"You flea-ridden varmint!” Dathan Widdlethorp piped in his small, gnomish voice. “I said for you to go fetch my slippers, and I meant it! Now scoot, or I swear you’ll catch a fate worse than death!”

The short, white haired wizard waved an angry fist at the dog curled up at the foot of his overstuffed chair. The miserable pooch’s long, brown face lifted slowly from off its paws to cast an almost comical look of despair up at its barking master. Widdlethorp made several more encouraging gestures at the disobedient animal, to no avail.

In the end, as always, the elderly gnome relented.

“Aw, you lazy sack o’ kobold skin,” the wizard grunted as he pushed himself from his favorite seat. “Some day you’re gonna push my patience past the line, and then you’re really gonna see trouble! You hear me? I’m talkin’ to you!”

Blinking in a silent, oblivious response, the dog merely sniffed at the gnarled finger the old gnome thrust at it. Finding nothing of interest, it rested its limp jowls slowly back down to the dirt-laden floor to fall asleep once again.

“Mutt!” the wizard grumbled, followed by several unintelligible obscenities as he stomped his way into the bedroom.

For millennia, Widdlethorp had lived out his timeless years as a hermit, nestled in the protective and relatively remote arms of Steamfont. Though a hotbed for adventurers to hunt down sinister minotaurs and errant rogue clockwork that escaped control of the gnome city of Ak’Anon, the mountains of Steamfont remained one of the few regions of Norrath that was left, for the most part, undisturbed by the rest of the world. This suited Widdlethorp fine, as he had long since lost interest in the rest of the world.

The embittered old gnome coveted few things of value, as was made apparent by his dwelling. Unlike the fine gnome craftsmanship that was evident in the other structures that pockmarked the ferals of Steamfont, Widdlethorp’s dwelling more resembled a sorry attempt at copying the nondescript mounds that halflings preferred in Misty Thicket thousands of miles away. Though his fellow gnomes found the odd dwelling baffling, Widdlethorp enjoyed several advantages to it. First and foremost, it was comfortable. Being surrounded by three feet of solid dirt and groundcover ensured no chilling drafts would freeze his feet while he slept. Second, it was unobtrusive. The uncouth appearance when compared to the “extravagance” of the other dwellings in the land tended to keep annoying people at bay.

The old gnome had no use for people. After all, what good were they? Always wanting, needy, ungrateful and asking questions—incessant questions! “Widdlethorp, why aren’t you dead?” “Widdlethorp, what was Norrath like two thousand years ago?” “Widdlethorp, can you cure my warts?” “Widdlethorp, we’re getting clobbered by the forces of Rallos Zek—could you please lend a hand?” It was a ceaseless line of nonsensical, irrelevant things that always made him want to puke!

What Widdlethorp lacked in relationships, he made up for in mystique. The whispered rumors were indeed true. The old wizard really was, in fact, two thousand years old.

The first five hundred years were the worst. The gnome’s longevity began to manifest itself unmistakably when his peers began to kick the bucket all around him left and right. Years crept by until eventually the other gnomes—being the curious lot they were—sent several calculations through their tiny little heads. It so turned out that, had Widdlethorp been a father, the old man’s children’s children’s children should all have been resting comfortably in their tombs decades ago.

That was when the wizard’s notoriety among the gnome population exploded into sheer fame. Admittedly, he found it novel at first, being the focus of utter mystery and awe by others. But it wasn’t long before he discovered that novelty and immortality really didn’t mix. Before long—about two hundred years later—Widdlethorp grew irritated at being referred to as “Father Time”, “Undying Dathan”, and “Old Widdle the Ancient Wizard”. It suddenly struck him one day how such things were simply not going to go away with the passage of time, and if he wanted to keep himself from gleefully murdering his entire race and those of surrounding lands, steps were going to have to be taken.

The thieves’ guild had a saying: “Fame is an empty purse.” Widdlethorp couldn’t have agreed more. It had taken some doing, but the old wizard managed to destroy all formal records pertaining to his date of birth. Wherever possible, Dathan Widdlethorp struck from the record any evidence of his advanced years, or that he even officially existed.

In the short term, this did very little for his widespread renown. Word-of-mouth was a powerful adversary, and one he despised. However, immortality made time his ally. Given the passage of years and his continued efforts to retain anonymity, eventually his name fell into obscurity, and once again he could enjoy the simple things life granted to an ordinary, unremarkable man.

