The lone ambassador sat quietly in the darkness of his quarters, a cool night breeze wafting through the window at his side. Though the orcs of Crushbone considered the room to be lavish, rivaling even the emperor’s private chambers high in the tower of the castle, most dark elves would consider the room an insult for an emissary of Neriak. However, through manipulation and diplomacy—two skills the ambassador prided himself in—D’Vinn managed to make the place not only livable, but quite comfortable in a simplistic way.

His living space was one of the few comforts the ambassador afforded himself amid this den of uncivilized, uncultured savages who called themselves orcs. These boorish creatures holed up in a godforsaken vale at the edge of the known world had very little to offer such a dignitary as he, and it showed. The comforts of Neriak were a thousand miles away, and D’Vinn was reminded of it bitterly every day he awoke in his straw-mattress bed.

It could be worse, he told himself repeatedly. His was far better than Ambassador K’Ryn’s lot in Oggok, stone city of the ogres. At least the stench surrounding the orcs could be masked with perfumes and incense, of which D’Vinn always kept himself well stocked.

It was a backwater assignment, to be sure. From day one, D’Vinn never once believed a true alliance could be made between the Teir’Dal and Clan Crushbone. The orcs of Crushbone were far too primitive to form any lasting relationship with dark elves, and possessed nothing of benefit to Neriak anyway.

Nothing, that is, except an ideal strategic position that would allow the Teir’Dal access to two blood enemies. Both elven cities of Felwithe and Kelethin lay virtually on Clan Crushbone’s doorstep, making it an ideal location for rallying a military strike on both cities at once. Only two problems remained. For one thing, the glade of Crushbone was isolated and landlocked with its only entrance being that of Greater Faydark. To mass an army of dark elves in Crushbone would first mean sneaking soldiers past the enemies they were meant to attack. The other problem was balance of power in the area. The Teir’Dal held virtually no presence on the continent of Faydwer, nor did they have any sanctuary with the locals outside of Crushbone. All things considered, any force they could mass in the vale would be token at best.

So why bother with an alliance in the first place? D’Vinn smiled wickedly a the subtle genius of his race. Reaching toward the end table sitting next to him, he poured himself another helping of wine into the fine crystal goblet he favored. His grinning lips brushed the glass edge as he sampled the deep red liquid.

A brutish knock sounded at his door, breaking the ambassador’s concentration.

“Who goes?” he called casually, taking another sip of his wine.

“Two blue elfs say they speak to you,” answered the guttural response of an orc outside. “You say enter or leave?”

D’Vinn parted the window curtains next to him, seeing the moon’s high ascent through the sky. It was late, he thought. The hour approached midnight—far too late for an audience with any wayward petitioners in the area. Still, any chance to gain some form of interaction with his own kind was always a welcome reprieve from having to deal with boorish orcs all day.

“Did they say what this is about?” he called back.

The orc’s voice lowered, probably addressing the very petitioners in question. Waiting patiently for a response, he tried to make out the words, but could only hear his name mentioned a few times through the door.

“Ambassador D’Vinn?” The sweet timbre of a female voice rose above the orc’s. “My name is Dreketh from the Lodge of the Dead. I have come to you regarding the army.”

D’Vinn’s face rose at the sound of the female voice. While the ambassador often gave concessions to his own race, the occasion to entertain a female was turned down almost as rarely as the opportunity presented itself.

“Enter,” he replied immediately. Setting the wine goblet down gently on the end table, the ambassador rose from his seat to receive his latest guests from Neriak.

The door opened on creaking hinges. Outside, he caught sight of the orc in the hallway, who made a laughable attempt at refined courtesy. Rather than graciously extending a hand, inviting the guests to enter, the orc waved his arms brutishly in the direction of the room. Rolling his eyes, the ambassador made a mental note to have yet another lesson in civility with the ill-mannered creature.

Inept pleasantries notwithstanding, an armor-clad female entered with a curt, efficient air emblematic of a shadow knight. She was attractive and young, likely having just recently been granted knighthood from the guild. D’Vinn smiled inwardly in delight as well as outwardly in cordial greeting.

“Welcome, shadow knight,” he said with his usual geniality, extending his hand.

Yanking off her right gauntlet, Dreketh accepted his gesture in her own firm grip.

“Thank you for meeting with us, ambassador. I know you’re a busy man, but I come to discuss a matter of grave importance.”

Direct and to the point, D’Vinn thought to himself, looking at the shadow knight’s eyes. Indeed, this young woman portrayed every characteristic of her title.

“I would not refuse one such as you, my dear,” he said with a slight bow. “Contact with one of the blood is a pleasantry I rarely enjoy out here in the sticks. Please enter and make yourself comfortable. Your associate as well…?” D’Vinn looked briefly over Dreketh’s shoulder.

Turning, Dreketh was met with an empty hallway.

“Laera?” she called. “Laera, enter at once. You’re embarrassing me in front of the ambassador!”

From around the corner poked the head of a smaller dark elf—also female, much to Ambassador D’Vinn’s delight. Similarly trim and well proportioned, this one seemed unusually timid. Curiously, the ambassador could not quite determine to what guild she might have belonged. The nondescript cloth chemise she wore gave no such indication.

“Ambassador, may I present my squire, Laera,” Dreketh said, her hand extended toward the disguised wood elf.

Laera’s eyes passed over the ambassador’s seasoned face, barely making eye contact before looking away. D’Vinn was forced to lower his stance to get a clear look at the young lady’s face.

“Rather sheepish for a shadow knight in the making, isn’t she?” he asked inquiringly.

