Journey to Highpass Hold – Highkeep – Final Day

I had a real scare today. This afternoon while traveling through Kithicor, we were set upon a second time by Kieran Shadowseek. From listening to Dreketh and her father talk, I gather that somehow the lich breached the threshold barring the Plane of Hate and allowed legions of undead to escape into the woods in broad daylight.

As usual, I was all but useless until Dreketh managed to bring me to my senses, and told me to run for help. It figures, doesn’t it? Here I am, sworn to protect her with my life, and the best thing I can do is turn my back and get someone who can actually make a difference.

As you might have guessed, her father showed up to save the day after pulling my sorry skin out of another fire. Thanks to him, Dreketh and I are now safe.

But at a terrible cost.

Ranin Treestalker, the ranger who has been many times our savior in our journey, died today while defending Dreketh from the lich’s horde. Whatever failings he had as a person, he was a true protector who saved us both on numerous occasions. I get the feeling he saved us more times than we know or were even aware of. I don’t know that I can call him my friend, exactly. But I do owe him my life. I hope one day I will be able to repay his sacrifice and serve others so selflessly as he did.

His loss has left me barren in many ways. Even in death, he refused to tell me why he did what he did. “I did it for love,” was one of the last things he said to me, claiming that some day I’ll understand what he meant by that.

Which brings me to the real reason for this entry. Today heralds the last day Dreketh and I will spend alone together in Norrath. From now on, her father will take on an active role in protecting us from all harm, which means the liberties we enjoyed in our journeys are about to come to an end. It sounds crazy (I can’t believe I’m even writing this), but I’m going to miss those days of traveling with Dreketh. I was scared out of my mind half of the time, and revolted at what I saw the other half. Traipsing across Norrath without money or even a full square meal that isn’t foraged of nature is a pastime I wouldn’t recommend for most sane people, but it was by far the best thing I think could ever happen to me at this point in my life.

In the days we spent together, I have come to learn so much—not only about Dreketh, but also about life in general. I just felt like writing them down on paper so I’ll never forget.

Over the past months, Dreketh has taught me that direct problems require direct solutions, and that trying to solve such problems with finesse is usually fruitless. She has taught me that first impressions, while lasting, are not always the best impressions to keep. She taught me that prejudice is ugly on both sides of the coin. She taught me that anyone could be capable of far more than reasonable expectations—even for themselves. All it takes is someone who believes in you, or even a skeptic who disbelieves.

Lastly, she taught me fear. Not the obvious fear of pain or death. I mean a whole different kind of fear. I’m not sure I can properly put this fear into words that could do it justice, or that I should even try. All I know is that when I found Dreketh lying on the edge of death in the Tunnel of Ro, something hit me more deeply than anything else in this world. The thought of what she suffered because of me, and that she might die because of it was more frightening than all the undead in existence. For some reason, the Pact no longer meant anything to me. Just making sure she lived was all that mattered—Tunare and the Chalice be damned.

I would have gladly died myself if it meant her survival. I’ve never been able to say that about anyone and know it to be the absolute truth. I’ve never felt so close to someone that I could honestly say I would lay down my life for them until now. I don’t know how or why, but after everything we’ve been through together, I’ve come to care more about Dreketh than anyone else. A dark elf—a shadow knight of Innoruuk—is my most trusted friend and comrade.

It is said by Erollisi Marr that only through the precepts of love will the Cup of Ages be unsealed. Widdlethorp claims it to be a matter of implicit trust, but I think he’s wrong. Sitting here on my bed in Highkeep writing this, and from the stirrings I’ve felt within me lately, I think I can say that it goes beyond trust or simple friendship. It’s something more by far.

Tunare forgive me.

The door to the elegant room closed quietly behind the dark elf as she entered carrying a washbasin nestled in her arms. Her bare feet swept silently across the padded carpeting to set the container carefully on the nightstand next to her bed. Removing the white towel from over her shoulder, she wiped her hands of a little water that had spilled, while she glanced up to her companion across the room.

Laera rested on her richly adorned bed, sitting upright against the backboard. One leg was sprawled on the bedspread before her, while the other bent to support a small, leather-bound book in which she wrote.