Nondescript as he had managed to become, Widdlethorp’s labors could not withstand the staying power of the everlasting rumor mill. Though he saw to it that no official document existed to back up the legend of Undying Dathan, the people of the area still whispered his story amongst each other to that day—some swearing its truth in the face of complete skepticism.

This didn’t bother Widdlethorp in the least, so long as his name didn’t erupt into sudden popularity again. For all the wild speculation being tossed about regarding the cause of his failure to die, Widdlethorp knew fully well the reason he was still alive. He also knew that the truth would never be discovered, no matter how outrageous the gossip became.

A knock sounded at his door.

From behind the bed where he knelt down to search for his slippers, Widdlethorp’s head popped up. Sunbeams shined through the small window behind him, bathing his thin wisps of white hair in an almost ethereal halo.

“Great Bayle’s nose hair!” he cursed. “Don’t people know a hermit can’t stay a hermit long if people keep showin’ up to pester him? Go away!”

Forgetting that his last visitor had been well over two months ago, the old gnome insisted to himself and others that the lines of people traipsing through his house were endless. Those who knew Widdlethorp—and there weren’t many—merely nodded their sympathies, having learned long ago how much safer it was never to contradict the wizard’s spoken opinion.

Grumbling, Widdlethorp bent over again to search for his wayward slippers. Obviously some unknown force had enchanted them, he thought to himself. They had never wandered off before. It was unseemly behavior for such attire to go gallivanting through the house on their own.

The knock was insistently repeated.

“Beat it!” the old man shouted from behind the bed. “And don’t let the windmills whap you in the fanny on the way home!”

“Dathan Widdlethorp?” called a muffled voice.

The wizard rose again, this time to rest his elbows on top of the mattress as he ran small hands through his hair in frustration. Looking up with a frown, Widdlethorp’s sharp eyes peered through his open bedroom doorway to the front door in the living area. The door mocked him silently as he sat there contemplating it in frustrated silence.

“What!” he barked finally.

“Uh…could we talk to you a moment?” came another muffled voice, similar to the first one—female, of course, but definitely not gnomish.

Probably elven, Widdlethorp thought to himself.

“Est parali Feir’Dal, senlyen douchai vellanis char!” he shouted back in the elven tongue. Having adroitly told them where to go, the old man smiled a satisfied grin as he returned to his personal quest. Widdlethorp prided himself on his ability to make even the elegant language of the elves sound vulgar.

Brief moments passed before a strong, metal-clad pounding reverberated through his small abode. Squealing at the sudden sound ringing through his normally quiet homestead, Widdlethorp leaped to his feet. Every creative form of profanity emitted from the gnome’s mouth as he stalked his way into the front room.

“You people have a lotta nerve showin’ up on my doorstep at all hours,” he shouted, approaching the offending door. “What is it this time? An orc pawn look at your little brat the wrong way? You want me to-”

Widdlethorp’s tirade was cut short as he flung open the door and found himself staring up into the blue-faced gaze of a towering Teir’Dal female warrior clad in obviously well-used platemail armor. The man screamed aloud as he quickly slammed the door shut again, holding it closed with all the might his little body could muster.

“Mister Widdlethorp,” called out the first voice. “We have to talk to you!”

“Go away!” the wizard replied. “Leave, or I’ll…I’ll turn all you worthless inkies into gnats! I mean it! I’m getting’ my spellbook right now!”

“Please! It’s very important!”

“I have my spellbook!” he warned, having not budged an inch from the door. “I’m lookin’ up the spell as we speak!”

“It’s about the Pact of Zeranon!”

The old wizard’s hand froze in place as it reached for an umbrella sitting on its stand next to the door. His panicked gnome face turned quizzical as he tried to determine if he had heard the woman correctly. For some reason the last word rang strikingly familiar.

“The what?” he called back through the door.

“The Pact of Zeranon!” came the gruffer of the two female voices.

Widdlethorp blinked, quick thoughts racing through his mind.

“You mean…this isn’t about the high sovereign’s trousers and the fire ants?”

A quiet delay ensued. Either the army of dark elves massing outside his door was calculating their next move, or they didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“I assure you,” called the same voice as before, “if the Teir’Dal were seeking revenge, it would have been taken out on your little midget hide centuries ago!”