“You’ll have to forgive my servant, ambassador,” Dreketh apologized. “Only three months ago, she was abducted by a roving band of human raiders in the Commonlands. The males were apparently… starved for pleasure, shall we say?” The ambassador nodded in grim understanding. “She has since come of guilder age, and I have taken her under my tutelage, but things are progressing slowly, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I can, indeed,” the ambassador said evenly, his eyes on the apprehensive girl. Reaching out, he took her hand in his own and, noting her flinch, raised it to his lips. “Fear not, child. You are among allies here. One day you will taste the blood of your foes in sweet revenge as a knight of the Father, I have no doubt.”

Laera cast her companion an anxious look, silently begging Dreketh to steer matters away from her.

“Ambassador, about the issue at hand…” Dreketh broke in.

Silently, D’Vinn continued to stare at the druid, seemingly oblivious to the shadow knight’s words. Laera’s angst grew visibly under the ambassador’s continued scrutiny.

Dreketh cleared her throat.

“Ambassador?”

“Yes!” D’Vinn answered almost immediately, his gaze never moving from Laera. “Where are my manners? I fear living among the uncouth for so long has dulled my courtesies. Enter and be seated.”

At length, the ambassador broke his gaze with the disguised wood elf to close the door behind her. Turning, D’Vinn approached a nearby cabinet to retrieve another goblet while Dreketh stole a few private words with her companion.

“This ambassador is no fool. Start behaving like a dark elf, or we’re finished,” the shadow knight whispered urgently, leading her companion beside a crude divan. When she spoke a gain, it was in a normal tone. “Stand here, Laera, and assume the stance.”

Confused, Laera turned a questioning eye to her companion. Dreketh stood, feet apart and arms clasped behind her back. The shadow knight raised an eyebrow and nodded, silently telling the wood elf to imitate her. As dutifully as she could, Laera did as she was told.

“Excellent,” Dreketh said sharply. “Stay that way until it is time to leave.”

“Y-yes sir,” Laera stammered, unaccustomed to military etiquette—particularly that of the Teir’Dal.

“Yes mistress,” the shadow knight corrected sternly. She held up two fingers before the wood elf’s face. “That is now two points in the last hour, initiate. One more and you sleep standing tonight, clear?”

“Yes… mistress,” the wood elf said slowly.

Dreketh yanked off her other gauntlet, and pressed them both against the druid’s midriff. Recognizing her cue, Laera took them in hand without a word.

Looking around casually, Dreketh stepped before the divan, politely waiting to sit before her host rested in his own chair. Turning, she found the ambassador standing before her, a crystal goblet filled with wine in his hand.

“I see your initiate is in capable hands,” he complimented, holding the glass toward her. “Judging by your youth, I imagine the lessons learned of a young knight are still fresh in your own mind.”

Dreketh accepted the wine with a small nod.

“They are,” she replied. “Master Tolax is an accomplished teacher.”

“Of course.” The ambassador sat, gesturing for Dreketh to do the same. “He is a credit to the Denizens of the Dead and the Teir’Dal, as are his learned students.” D’Vinn raised his glass, saluting the shadow knight across from him.

Raising her own glass, Dreketh accepted the compliment, wetting her lips with the wine.

“Now then,” the ambassador said, taking on a businesslike tone. “What can the Teir’Dal embassy in Crushbone do for you?”

“Ambassador,” Dreketh answered, her tone suddenly serious. “I… trust you are aware of the army of Tunare massing in Lesser Faydark.”

D’Vinn swallowed a mouthful of his drink, nodding slowly.

“I came across it while on my way to hunt in Steamfont,” Dreketh explained. “The sheer number of elves and humans disturbs me.”

“You are not alone,” the ambassador replied grimly.

“Do you know where the army marches?” the shadow knight asked, taking another sip. “Are we to meet this force with our own dragoons before it has a chance to reach Nektulos?”

“Why do you ask?” D’Vinn’s eyes studied the young woman closely.

“I wish to know if we are massing our forces,” Dreketh replied evenly. “If we are prepared to meet this threat, I wish to join my comrades and fight at their side.”

The ambassador’s eyes shifted smoothly to look up at Laera standing several feet from the shadow knight. D’Vinn’s jaw muscles clenched. Laera did her best to look dutiful, keeping her eyes steady and away from the ambassador’s gaze.

“What do you take me for, a fool?” the ambassador said softly, looking back down at Dreketh.

The young shadow knight tried not to blanch.

“Ambassador?”

D’Vinn casually gestured at Laera with his half-full goblet.

“She is no more a shadow knight initiate than I am an orc,” he said, his voice dire. “You are no more interested in joining your comrades than she is your servant.”

A bead of sweat formed on Dreketh’s temple. Knowing it wasn’t worth denying in the face of the ambassador’s practiced and discerning eyes, she took a longer pull at the wine in her hand.

“Your questions,” D’Vinn continued, standing to pace toward his two guests, “ring with the sound of treason as clearly as a gnomish whistle rings with the sound of steam. Treasonous, that is, for you,” he pointed to Dreketh, still sitting in her place on the divan. He turned a critical eye toward Laera, approaching her closely. “But not for you. Is it… wood elf?”

Stunned at being unmasked by this obviously strong and powerful Teir’Dal, Laera looked nervously from one of the ambassador’s eyes to the other. As her panic rose, so did the muscles in her neck, further accentuating them.

“I must admit,” the ambassador said, turning his back on the druid, “the disguise is exceptional. Were it not for her manner, I would never have thought to look closely enough to call her bluff. The orcs are easily fooled, but I found her ineptitude—even for an alleged victim of mass rape—to be unconvincing for a Teir’Dal female. By nature, she should be focused on revenge as a starving wolf is focused on his next kill.”

Sighing audibly her exasperation at Laera’s performance, Dreketh took yet another drink from her glass.

