingesting the contents of the Chalice, thereby usurping the collective power of the defeated gods and claiming total control over all things, including Norrath. The very nature of the Queen of Love precluded it, albeit barely, as opposed to what would have happened had it fallen into the hands of, say… Rallos Zek.”

The wood elf shifted uncomfortably in her seat at the thought of such power in the hands of the god of war.

Dreketh looked similarly unnerved at the thought.

“But where is this fatal mistake you spoke of? What has it revealed?”

“Erollisi Marr’s power is not to be underestimated, but it is not absolute,” the Erudite continued. “It was not enough that She resist the temptation to drink from the Chalice—She had to keep the prize from her peers as well. The planes are literally the playgrounds of the gods, so She instead locked it away and hid it here on Norrath. It is my guess that the gods have been searching for it ever since. More specifically, two gods in particular.”

Laera and Dreketh exchanged glances. Xavier grinned at them smugly.

“It was the words ‘principal gods’ that gave it away,” he said. “There are only two gods with the incentive, power, and enough worshippers to single-handedly challenge Erollisi Marr’s claim on the Chalice. Tunare, Mother of All… and Innoruuk, Prince of Hate.”

No sound stirred the necromancer’s house aside from their breathing. Laera sat on the bench across from the other two, pondering all that she’d seen and heard.

“So, you’re saying…” she began slowly, breaking the silence, “…we are supposed to find this Chalice?”

Xavier turned a solemn look to the wood elf.

“I would I could say for certain.”

“Wait,” Dreketh interrupted. “What about the prophecy? What does all that mean, about the tears of the slayer and sundered light and shadow? None of it makes any sense!”

“I never claimed to have all the answers,” Xavier said sternly, holding up his hands to placate the dark elf. “You are asking questions clerics have asked for countless prophecies throughout the ages. The short answer is that you cannot clearly decipher the meaning of the words until you have witnessed the revelation first-hand. This usually means riding it out as time unfolds, revealing its secrets.”

Dreketh forced herself to close her mouth, holding back the deluge of further questions the book’s answers had sparked. How were they supposed to find what the gods themselves had spent centuries looking for, and failed? Supposing they ever did find it, what do they do with it? Why did Kella N’Threk demand she give up necromancy to become a shadow knight? Those and a host of other questions cluttered her mind, but one question rose about all the others.

“Why us?” Laera asked, giving voice to the dark elf’s thoughts.

“Why not you?” Xavier countered evenly.

“Why not us?” Dreketh’s voice was tinged with disbelief that the Erudite would even ask. “Let’s face it, we are two very inexperienced and under-trained followers of our gods. This task is more suited to adepts who have proven their devotion. The only reason we’d even be considered for the Pact in the first place is because we’re…” The dark elf’s eyes widened at the conclusion her own words were leading to.

“Expendable.” Xavier saved her the trouble of speaking it.

“Name of the gods,” Laera whispered in awe struck tones. “Once it becomes known who we are and what our goal is… the other gods are going to hunt us down like sheep.” She looked up pleadingly at the Erudite. “Aren’t they?”

“They already are, child of Tunare,” Xavier said, his bass tone rumbling sympathetically. “Remember Kithicor Wood. Bertoxxulous has already sent the first of his assassins to kill you both.”

Dreketh cast Xavier an uncertain look. Nobody else in the room noticed, so she politely allowed the Erudite to continue.

“There is only one more factor that remains unexplained—the ranger who saved your lives,” he said ponderously. Turning, he addressed the dark elf. “You mentioned that he claimed his actions were performed out of love?”

“Something like that,” Dreketh shrugged.

“Erollisi Marr…” Xavier mused. “Queen of Love. Coincidence?”

Laera stared off into space, her eyes narrowing confusedly.

“How could that be?” she asked. “If Erollisi Marr hid the Chalice from the gods, and She knows we’re out to find it, why would a follower of Hers save our lives like that? Twice, even!”

“He wouldn’t,” Dreketh said dismissively. “It has to be a coincidence.”

Uncharacteristically, Xavier made no comment to the shadow knight’s conclusion. He merely stood and pondered, possibly pounding holes through both arguments in his mind to see which held water in the end.

“What matters now is where we find the answers to these questions,” the dark elf continued, turning an expectant look Xavier’s way. The Erudite blinked once and shifted his eyes from their thoughtful stare to look directly at his former student.

“I would have thought that would be obvious,” he said calmly. “You must consult someone who not only knows all about Zeranon and his Chalice, but who literally wrote the book on the subject.”

Both elves looked at each other and then down at the upturned Almanac of Arcane History. There at the bottom of the passage on page seven hundred and forty eight was the name “Dathan Widdlethorp” scrawled in concise, ornate lettering.

Chapter 13 - Severed Ties