“Midget!” the old man roared. Fuming, he whirled about and yanked the door back open. Contrary to any thoughts of his own safety he might have had, Widdlethorp marched up to glare at the dark elf female straight in the knees. “Nobody uses that word with me! Not even a white-haired, black-hearted, blue-skinned, foul-smellin’, filth-ridden, card-carryin’ Teir’Dal!” The old wizard spat his words.

Dreketh looked down at the gnome at her feet, taken aback. The little man was trembling with fury. Standing up tall, the shadow knight glanced over to Laera, silently garnering the wood elf’s take on all this. Laera merely shrugged in a noncommittal way.

The dark elf turned back to address the old man.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’ve done in the past, but we-”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “you don’t have a clue about the smallest fraction of my history! So, bugger off and leave me to spell out my future in peace!”

Widdlethorp turned his back, his small feet stomping their way inside once again.

“Please, Mister Widdlethorp, I implore you,” came the more winsome voice from behind. “It is imperative that we learn a small portion of the vast wisdom you have obtained through the ages.”

One wooly eyebrow raised, Widdlethorp slowly turned back around to discover a shapely, red-haired wood elf who had addressed him. Kneeling down on nicely rounded, finely tanned elf legs, the comely female had lowered herself in a crouch to speak to him face-to-face. Few visitors ever did that—certainly not attractive ones.

“Hmph,” the old man said, his arms folded. “Now, what could someone your age need with my wisdom? Let me guess… man problems! For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you what I know. One,” he held up his pudgy index finger, “men are worthless. If I were you, I’d dump him, whoever he is, and find a platonic roommate or a good pet. Two, relationships always get in the way. Never enter into one without knowin’ what you’re gettin’ into. And three, nobody has ever once known what they were gettin’ into until they were already tangled up in it.”

Widdlethorp reached up a hand to pat Laera gently on the cheek.

“There now,” he said in a tolerant, but not unkind voice. “You have gleaned the pinnacle of old Widdlethorp’s wisdom. Centuries of gatherin’ information, and that is what I have to show for it. Now run along and don’t feel obligated to tell me how things turn out with you and your beau.”

The small man turned again to take his leave when a hand stopped him gently on his shoulder from behind. Turning back around with a harrowed sigh, Widdlethorp grudgingly met the wood elf’s remarkable green eyes.

“Thank you,” she said with sincerity. “I will always keep your words to heart, wise one.”

The gnome’s gruff expression turned up to the towering dark elf, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“But…?” he asked shortly.

“But, I’m afraid our matter is of a far more serious nature.” Laera chose her words carefully. “We need to talk with you about something you wrote for the Almanac of Arcane History. An historical piece about a man named Zeranon.”

Widdlethorp blinked, his gaze turning ponderous.

“Zeranon. Why does that ring a bell?”

“He was a powerful necromancer who waged war on the gods almost two thousand years ago,” the wood elf encouraged. “He did this using a chalice he created called the Cup-”

“The Cup of Ages,” the gnome finished for her. Looking up with a knowing expression, Widdlethorp nodded his head. “Ferrell Zeranon. Ferrell. I will never forget that name. My brain may be old and rusty, but what does he have to do with a pretty thing like you?”

Laera grinned, somewhat flustered by the compliment.

“Well, I…we…” she glanced up at Dreketh. “We are the advocates of the Pact.”

Widdlethorp’s clear, pristine eyes shown glistening in the morning sun as he gazed at the wood elf. Not a muscle betrayed the wizard’s emotions as he turned his head up toward Dreketh, then slowly back down to Laera kneeling before him. All was quiet, save for the sound of steam rising from the natural springs all around.

A ghastly snorting sound emitted from the gnome’s nose. Unable to retain his composure, Widdlethorp covered his mouth in a vain attempt to hide his laughter.

“You are the advocates of Tunare and Innoruuk? You two?” he asked, not believing his own words.

Dreketh folded her arms and looked off into the distance peevishly while Laera pressed her lips together, trying to keep an open mind to what the wizard might have to say.

Reaching his small hand forward to place it on the wood elf’s shoulder, the gnome struggled to control his wildly grinning face. Opening his mouth to speak, he hesitated. At seeing Laera’s serious expression, laughter burst from his lips once more.