“You are not guiltless either, my dear,” D’Vinn addressed her as well, taking measured steps toward the divan where she sat. “Any shadow knight not in exile from Neriak would know fully well if an army were massing or not. Your dancing around the issue speaks volumes to me that you are, in fact, outcast from your brethren and quite possibly a turncoat…” The ambassador leaned down to whisper to her face. “An elf lover.”

Dreketh closed her eyes at hearing that phrase.

“What are you going to do?” she replied quietly.

D’Vinn stood upright again to continue his verbal diatribe.

“One word from me, and a detachment of orc legionnaires will storm through that door. At my very whim, they will tear both of you apart with nothing more than their bare hands right here in this room. They will even clean the mess after they are finished without my even asking.”

Laera turned an alarmed look to her companion, finding Dreketh meeting the ambassador’s words with calm equanimity.

“I entertained the thought of doing just that,” D’Vinn continued, taking another sip from his goblet. “But something troubled me all the same. Why would a dark elf attempt to smuggle an obviously docile wood elf past a multitude of orcs to meet with me? Surely not to spy. Even the High Council of Felwithe knows I am kept as much in the dark as possible about the goings on in Neriak. To do otherwise would be reckless and foolish for one residing so close to one blood enemy, much less two.

“So I ask you now, shadow knight,” D’Vinn concluded. “Why? Your answer will determine my response to your question.”

“It seems Erudite philosophers aren’t the only ones who have the market cornered when it comes to finding truth,” Dreketh said, tossing back the last of her wine.

D’Vinn’s expression didn’t waver.

“Diplomacy is the second-oldest profession,” he said dourly. “Now… who are you, and what do you want? The truth!”

Licking her lips, Dreketh considered her options. Obviously, the skilled ambassador could sniff out the truth in much the same way a bloodhound sniffed out a fox. Any contrary words she might have chosen to say could very well lead to the fate he boasted.

Very well, then. If truth was D’Vinn’s medium, he would have it. Her mind made up, Dreketh stood to address the ambassador.

“I am whom I claimed,” she stated flatly. “I am Dreketh…” She paused, swallowing. “Surrogate daughter of Xon Quexill, and advocate of Innoruuk in the Pact of Zeranon.”

D’Vinn’s eyes gave no hint of emotion, their gaze piercing straight through the shadow knight and her confession.

Dreketh extended a hand toward her companion.

“This is Laera Nellynwae,” she said. “Druid, and advocate of Tunare in the Pact. We are here to discover how the Teir’Dal intend to deal with the threat in Lesser Faydark. We must find out what is happening with my sect in Neriak, and how these relate to a priest named Kella N’Threk in the temple of Innoruuk.”

The ambassador stood, waiting to see if the shadow knight had anything further to say. His face continued to remain expressionless as he searched her for any sign of deception.

“In my profession,” he said calmly, “you get used to sweet talk, half-truths, and outright lies from everyone you encounter. So common is it that you start to expect it, and even become surprised when the rare individual comes along who is willing to lay the whole truth before you.”

Setting his wineglass down, Ambassador D’Vinn drew his chin up.

“You have managed to surprise me, young woman,” he said sternly.

Dreketh slowly released her breath in a whispered sigh of relief.

“But by the terms of the treaty with Crushbone, this room is Teir’Dal soil,” the ambassador continued, strolling toward Laera. “It may not look like much to you or your associate, but it is the only part of home that I have. It is the only place for a thousand miles where the laws of the Father rule supreme. It is my home, my sanctuary, and my refuge.” He came to a stop before Laera, his expression one of disapproval. “And the presence of this one offends me. Her company desecrates the grounds of the Father, and I will not have it. Remove her… now.” Casting the druid one final look of disgust, Ambassador D’Vinn turned away, striding across the room to look silently out the window.

Laera watched, dumbfounded, as the ambassador walked away. Before she could react, Dreketh was next to her, muttering softly in her ear.

“You’re going to have to go,” she said grudgingly under her breath.

“What about the Pact?” the druid replied in a whisper.

“Listen, we’re lucky he didn’t kill you where you stood,” Dreketh replied, taking the druid by the shoulder toward the door. “His tolerance will only go so far. Wait outside, go for a walk, anything. Just leave us alone for a while.”

“Fine, fine.” Laera was in no mood to argue. Cooperating, she pulled the door open and started to leave when a thought occurred, causing her to stop and turn around. “Dreketh…”

The shadow knight held the door, her expression one of brevity.

“What?”

“Will you… be okay in there alone with him?” she asked.

Dreketh’s expression turned bewildered.

“What?” she repeated, exasperated.

Laera glanced down the hallway, ensuring that nobody was in earshot.

“You said it was an ambassador who… took you,” she said with a slight shrug. “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone with him in there?”

The shadow knight’s eyes narrowed, her mouth open.

“You’re asking if…” she faltered. Blinking, she shook her head. “I mean… yes, I should be okay.”

The druid nodded unsurely, her eyes still doubtful.

Dreketh placed a comforting hand on her companion’s shoulder, her manner more confident.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said with sincerity.

Laera closed her mouth, nodding again.

“I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” the dark elf assured, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and Dreketh stood with her hand on the door, pondering. She very nearly forgot the ambassador’s presence before he spoke.

“So…” he said, turning from the window where he stood. “How is it a daughter of Innoruuk comes into the company of a wood elf, showing up on my doorstep asking about military maneuvers in Neriak?”

Dreketh looked up at the ambassador across the room, her gaze calm but irresolute.

“How is it,” the ambassador continued, stepping away from the window, “that a Teir’Dal familiarizes herself so closely with a blood enemy, that that very enemy openly shows concern for her safety?”

Dreketh looked away, searching for words.

“I… I don’t…”

“Is it this Pact of Zeranon?” D’Vinn asked abruptly. Assessing the shadow knight’s reaction closely, his manner turned speculative. “Or is it something else…?”