Not a sound could be heard in the luxurious suite high atop the fortress of Highkeep. The deep red and violet motif covered the floors with thick carpeting and heavy draperies concealing every square inch of wall space. Past a small sitting room lay a balcony offering a breathtaking view of the Highpass Mountains overlooking the courtyard several hundred feet below. The room was quite literally fit for kings, as was its original intent, and Xon Quexill had demanded nothing less for the advocates of the Pact during their stay.

Dreketh was duly impressed with the décor. Laera thought the color scheme depressing.

“You still writing in that book?” asked the shadow knight, tossing the towel down next to the washbasin.

“Mmm hmm,” Laera replied distractedly.

Crossing her arms, Dreketh lifted her cloth tunic up off over her head. With both thumbs, she adjusted the straps on her red and black halter-top, sparing several moments to stare hesitantly at her companion.

“Can I read it?” she asked in a quiet, deliberately nonchalant voice.

A small grin graced Laera’s features, her eyes still fixed to the pages.

“I…don’t think you’d appreciate everything I had to say in it over the last few months,” she replied.

“Probably not,” Dreketh grudgingly agreed, sitting at the edge of her own bed, her back toward the wood elf. Small droplets of water splashed in the basin as she wet the towel, and brought it up to her face to wash the grime away. “You’re making me wish I’d thought to keep a log. If nothing else, I’d have something to show you in return.”

Laera closed her book.

“My headmistress pressured me into it. She said it would prove valuable to my mission.”

“Has it?” The dark elf smiled crookedly, an amused cynicism coloring her voice.

“So far it’s only proven valuable in showing how ignorant I can be sometimes.” Laera sighed, squeezing the book so the pages flipped beneath her thumb. “I look at some of these pages, and I can’t believe I wrote them only a few weeks ago.”

Casting the wood elf a brief glance, Dreketh reached up to wash her shoulders clean.

Laera resignedly tossed the book onto her nightstand and hugged herself with a small shiver as she sat.

“How was your reunion with your father?” she asked curiously. “I imagine he’s happy to see you safe.”

“You’d think so,” the dark elf replied coolly, continuing her work.

Laera gave her companion an inquisitive look.

“Oh? Didn’t it go well?”

Washing her arms, Dreketh’s brow furrowed as she searched for words.

“That’s the problem, everything went fine. It was all a little too fine, in a way.”

“Tunare strike me down if that makes any sense,” Laera shrugged offhandedly.

Dreketh rinsed the washcloth, ringing it out tightly as she spoke.

“I don’t know. Somehow it all seemed so… contrived, I suppose. It was like Xon was deliberately going out of his way to be happy to see me. I’ve known him for many years, and I’ve never seen anything but sincerity reflected in his eyes. Be it pleasure or disappointment, I could always tell where I stood with him. Today was the first time I’ve ever glimpsed any sign of pretense when he looked at me.”

“Well…” Laera appeared thoughtful. “You told me dark elves aren’t prone to open displays of affection. Maybe he was behaving in the best way he could with all these humans in the keep?”

“No, you don’t know him like I do.” Dreketh shook her head, trying in vain to reach the washcloth over her shoulder to clean her back. “I’ve had him give me his approval in the public eye before, and this is different. Very different. I can’t think of what it could be, unless somehow I’ve failed him in some way that he doesn’t want to-”

Unexpectedly, the druid’s hands grabbed hold of the washcloth from behind. With the same care and attention with which she cleaned the dark elf’s wounds in the Commonlands, Laera began to wipe away the cold cinders and sweat from her companion’s blue-skinned back as she sat down cross-legged behind her.

“Maybe it’s me,” the druid said softly.

“What do you mean?” Dreketh muttered sullenly. “You weren’t even in earshot.”

“I mean, maybe it’s you and me,” Laera explained, squeezing the washcloth so tiny rivers of water ran down the dark elf’s back. “When you last saw your father, would you have even considered letting me do something like this for you?”

Dreketh half-turned at the druid’s words.

“But…that doesn’t make any sense. I was all but ordered to stay with you and gain your trust. He knows that. Why should that make such a difference?”

“It seemed to make quite a difference to Kella N’Threk,” Laera said, shrugging. “He gave you those orders, and he’s the one who had you banished from Neriak for being an 'elf lover.'”

Bewildered, Dreketh turned her back once more, pondering the wood elf’s point.

“Let’s face it,” Laera said, resuming her work. “We’ve both changed. A lot. I doubt my own headmistress would even recognize me as one of her own students if she saw me like this right now. I know she would never approve of half the things I’ve done. There’s that, and…” She hesitated.