“Good luck with that!” he said with a mirthful gasp. He patted the wood elf’s arm with mock encouragement, and then turned to take his leave again, his shoulders heaving with mirth.

“Wait,” Laera said, trying her best to look past the wizard’s insulting demeanor. “There are some things we need to ask you!”

“You don’t say!” Widdlethorp replied gaily over his shoulder. This was the most entertainment he’d enjoyed in decades.

Dreketh had had enough.

“Look, little man,” she said, stepping forward and extending her leg to block the gnome’s path. “There is an army massing not fifty miles from here, poised and ready to march against my people at a moment’s notice. If bad comes to worse, war in the heavens is about to be declared again.”

“Not just in the heavens, I assure you,” the wizard said with a maniacal grin.

Dreketh refused to be deterred by the gnome’s flippancy.

“I have been torn away from a life I enjoyed and a father I held in the deepest respect. I have fought against minions of the gods. I have been ridiculed, persecuted, spat on, beaten and damn near killed because of this Pact.” She made a gesture toward Laera. “I have been made to travel the breadth of Norrath in the company of a mortal enemy in search of you, and by the gods I will hear some answers!”

Widdlethorp shifted his weight.

“You finished?”

“Not by a long shot,” the dark elf said through clenched teeth. Reaching out, she grabbed the small gnome forcefully by his collar.

A loud crack of thunder split the air, and Dreketh pulled her hand away with a jerk. Arcs of lightning shot up and down her arm as she gripped it, doubled over painfully. Hurriedly, the shadow knight ripped off the gauntlet to find her hand charred black in the places where she touched him.

Dreketh looked up to see the small wizard standing before her, his expression one of serious calm as he stared at her.

“You little bastard,” she muttered, taking a step forward.

Two thousand years or no—immortal or no—the enraged shadow knight fully intended to end the gnome’s days when her stride was brought short by the wood elf’s hand. Widdlethorp watched calmly as Laera whispered a few short words into her companion’s ear. What she said, he couldn’t tell, but it had the proper effect on the explosive Teir’Dal. Though her features remained dire, Dreketh calmed enough to revert back to a sullen, nonviolent state.

Turning to face the gnome, Laera squatted down again. She rested her forearms on her knees to address the wizard.

“Mister Widdlethorp… may I call you Dathan?” she began.

From her face, the wizard’s eyes meandered downward as he noticed that, leaning forward as she was, the druid’s position didn’t exactly lend itself toward modesty. Widdlethorp quickly discovered he could plainly see a generous portion of cleavage from this angle, causing him to clear his throat.

“Please do,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

Laera pasted on a deliberately sweet smile as she continued.

“Dathan, you must understand that my friend and I have traveled a very long way to speak with you. You seem to know much of what has happened and what is about to happen, so you can see how important it is we speak with you. If things go sour, it could mean very bad things for everyone.”

“And what do I care for everyone?” the gnome asked, folding his arms stubbornly. “If there is one thing I have learned over the centuries of my life, it’s that people are stupid, fearsome, destructive and dangerous. Most aren’t worth the skin they’re wrapped in. I say Norrath is better without their lot—and don’t go sayin’ that my life is at risk as well!” The small wizard poked a finger toward Laera, interrupting her before she could get a word in. “After two thousand years of livin’ in this bag of bones, you would welcome death, too!”

“I-I wouldn’t dream of it,” the wood elf replied quickly. “Really, after traveling this world and seeing how petty and cruel people can be, I can understand your views. I really can.”

“Thank you,” Widdlethorp nodded.

“But having lived so long, I think you might have overlooked some pretty important things,” Laera continued, appealing her case to the gnome.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like what it’s like to be young,” she whispered urgently, her eyes never leaving his. “You have lived so long, I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to pursue a purpose. I don’t mean a purpose like some grand quest to save the world, but a purpose in just being alive. You have spent so many years isolated here in your home that if you died tomorrow, you wouldn’t miss a day of it. I’ll bet life hasn’t always been like that, has it?”

Widdlethorp cast his eyes about, refusing to speak.

The wood elf placed a hand against her own chest as she spoke.

“I’m still young, Dathan. I have a life I wish to return to after all this is over, with people I care deeply for. There are so many wonderful things I wish to experience before my life is over. I want to see more of Norrath. I want to learn new skills. I want to fall in love, perchance to have children one day, each with their own dreams and aspirations that I can share in. That may not mean much to you, but it’s my world. It’s what my world is going to be. Please tell me you don’t wish to cut it short by turning us away now.”