Dreketh closed her mouth, making no further attempt to speak. Approaching the shadow knight with measured, even steps, the Teir’Dal ambassador leaned forward, is eyes narrow.

“What is your story?”

Ambassador D’Vinn was, perhaps, the most widely known name in the annals of dark elf diplomatic circles—such as they were. His exploits as negotiator of several key treaties between the Teir’Dal and the troll city of Grobb on the southern tip of Antonica were legendary, even in the textbooks outside the political province. D’Vinn’s proven success and appeal toward other races earned him a seat of honor among his peers—in practice, if not in title.

Due to his efforts in Grobb, the city-state of Neriak enjoyed the benefits that could be described as nothing less than bountiful. Hostilities between the two races ceased—hostilities the Teir’Dal could no longer afford in their situation. Trade sanctions were lifted, allowing the isolated cavern city to take clear advantage of Grobb’s resources. It was expected that D’Vinn would immediately be promoted to the title of “Lord Ambassador” within mere days of his homecoming to Neriak.

Expectantly, everyone waited for the proclamation to come across the council floor, announcing the ambassador’s reward for such exemplary service. When, in fact, an announcement of reassignment was declared, effectively banishing Ambassador D’Vinn to the remote empire of Crushbone, gasps of astonishment echoed throughout the chamber. The proclamation came as a shock to everyone.

Everyone, that is, but D’Vinn himself. He knew his political rivals had long been maneuvering him into a position for this assignment. He knew well how his delegation to Grobb was merely a strategic tactic to serve this end. It mattered little to his rivals where he was or how commendable his performance—so long as he was away from Neriak. Close by, he remained a threat to them, where his innate diplomatic skill threatened their positions and individual standing—even to several seats on the council.

D’Vinn’s triumphant return from Grobb presented the council members with little worry. Their solution was simple: Claim the situation in Crushbone was of “vital importance,” capable of being solved only by D’Vinn’s singular and prodigious ability as a diplomat. The political standing with the orcs was in urgent need of rectification, and it was imperative that the ambassador leave Neriak at once to take up his new position in Faydwer.

So be it, as far as D’Vinn was concerned. He knew well enough how it was a fool’s mission they sent him on. Nevertheless, the ambassador graciously accepted the assignment, and left Neriak the following eve.

Minor celebrity though he may have been among the Teir’Dal, D’Vinn’s name and reputation served to become more popular than the man—a circumstance that also suited him fine. Once way or another, he determined to make the best of his position at Crushbone. Even if a political alliance was not in the cards, there was more than one way to take advantage of the situation in Faydwer, and D’Vinn was determined to find it.

Dreketh’s understanding of the ambassador’s history was sketchy at best, as political maneuverings served only to distract most of the practitioners of necromancy from their studies. The guild masters and higher ranking Denizens of the Dead tended to run interference in political matters, so their understudies could focus on more important matters—lessons, quests, research and so forth.

Even so, D’Vinn’s name still preceded him, and the ambassador’s willingness to accept the truth for what it was truly impressed Dreketh. The minutes passed as she recounted the story that had unfolded over the past several months, along with everything she knew about the Pact of Zeranon. Patiently, D’Vinn sat and listened to the shadow knight weave her tale, interrupting only to offer her more wine or a morsel to eat.

Upon Dreketh’s conclusion, the ambassador nodded silently. Seeing the shadow knight’s curious look, he took one final sip of his drink and set the goblet on the end table next to the now empty bottle.

“What you say, knight, rings true,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “In my position, I am often limited by the fact that Neriak tells me only what they can afford to have compromised in case disaster strikes and Crushbone is overrun. What you say now explains the massing of armies and the sudden posturing that is taking place.

“I have been told not to give over to concern regarding Tunare’s army,” the ambassador continued, his tone turning ironic in its delivery. “The council believes that it will indeed march on to Neriak and leave Crushbone untouched. At the very most, we might encounter a small, perfunctory force to discourage the orcs from taking advantage of the army’s absence. That is all I’ve been told.” D’Vinn turned his attention toward Dreketh, noting her look of concern. “It would seem our situations are not dissimilar, my dear.”

“How’s that?” Dreketh asked wearily.

“We both worry about our homeland, but remain unable to do anything about it,” he replied, taking time to ponder his own words. “Or perhaps I’m the only one unable to act. It could very well be that you, as a would-be traitor, have more power to affect the outcome than any other person alive.”

“What can I do about an army?” Dreketh shrugged, her hands wide. “If what you say is true, Tunare’s followers will soon be invading the gates of Neriak, and I’ll still be chasing after this infernal prophecy.”

“Think about it a moment,” D’Vinn counseled the distraught shadow knight. “If this Cup of Ages you refer to truly contains the power of the gods, and you take possession of it in the name of Innoruuk, no force could oppose the Teir’Dal in this world. The children of Hate would immediately conquer all lands of Norrath, and I would very quickly be out of a job.”

Dreketh looked up to see the ambassador’s wry smile.

“Are you saying that the war is supposed to give me incentive to find the Chalice?” she asked quietly.

“That is one of many possibilities,” the ambassador replied. “It could be possible that things are more straightforward. Perhaps war is being waged for simple possession of the Chalice—no more, no less.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that,” Dreketh observed.

D’Vinn shook his head slowly.

“In my experience, things are never that simple,” he said. “But past all this speculation is the here and now. Speaking in the here and now, I ask you again… Why have you come to me?”

“Because I have a choice to make in this Pact,” Dreketh replied. “I need to know all I can about what is happening in Neriak so I can make sure my decision is an informed one.”

“Admirable,” D’Vinn commented. “An informed decision is always preferable to any guess, but now that you know there is an army of Teir’Dal, ogres, and trolls massing to Neriak’s defense, how does that help you? How does it affect your decisions?”