The wizard couldn’t meet Laera’s eyes. Instead, he shot a glance up at the dark elf, glimpsing similar sentiments reflected in her callous face as well—even if she never would admit to them aloud.

“Damn females,” the old gnome muttered, kicking at an imaginary stone on the ground. “Got more mind tricks than a master enchanter’s spellbook.”

Laera smiled—genuinely this time.

“Fine, you can come on in,” he said under his breath. “But don’t be expectin’ any dinner!”

Upon entering Widdlethorp’s living room, it became apparent that one ancient, worn-out, cushioned seat was the only amenity of life the wizard afforded himself in the way of furniture. While Dreketh was perfectly happy to stand, this left Laera with the dilemma of what to do with herself. Seeing movement near the foot of Widdlethorp’s seat, Laera tilted her head curiously to find a small, brown creature with deep eyes and long, floppy ears.

“Well, hello there, little fella,” she said in a cooing voice.

The wood elf crouched down, holding her arms out while the dog shuffled and stood to walk its way over and inspect this newcomer with the warm and inviting arms. Sniffing one hand, it decided she seemed harmless enough and crept closer still to be pet. The druid’s gentle fingertips scratched the animal’s head, fully winning over its affections.

“Hmph!” Widdlethorp said, looking at the scene before him. “Some guard dog you are! She could have been here to rob me blind, and you’d probably leave with her!”

The dog’s only response was a mild “woof!” as it turned over to have its belly scratched.

“So!” Widdlethorp said, taking his seat. “Who found the Chalice, anyway?”

The sudden question took the two young women by surprise. Though they hadn’t expected the gnome to be the most courteous of hosts, having lived alone so long as he had, they did find his cordial manner to lean toward the abrupt.

“Excuse me?” Dreketh asked with equal sharpness.

“Ferrell’s Chalice. Erollisi’s Vault!” Widdlethorp explained. “Who discovered it?”

A look passed between the two young women.

“Who says anyone has?” Laera asked slowly. “As far as we know, part of our task is to find its location.”

“Nooooo, no, no, no…” The gnome shook his head. “Your gods would never declare the Pact without at least one of them knowin’ its whereabouts. Why do you think they waited so long before takin’ action? C’mon, fess up. Somebody knows.”

Laera, her hands idly petting Widdlethorp’s dog in her lap, made another glance up at her companion. Dreketh merely shook her head with serious mien.

“Neither of us know, Dathan,” Laera said with confidence.

“You mean neither of you were told. Hmm, most peculiar,” the gnome said thoughtfully.

“You would be surprised at the number of things we haven’t been told,” Dreketh muttered, pacing about the gnome’s living room with a languid step.

“What things?” Widdlethorp asked with interest.

“Well, what we’re supposed to do, for starters,” Laera said spitefully. “Why we’ve been brought together, where we’re to go. We didn’t even know who Zeranon was until we came across his name in your article at the library in Erudin.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the wizard shook his hands in the air, forestalling anything else the druid might add. “Why you’ve been brought together? You’re tellin’ me you two haven’t been raised together from birth?”

Both young women slowly shook their heads. Absurdly blank looks graced both their features as they cast each other yet another unknowing glance.

Widdlethorp’s jaw hung limply from his mouth. The wizard looked for all the world as if he were being confronted by a rainbow-colored dragon asking for directions to the nearest Erudian bath house. A confused jumble of words escaped his mouth as he tried to reason things out in his head.

“How are- what- what did… what- when… when!” he insisted at last. “When did you two meet? How long have you been together?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Laera answered, considering the weeks that have gone by since first meeting Dreketh at the Tunnel of Ro. “We met in early summer. A few months or so, I suppose?” The wood elf looked over to her companion, seeking help.

“About that,” Dreketh confirmed with a nod.

The elderly gnome collapsed into his chair with an astounded gasp.

“A few months!” he whispered in disbelief. The pallor on the small man’s face made him seem to age years right there before the two women.

“Are you okay?” Laera asked, her voice concerned.

“Just… just, shhh!” Widdlethorp responded irritably, waving his hands.

None of this made any sense! Widdlethorp had always assumed that the selected advocates would have been sent off to grow up in some isolated region of Norrath, away from the racial biases of civilization. It was the obvious thing to do. To find that things had developed differently was alarming, to say the least.

What were the gods up to?

Only one possibility presented itself. The wizard’s suspicious eyes looked over at his two unlikely guests, sizing them up silently. He had to know if it could be true.

“Have you both-” he began, then checked himself. “How… much do you know about the Pact of Zeranon, anyway? I won’t waste time repeatin’ useless words.”

Laera continued stroking the dog’s soft fur between her fingers, her face downcast, leaving Dreketh to answer the gnome’s question.

“Only what you wrote in your article,” the dark elf said quietly. “We know Zeranon was a powerful necromancer who declared war on the gods themselves. Using the Cup of Ages to obtain their blood, he captured their power and drank of it himself. With every victory his power grew until one day Erollisi Marr beguiled him into his own deafeat.”

The gnome waved a dismissing hand.

“That’s all just about Ferrell. What do you know about the Pact?”

“Not much,” the dark elf admitted. “Only that we are to stay at each other’s side, never to be parted for very long.” Dreketh looked down at the top of the wood elf’s head. “That… and we are to defend each other’s lives with our own.”

Widdlethorp continued staring at the shadow knight, his expression expectant as if more was forthcoming. Dreketh returned the gnome’s gaze blankly, her mouth closed. Moments passed before the wizard began to realize she had nothing more to say.

“That’s it?” he asked.

Dreketh closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

Light dawned in the little man’s eyes as small bouts of laughter escaped his throat. Gleeful giggles turned into hilarity as Widdlethorp covered his eyes, laughing as if nothing on Norrath had ever given him so much amusement. Laera, Dreketh, and even the dog stared a the wizard as if he’d gone mad.

“Well done!” he said, catching his breath. “Very well done indeed, you two!”

“Who, us?” Laera asked, her tone losing its amiable quality.

“No, not you!” Widdlethorp flapped his small hand at the wood elf. Hopping down from his seat, the gnome spread his arms wide. “Tunare, carin’ Mother of All!” He turned a finger toward Dreketh. “And Innoruuk, hateful Prince! They have actually come to a meetin’ of the minds, such that they might actually succeed in thwartin’ the designs of Erollisi Marr. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.” Widdlethorp held his hands up, as if such a statement was beyond argument.

“What are you saying?” Dreketh asked suspiciously.

Widdlethorp grabbed hold of his ribs.

“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry,” he said, gasping. “I really shouldn’t laugh at your situation. It’s not polite, and it’s very unhealthy for a man my age…” The gnome doubled over, holding his sides together as if he might burst.

“Well, why don’t you fill us in on our situation, so we can appreciate the joke, too?” Dreketh folded her arms again, taking on a bothered stance.

The old gnome staggered his way back to his chair with a sigh gracing his mirthful grin.

“Oh, my dear inkie. I don’t even know where to begin. I’m afraid you two have been duped by the very hands that brought you together.”

“Meaning what?” Laera asked, her voice sharp. The normally patient wood elf was beginning to grow tired of being left out of things everyone else seemed to know, but weren’t telling.

“Oh, me,” the gnome said with a sigh, collecting himself. “I suppose it would be best to start where you left off in Ferrell’s little story.”

Both shadow knight and druid paid the old wizard their rapt attention. The time had finally come.

“Yes, Ferrell was a necromancer and an Erudite by birth,” Widdlethorp began. “He did defeat deity after deity until there were only a handful left to stand against him. I know because I helped him do it.”

A look of alarm crossed Laera’s face. Looking to her companion, she found Dreketh standing quietly with a grim expression aimed at the gnome as he continued his story.

“You see, no matter how much power he accumulates in even a hundred lifetimes, a necromancer can never walk the planes freely on his own.” A glimmer of pride entered the gnome’s voice. “Try as he might by yokin’ passage through the Plane of Knowledge, he still does not have total access without enlistin’ the services of a wizard at his side.

“At the risk of conceit, I was quite the caster in my time,” Widdlethorp went on, playfully examining his fingernails as he spoke. “Bein’ a prominent wizard, I had somethin’ Ferrell desperately needed in order to further his plans. So, he sought me out and made an offer no wizard could refuse. The deal was that I would agree to ferry him around the immortal planes and keep my mouth shut about what I saw. In return, he would grant me what every spellcaster on Norrath would sell his soul for. Immortality.