Dreketh opened her mouth to speak when D’Vinn interrupted.

“Don’t tell me, I already know,” he said, holding up his hand. “It doesn’t. It never did, and I think you’ve known that all along.”

The shadow knight closed her mouth, pondering the ambassador’s words. Allowing Dreketh several moments to consider her motives, D’Vinn repeated his question.

“Why are you here?” he whispered. “Why go through this charade, even to the extent of transforming your partner into a Teir’Dal, just to confer with me?”

Looking out the window, Dreketh pressed her lips together, trying to retain her composure before the ambassador. Her brow lowered, tears misting her eyes as she fought against the wave of emotions that swept over her, she suddenly understood why she had gone to such great lengths.

“Because…” she muttered, halting to clear her throat. “Every day I spend with the wood elf, the farther it feels I’m getting from Neriak. Not just Neriak, but the Lodge of the Dead, my father Xon Quexill, and…”

“And…?” the ambassador prompted.

Dreketh’s face turned a mild shade of violet, her pulse racing.

“And… the principles of hate.”

Ambassador D’Vinn sat watching the mortified shadow knight without comment, knowing that anything he could say at that moment would only discourage Dreketh from confiding in him further.

“At first it was easy,” she continued, her mouth dry. “The little wench was more annoying than a barbed dagger in the side. But the more time I spend with her, the more difficulty I have hating her. I still hate her race and everything it stands for,” she reassured the ambassador. “But as a person, she…”

The shadow knight’s breathing became strained as she fought to speak through clenched teeth.

“And now I see her in her territory—her home, and I can’t help burn with jealousy. No matter what I do, I can’t go home. I’m not welcome among my own people. After what happened in Neriak, I’m not sure I even want to return.” Dreketh looked down to find her hands clenched into tight fists. Startled, she released them slowly, discovering drops of blood in her palms where her fingernails had dug into the skin.

“For the first time, I feel alone,” she continued, her voice detached. “More alone than I felt as a child when my parents were killed. This time I have no guild master to take me in. No one to nurture me or look out for my best interests. The last time someone took care of me like that… it was a particular wood elf druid.”

Dreketh’s jaw clenched.

“I just… a part of me needs to know if Neriak—the Neriak I knew—is even still there. And if it is, is it worth returning to?”

D’Vinn watched as Dreketh’s features twisted into an embittered scowl. She fumed, hating the tears in her own eyes that started running down her cheeks. It was plain to see that the shadow knight hated herself as well, for sake of her feelings—feelings she couldn’t control or banish.

The ambassador spoke calmly in the muted silence.

“This wood elf you have been traveling with… this ‘Laera Nellynwae’… Do you love her?”

The shadow knight closed her eyes, trembling. The room suddenly felt very hot and uncomfortable.

“Do you love her?” D’Vinn repeated.

With the smallest of whispers, Dreketh answered the ambassador’s question with a single word.

The ages of Norrath passed endlessly as Laera stood in the hallway outside the ambassador’s chamber. The occasional patrolling centurion wandered past every five minutes or so, unnerving the wary druid. She had to constantly remind herself that, for all intents and purposes, she was no longer a wood elf standing alone among a mass of bloodthirsty orcs. What they saw was a Teir’Dal standing outside her own ambassador’s quarters, and nothing more.

In time, Laera grew accustomed to the sight of orcs, and managed to suppress her natural instinct to panic whenever they passed close by. Instead, she studiously ignored them. Such aloof behavior seemed appropriately characteristic for a dark elf, and it kept her from running from this place in sheer terror, so she figured the strategy was sound.

Groaning inwardly, Laera shook her head, berating herself for not making that determination ten minutes earler. Thinking back on her performance inside the ambassador’s room, the druid slumped with her back against the stone wall. A child would never have been fooled by that masquerade, much less a discerning Teir’Dal ambassador. She had a better chance of convincing him she was a dragon—at least there was a chance she’d get his sympathy vote on grounds of insanity, instead of simply being labeled as the naïve little wood elf she was.

If there had been a rock nearby, Laera would have kicked at it. Instead, she paced back and forth in the hallway outside the ambassador’s door. She didn’t know what she expected once Dreketh closed the door, but silence wasn’t it. Ambassador D’Vinn did not look pleased about her presence in any way, shape, or form, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him blow up at Dreketh for smuggling her onto Teir’Dal soil. She half-expected the door to swing open suddenly with the shadow knight scurrying to get out and take them both as far away from Crushbone as possible. Why that image came so clearly to mind, Laera couldn’t say, but it was so lucid, she actually became surprised when it didn’t happen.

Step, step, step. The druid’s slow, measured footfalls echoed through the windowless passage. Laera began to feel cramped in the stifling cave tunnel the orcs called a hallway. Irritably, she decided that living underground was best left to dark elves and dwarves—not wood elves. The minutes continued to pass, and Laera told herself repeatedly that at least she wasn’t surrounded on all sides by thousands of tons of mountain. Knowing this helped her claustrophobic tendencies, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever.

Step, step, step. What could they possibly be talking about inside that room? It was a minimal question: Is there an army massing in Neriak, or isn’t there? A simple yes or no ended that conversation, for crying out loud. Laera resented being left on her own for so long, stuck in a stuffy underground mineshaft with no sun, moon, or even a gnomish gadget to judge how much time had passed.

Step, step, step. This is ridiculous, she thought at last. Dreketh said she was going to be fine in there. Good enough. At seeing the sixth patrolling centurion walk past, Laera decided it was time to take the dark elf’s advice and go for a walk in the open night air.

Laera had never before seen the inside of Clan Crushbone. Acolytes were forbidden to even enter the orcish camp outside the vale, saying it was far too dangerous to risk the future of Kelethin on the chance that the orcs would choose that moment for a mass invasion. The bestial creatures were prone to such whimsy.

That was fine—no love was lost. What few orcs Laera had encountered in the forest were crude, smelly, and primitive. If their kind disappeared off the face of Norrath, she wouldn’t have lost a moment’s sleep.

Stepping out through the archway into the vale of Clan Crushbone, Laera decided she was no longer sure of that sentiment. Like Neriak, the community took the wood elf by surprise. It was one thing to see orcs armed to the teeth, running toward you with a lust for blood in its eyes. It was entirely another to see them among each other in their normal, day-to-day lifestyle.

Where Laera expected to see orcs roving about, swiping at each other like savages, she saw them going about their business like most any other culture on Norrath. Where she expected to find anarchy and barbarism, she found orcs gathered around communal fires, cooking their meals in small groups. Where she imagined would be crude tents and squalor were actual buildings where orcs lived and congregated.

Above it all, however, could be heard the constant crack of a whip off in the distance. The slave pits, Laera realized.

Any sense of complacency Laera might have felt over what she saw was quelled as she listened to the frightful sound coming from the castle grounds. She knew that every crack of that whip meant a painful blow being dealt to some poor wood elf slave with a pickaxe. Possibly it was a high elf, or perhaps even a dwarf. Orcs tended to be indiscriminate over who they enslaved for manual labor.

Laera felt her shame grow. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t do anything about it. All that mattered was that there were people no more than fifty paces away who were forced to live every day in agony and hopelessness, and there she stood without so much as a blemish.

Closing her eyes didn’t help. It only accentuated the harsh thrashings of the whip even more. Visions of some unknown and forgotten wood elf falling under the wrath of the blood-encrusted weapon swept unbidden through her mind, causing the druid to wince visibly whenever the thunderous crack filled her ears.

Laera entertained thoughts of freeing some of the slaves while she had the chance. If she freed only one of Tunare’s children, it would be well worth the risk. If only she could find one of the slavers alone in some isolated place…

“You being Mistress Dreketh?” a gruff voice spoke.

Opening her eyes, Laera glanced around. Seeing nobody at first, she looked down to find a squat orc standing before her. It seemed young—probably an adolescent—as it peered up at her questioningly.

“Uh…no,” she replied. “Drek-… Mistress Dreketh is inside with the ambassador. Can I help you?”

The orc’s brow lowered, grunting its disappointment.

“Mmm. I am runner for Neriak. Message for Mistress Dreketh,” the orc stumbled over the dark elf name, his slurred accent heavy.

“A message?” Laera asked. Her interest piqued, she held out her hand. “From whom? Can I see it?”

The orc shook his head vehemently.

“No, no! Told only give to Mistress Dreketh. Very ‘portant they told me. No!”

“Okay, okay, I understand,” the druid reassured quickly. “She shouldn’t be much longer. At least, I hope not,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Blue elf make good jumjum, eh?” the orc leered.

Scowling, Laera looked down at the creature with disdain. She wasn't sure what he meant by “jumjum,” but she was fairly sure she didn’t want to know.

“So, are you just waiting around for her, then?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Mmm,” the orc shrugged, its throat rumbling deeply. “No others to deliver to right now so hab no choice. You wait here, too? No jumjum for you, blue elf?”

“Uh, no. No jumjum.” Laera looked off in the distance uncomfortably.

“Oh,” commented the orc, apparently sympathetic to the druid’s plight. “Well, we stuck den, eh? We mebbe play Dromjen, you and me?”

Thinking it was making another crude reference, Laera cast the orc a sharp look, a rebuke poised on her lips. Instead of a leer, however, the wood elf was met with an open hand held up toward her. Two small, white objects rested in its palm.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Dromjen,” the orc insisted. “You nebber play Dromjen?”

“No,” Laera replied. “We don’t have that game in-… where I’m from.”

The orc’s eyes lit up like candles during Winter Solstice.

“Oooooh! You miss good game, blue elf! Challenge! Fun! I show you now?”

“Uh…” Laera looked around, trying to find some means of escape. Sighing, she found none. “Okay, maybe for a few minutes.”

A smile broadened the orc’s face.

“Good, we play. Me Guurg,” the orc introduced himself, his oversized hand extended.

“Laera.” The druid winced, her own hand lost in the orc’s firm grip. Had it not been for the gloves she wore, the handshake might have actually been painful.

“Laywra,” Guurg said, trying out the unfamiliar elf word.

“Close enough,” Laera assured the orc.

The game of Dromjen, she discovered, was mind-bogglingly simple. It consisted of two pieces of bone—Laera presumed that’s what they were made of, at least—fashioned into four-sided pyramids used in the same manner as typical dice. Each face held an inscription—a dagger, a sword, a club, and a skull. Both players took one die and rolled it to see who defeated the other in that round, as determined by which face the die rested on. The rules were as follows: Due to sheer size, the club always crushed the dagger. Because of its sharp edge, the sword always sliced through the club. And the quick dagger always penetrated a sword’s parry.

It seemed to be a pointless, cyclic reasoning to Laera, but she played along. When asked what the skull was for, Guurg grinned and said that it meant automatic victory for that round.

Its simplicity notwithstanding, the druid caught herself actually starting to have fun with the game. It reminded her that it was often the meaningless, minimal things in life that brought the most joy. Before long, the would-be dark elf was laughing out loud with her newfound orc runner opponent and skilled Dromjen instructor.

Through the course of their match, Guurg told Laera how orc oracles used the dice to tell the future, and how their make had been passed down from many generations of Crushbone orcs. The druid’s limbs turned slightly numb, her eyes wide when she heard the orc offhandedly mention that the dice made from the bones of fallen enemies on the battlefield were the most highly valued.