“Bein’ the young and stupid imbecile I was, I leapt at the opportunity. The rules were that, barrin’ illness or injury, I would never die. If I knew then what I know now…” Widdlethorp shook his head sadly. “But that’s another discussion.

“Anyway, it’s true Ferrell was defeated by the combined charms of the Queen of Love and his own hyperactive libido. But his legacy lived on even after death. Fearin’ defeat by the covetous hands of Tunare and Innoruuk, Erollisi Marr stashed the Chalice inside Her vault and hid it away here on Norrath where they could not reach it. And here on Norrath it stays—somewhere—for almost two thousand years.”

“Why didn’t Erollisi Marr simply destroy the Chalice when she had the chance?” Laera asked, her face full of intrigue. “She’s a goddess, after all. I would think that would be the first thing she did.”

“She is a goddess,” Widdlethorp confirmed. “But She couldn’t destroy the Chalice. No sir!”

“Why not?” the wood elf pressed.

“Didn’t you read my passage?” the old gnome scolded. “The Chalice’s power transcended that of any one god of the planes. The only way to destroy the Cup of Ages was to drink from it.

“The Queen of Love feared Ferrell’s Chalice even more than reprisal by the principal gods’ power. She feared what She might become, and the potential for catastrophe it presented, should She drink of it. Her own abeyance ensured that She Herself could not destroy the Chalice, nor could she allow any other deity to seize its possession. Her only option was to hide it away from covetous hands—Her own included. Therefore, She sealed it inside her vault in a manner even She cannot breach, and sent it away here to Norrath for safe keepin’.”

“We know all that,” Dreketh said impatiently. “So now someone has discovered this vault and our gods are trying to make a grab for it. Is that it?”

“A most enthusiastic grab, yes,” the gnome chuckled.

“So, why have us go after it?” the dark elf gestured to Laera and herself. “Why not come to Norrath themselves, break open the vault, and take possession with their own hands?”

“Now, lemme finish!” Widdlethorp snapped. “Like the Queen of Love, neither Tunare nor Innoruuk can open the vault themselves—it’s not how the vault works. Only the unique power of their disciples can unseal the Chalice. And even then it cannot be done individually.

“Erollisi Marr constructed the vault in a very clever way. Simply bestowin’ it with wards imbued to the fullest extent of her power was not enough. As their power and authority were superior to Hers, Tunare and Innoruuk could always transcend Her will with their own. Instead, She set forth a divine mandate of Love. Within Her own bounds as the Queen of Love, She declared that only under the precepts of love should the Chalice be unsealed.

“Not your average love, mind you.” Widdlethorp wagged a finger at his audience. “There are two stages involved in opening the vault. First, it is surrounded by a divine aura, and may only be approached by one possessin’ the holy power of Tunare.”

Laera’s mouth opened wide, her role suddenly defined.

“Second is the door itself,” the gnome continued. “It contains no keyhole or handle, yet may be opened nonetheless. But only by the Touch bestowed a shadow knight of Innoruuk.”

Dreketh stood immobile, her own destiny realized. It certainly explained why Kella N’Threk had demanded she renounce necromancy in favor of becoming a shadow knight.

“Congratulations,” Widdlethorp said, thrusting two pudgy fingers at the women before him. “You two are to have the honor of unsealin’ Ferrell’s Chalice.”

Stunned, Laera looked to Dreketh across the room. Standing grimly, the shadow knight remained outwardly unaffected by the gnome’s grandiose words.

“You said that only by the precepts of love would the Chalice be unsealed,” she said indifferently. “How is this fulfilling that mandate?”

“Think about it,” Widdlethorp replied with a gleam in his eye. “To pull this off, you both are goin’ to have to trust the other implicitly.” The wizard gestured to Laera. “You, my dear, must trust that once you escort your dark elf friend through the divine curtain and back that she will not simply kill you and hand the Chalice over to her god.” The wizard made a similar gesture to Dreketh. “Once you have spent your power to unseal the vault, you must trust your partner won’t kill you and escape before you can take possession of the Chalice.