Looking down at the die resting in her gloved palm, Laera did her best to act nonchalant as she asked if any were made from elf bones. Tremors shot through her stomach when Guurg nodded proudly. She very nearly dropped the small pyramid altogether, but checked herself as the orc explained the source of those particular dice.

Their origin took her by surprise.

“Your… great-grandfather?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” Guurg confirmed with a nod. “Good hunter, him. I not ‘member him, but fodder say to keep dem safe. Been in fam’ly hand long time. Many seasons.”

Laera looked at the die she held more closely. For some odd reason, the idea of holding it no longer seemed abhorrent to her—quite the contrary.

“I’m…honored, Guurg,” she said softly.

The orc’s smile broadened, pleased that the blue elf would say so.

“You not like udder blue elfs,” he commented, shaking his own die and tossing it to the ground before him—a sword. “Dey not speaking good to me us’ally. I am tinking is ‘cuz am short.”

Laera tossed her own die—a dagger.

“Yeah, the orcs here don’t seem to care much for dark elves, either.”

“You win dat one,” Guurg said offhandedly, gesturing for Laera to make another mark on the ground. The elf’s prowess at the game was most impressive. “Donno why not like. We hab same color, see?” Guurg held his arm up, showing off his own shade of blue skin. “Why not orc and blue elfs be friends? It not make sense to me.”

Laera felt like making a similar comment about wood elves, but decided it would probably be best to keep her mouth shut as she rolled her die another time. Guurg rolled his as well, its resting face matching hers.

“Mmmm,” he commented with a grin. “Both skulls!”

Laera looked over the dice curiously.

“So we roll again?” she asked, reaching for her die.

“No!” Guurg held his hand up, blocking the druid’s reach. “Now we tally wins. See who make declare.”

Glancing down at the ground next to her, Laera counted her wins. Guurg counted each mark he had made individually, stopping once to start over after losing track of the number he was on.

“Twenty-nine,” the orc said with pride.

“Thirty-seven,” Laera replied with a smile.

Guurg was crestfallen.

“Awww,” he grumbled amiably. “You start well, Laywra Elf. But make fine good player of Dromjen.”

“So, I declare victory!” Laera folded her arms in a very domineering way she imagined was most convincingly dark-elvish.

“No, you not win yet!” the orc scolded his student. “You declare pitcher.”

“Picture?”

“Yah, you say what pitcher you tink I roll next. Den I roll and see if you winner. If you no guess right, we start over.”

The wood elf sighed. Open-ended games were never her preference in the first place, but one created by such tenacious creatures as orcs promised to stretch her patience to new lengths.

“Very well,” she said wearily. “I think you’ll roll a sword.”

“She withdraws!” Dreketh barked. Seizing Laera by the shoulder, the shadow knight pulled her to her feet. “What in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing?”

“Ach!” Guurg groaned, his head falling into his hand. “I roll da sword. You beginner lucky, Laywra Elf!”

Dreketh glanced sharply at the downcast orc sitting on the ground.

“What have you done?” she said, looking back to her companion, her eyes filled with rage.

“I got bored,” Laera retorted. “You didn’t say you’d take forever in there…”

“Good jumjum?” Guurg asked hopefully.

“Go away!” Dreketh shouted at the orc. Her attention returned to the druid. “Do you have any idea what the stakes of that game are?”

“Stakes?” Laera asked confusedly.

“Yes, stakes!” shouted the aggravated dark elf. “Orcs never play anything unless there’s something to gain. What is it?”

“We… never discussed stakes,” the wood elf replied, uncertain.

“Standard Dromjen stakes,” Guurg stated.

Dreketh groaned, covering her eyes. Turning to squat before the orc, the shadow knight spoke with deliberate calm.

“Listen to me carefully, orc. Your rules do not apply to Teir’Dal. That goes for your games as well as life in general. Is that clear?”

“One ting clear,” the org stood his ground. “It clear dat Laywra Elf win at Dromjen and dat not change no matter how many fancy words you say!” Guurg pressed his lips together stubbornly. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out an ornate scroll case of dark elf design, and planted it in Dreketh’s hand. “You Mistress Dreketh, so dat for you,” he declared, folding his arms.

The dark elf looked as if she were just handed a dead rat.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“Dat from blue elf city,” the orc replied flatly. “Say give to Mistress Dreketh to be found in visit to great Crushbone Empire. I runner, so I come find you.”

Dreketh stared blankly at the orc’s muddled explanation.

“From Neriak?”

“What I just say?” Guurg shrugged impatiently. “Mebbe blue elf ears not as good as blue elf eyes? I say dat from blue elf city, so is from blue elf city!”

Ignoring the orc’s commentary, Dreketh unsealed the scroll case. As she tilted it, a rolled-up parchment fell lightly into her hand.

“It’s from Neriak?” Laera asked softly. “How could that be? Who is it from—that priest of yours?” She tried looking over the shadow knight’s shoulder, but gave up upon finding the script written in the Teir’Dal language.

“No…” Dreketh said, her eyes wide as she read the spidery words. “No, it’s from my father. Innoruuk’s bane almighty…” The shadow knight’s whispered curse faded as her eyes ran voraciously across the page.

“What is it? What does it say?” The wood elf could scarcely contain her curiosity.

“It’s…” Dreketh spoke distractedly, pausing to read further until she finished. “N’Threk is dead.”

“The priest?” Laera asked.

Dreketh nodded silently.

The druid bowed her head, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Hearing no comment from her companion, she continued. “What does this mean for us? How does this affect the Pact?”

“A lot,” Dreketh replied sullenly. “It affects it a lot. A new custodian has been chosen to replace Kella N’Threk, and I have been given new instructions.”

Starting over, Dreketh began to read the message aloud, translating for the wood elf’s benefit.

“Dearest…” the shadow knight paused, swallowing. “Dearest daughter, and esteemed Advocate of Innoruuk in the Pact of Zeranon. I send my fondest greetings and extend to you my hopes that things are progressing well with your mission…

…Much has taken place in Neriak, requiring me to make contact and inform you of the events that have transpired in your absence. To begin, I must tell you that Kella N’Threk, honored priest of Innoruuk and custodian of the Pact of Zeranon, has fallen victim to his illness, and entered into the realms beyond. May he rest in deference of the Father, beyond life and forever, amen and amen.

Whatever mixed emotions we might feel at this man’s passing must be placed aside for now, I’m afraid. Though a true and devout priest of Innoruuk, I fear the dubious actions of Kella N’Threk have proven a disservice to the Pact, its prophecy, and to the Teir’Dal race—yourself most of all.

Because of this, I have appealed to the conclave with evidence of N’Threk’s doings. In an effort to make reparations, and to undo what damage has already been made, it was decided that I should now serve as custodian of the Pact in his stead.

Things progress slowly, however. Even beyond death, Innoruuk’s priest vexes me at nearly every turn I take in discovering his designs. Already I have thwarted a number of his itineraries, but N’Threk was no fool. He covered his tracks with a skill that I fear rivals my own abilities to divine.

Be that as it may, I have finally discovered the most crucial piece of information kept hidden by the infirm priest. I now know the location of what it is you seek, and therefore must put forth my first custodial order to you now.

Dreketh, Advocate of Innoruuk, I hereby recall you to Antonica immediately. As custodian of the Pact, I am unable to rescind a mandate of banishment set forth by a priest of Innoruuk, so I expect to meet you and your companion in neutral territory at Highpass Hold. Any quarrel you may have with the local authority will be nullified in my company.

Be wary, my daughter. The stench of war mounts by the day, and tensions are high among our people and the humans to the southeast. However, I trust well your skills and prowess in evading their notice. I would also remind you it is of grave importance that you strive to protect Tunare’s advocate from harm as well. With each passing night, you both tread on increasingly dangerous ground as those who seek to thwart the Pact of Zeranon conspire for your deaths.

One final word. As custodian of the Pact, and as your father by proxy, I have heard tell of your progress in the untamed world. No matter the proclamations made of our people, it is my will that you understand and never remiss the fact that you are every inch a true daughter of Innoruuk, Dreketh. Please know that…

Dreketh’s voice caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowing, she spoke in a strangled whisper.

“Please know… that I look upon you with pride. I always shall, come what may as warranted by the Pact and the destiny it holds for you. Yours in life, the Father’s in death, Xon Quexill – Guild Master of Necromancy, Lodge of the Dead, Neriak.”

Laera stood silently, allowing her companion several moments to retain herself before reaching out a tentative hand. Memories of what took place on board the Golden Maiden flashed in her mind, as she recalled the last time she made this gesture. Dreketh had brutally rebuffed the wood elf’s attempt to comfort her.

This time, Laera’s hand made firm contact with the shadow knight’s armored shoulder, allowing the druid to consign a portion of her own strength to her companion. This, she realized, was the proper thing for one Teir’Dal to do for another. Where comfort was for the weak, the lending of strength was a dark elf’s true charity.

“Your father seems a keen man… for a dark elf,” she added glibly.

A brief smile crossed Dreketh’s face.

“He is a keen man. I’m proud to have been raised as his daughter.”

“Not, I think, as much as he is proud to be your father,” Laera said matter-of-factly, letting her hand fall.

Her face thoughtful, Dreketh glanced over the letter one more time.

“In any case, it looks like our hides might have just been pulled out of the fire,” the wood elf commented.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Dreketh muttered. “Xon doesn’t mention anything specific, but I can tell he’s concerned about the things Kella N’Threk has done. One thing is certain, I’ll be happier once we’re under his protection.”

Laera noted the moon’s position in the sky. The hour was well past midnight.

“I guess you want to start heading out tonight,” she said resignedly.

Dreketh rolled up the parchment, sliding it back into its case.

“I would,” she said. “But you need rest. We both do.”

“I can make it to the edge of the Faydark tonight, if you can,” the wood elf said. Though Laera made a grand show of how prepared she was to start their journey right away, the fatigue in her eyes belied her words.

“We’ll catch a few hours’ sleep before dawn,” Dreketh replied. “There’s a spot where dark elves typically stay the night just past the orc village. Then we’ll head out. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Laera said, yawning. She hadn’t felt it so much before, but now all the talk of sleep was making the wood elf realize how long it had been since she caught more than a few winks. Nodding, she began to head toward the village when Dreketh’s voice stopped her.

“Don’t forget your little friend,” she said.

Unsure what the dark elf meant, Laera looked down to see Guurg idly tossing his Dromjen dice around on the ground near her feet.

“Oh, Guurg,” she said, getting the orc runner’s attention. “Thank you for the game. I enjoyed playing it with you.”

“Mmmm,” the orc replied. “You play some good Dromjen, Laywra Elf. We play again?”

“Uh, no thanks. Mistress Dreketh and I are tired and need to go get some sleep,” she begged.

“Ahhhh, gotcha.” Guurg tossed the two dice into a pouch, pulling it closed with a quick jerk of the drawstring. “Laywra Elf say tired, I go ahead and make ready. Make good rest place for blue elfs. You see! Guurg do good job of it!” Running with a speed rarely seen on Norrath, the orc runner sped off toward the village, leaving no time for the confused wood elf to say anything.

Watching Guurg disappear into the distance, she turned to Dreketh instead.

“What… what was that all about?”

“Congratulations,” the shadow knight replied. Folding her arms, she started to saunter slowly after the orc. “You’re officially the first wood elf ever to win a personal orc slave for a week.”

Chapter 22 - Last Goodbye