“Whatever paltry treaties or agreements that can be struck between the followers of light and dark on paper, what it all boils down to is trust—trust of one’s own personal life and limb, the trust of one’s own god placed in the hand of a mortal enemy. Such trust must be absolute, since you are both truly alone in this. It goes far beyond empathy or simple friendship. If there is any doubt as to what I am sayin’, then ponder this,” Widdlethorp leaned forward in his seat, his voice a piercing whisper. “Betrayal would mean the highest exaltation to the one who delivers the Chalice into the hands of her god, and would surely spell the doom of the other and her race for all eternity.”

A clock on the wall ticked away the seconds as Widdlethorp allowed the two young women a moment to digest his words.

“That kind of trust does not happen between mere friends, or even family,” the gnome said, finally breaking the silence. “It happens only between people who know each other’s very core. Anythin’ less, and the Pact is defeated before it begins. It requires the singular bond of devoted love. Without such an implicit trust, no sane person would agree to do it! So ideally, the Chalice remains safely hidden away from reach.”

Dreketh met the wood elf’s eyes, the two companions sizing each other up in a whole new light for the first time. Together, both shadow knight and druid began to ask themselves very similar questions about the other. The wizard glanced between them, his mind reeling with the myriad of thoughts that must have been going through their minds.

“I still don’t understand why us,” Dreketh said, her words aimed at the gnome while her eyes remained focused on her companion.

“Why not you?” Widdlethorp shrugged.

The dark elf rolled her eyes at the inane response—the very same comeback Master Xavier had given her when she asked that question of him.

“I’ll tell you why not us,” she said, turning to confront the small wizard. “I had to be transplanted from a profession I had grown fond of—even talented in—to become a shadow knight.” Dreketh pointed to Laera sitting on the floor. “She was practically robbed from the cradle in order to answer the call of this infernal Pact. If we’re expected to unseal the Chalice and fight for its possession in some grand duel, then this quest is the stuff of legends, fit for skilled and trained followers of our gods. My guild is filled to overflowing with dedicated shadow knights, while any disciple of Tunare would jump at the chance to defend Her claim on the Chalice. Why pick us over them?”

Widdlethorp’s expression turned condescending.

“Are you suggestin’ that a fully seasoned shadow knight of Innoruuk would ever once consider formin’ such a bond with an experienced clergy of Tunare? Or vice-versa? The radical step your gods took in movin’ forward this way was enough of a risk. My guess is they knew they were on shaky ground to begin with, which is why your masters told you as little as they could get away with.”

“Why?” Laera demanded, her face stern. “What harm could it have done to tell us all this from the beginning?”

“You tell me,” the gnome said, meeting her challenge. “If your priest had come to you sayin’ you were commanded to go out and form an intimate, trustin’ relationship with a Teir’Dal, who would hold your very life in the palm of her hand, how would you have reacted?”

The wood elf tossed her head, not answering. Widdlethorp turned his question toward Dreketh.

“Or you?” he asked of the shadow knight. “How would you have responded, knowin’ that a wood elf was about to become your confidant, trusted with your existence and the well-bein’ of your race?”

The dark elf was reluctant to answer at first.

“I’d have laughed my way out of the room,” she admitted grudgingly.

“There, you see?” the wizard nodded. “Disclosure of the facts would have meant certain failure. Face up to it. You were used and manipulated by those higher-ups who selected you for the Pact. As you went about blindly seekin’ what it is you were meant to be doin’ out here, they were bettin’ that journeyin’ together—sharin’ hardships and conquerin’ the obstacles that stood in your way—would forge the bond they needed in order to unseal the Chalice. You’re the pawns of authority and the playthings of your gods, both of you.”

In his own way, Widdlethorp actually seemed as though his sense of propriety was offended at how the two young elves were being treated. Individually, dark elf and wood elf both began to share his incense.

“Now that it has all been laid out for you, there is only one question left that holds any relevance,” the gnome said, a smugness creeping into his voice. “Do the two of you together have what it takes to finish the Pact? If so, what are you goin’ to do with the Chalice once you get it?”

Laera’s expression twisted.

“That’s two questions,” she said accusingly.

“So, I’m a wizard, not a mathematician,” Widdlethorp shrugged. “The point is, what happens next? What does the future hold? A certain Someone has already given you a clue.”

The wizard was rewarded with blank looks from his guests. Both figured the self-absorbed gnome was referring to himself, but they were proven wrong.

“The prophecy of Erollisi Marr,” the old man whispered with a gleeful wink.

Chapter 20 - Desperate Measures