“And…?”

“Well,” the wood elf continued, “I saw the look on your father’s face when I healed you.”

A quiver went through Dreketh’s stomach. At the time, she had been too involved in dealing with the pain of her injuries to take notice. But thinking about it, it would certainly have affected Xon to see his daughter being healed by one of Tunare’s followers. The wood elf was right. Things really had changed—far more drastically than the shadow knight was prepared to admit.

Thinking back to her conversation with her father, Dreketh remembered something else she saw in his face. It was another look she had never seen in him before—an odd sort of melancholy that she at first mistook for fatigue. At the time, she dismissed the expression in favor of more important issues she needed to discuss with him, given the short amount of time they’d had for their reunion. In the end, Xon insisted that she and Laera retire to their suite for the evening, saying he had an imperative matter to attend to before the day was out.

Considering the matter now, it all made sense to the dark elf. Dreketh shook her head slowly.

“If we’ve changed so much, then why is it I still get nauseated whenever you’re right, wood elf?” she asked caustically.

Laera smiled.

“It’s a gift.” Reaching around to rinse the washcloth in the basin, the back of the druid’s hand brushed against Dreketh’s upper arm.

“Innoruuk’s bane!” the dark elf swore. “You’re freezing cold!”

“It’s just the water,” Laera answered glibly. “And being in this chilly place high in the mountains doesn’t help much, either.”

“Troll scat, it’s not that cold in here,” Dreketh declared. Turning to face her companion squarely, the dark elf took hold of the druid’s hand that held the washcloth. Her expression darkening still, she squeezed the toes on each of Laera’s feet in the palms of her hands. “You didn’t tell me the cold remained after the lich was banished,” she said accusingly.

“It didn’t,” Laera shrugged. “It left soon after I ran to get help. It seemed the farther away I got from the lich, the more it went away.”

“Your own body temperature masked it when your heart started beating faster,” the dark elf explained, pressing two fingers against the wood elf’s neck. “Now that you’re calming down and starting to rest, it’s returning.”

“What…what does this mean?” Laera asked, uneasy at her companion’s words. “That the lich isn’t really defeated? That he’s still out there somewhere after me?”

“No…” Dreketh paused a moment, mentally gauging the wood elf’s steady, relaxed heartbeat. “No, my father assured me the lich was forever gone from Norrath.”

“Then what is it?”

The dark elf’s hand fell to rest limply on the bed, her expression haunted.

“It means it isn’t the lich who is observing you,” she whispered, realizing the truth. “It never was.”

“You mean someone else is after me?” Laera’s disbelief was palpable in her voice. “Another necromancer?”

Dreketh nodded slowly, her eyes distracted in thought.

“Well, who?” the wood elf pressed. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” Dreketh said, shaking her head. “I don’t even know if there’s a way of finding out. Such spells in necromancy require the skill of a master—maybe even an archmaster of the dead. My father would be able to tell us more.”

“Well, get him up here! Hurry!” Laera insisted, the anxiety rising in her voice as she felt herself starting to shiver. Whether it was from the chills or her own fright, she couldn’t tell.

“Relax, calm down.” The shadow knight placed a comforting hand on her companion’s arm. “He won’t be able to do anything about it until morning anyway, after he’s well rested. Defeating the lich took a great deal of strength, and he hasn’t slept since leaving Neriak two days ago.”

The wood elf looked dubious, suppressing the urge to argue.

“The chill itself isn’t dangerous,” Dreketh reassured, sensing the druid’s qualms. “It serves as a warning—that’s all. It will only get a little worse as you fall asleep, when your heart beats slower.”

Laera’s green eyes held her gaze, the wood elf’s head nodding in a barely visible shudder. Dreketh opened her mouth to say more, but stopped at seeing the druid’s pleading expression. Closing her mouth, she released a small sigh through her nose.

“Please?” Laera whispered.

Dreketh cast a scathing look at the door to the suite, as if blaming it.

“Okay, we’ll go talk to Xon, but that’s all. If he says everything will be fine until morning, will that be enough for you?”

“Okay,” the wood elf agreed with a modest smile.

“Okay, here…” Dreketh snatched up a plush blanket resting at the foot of her bed. Unfolding it, she wrapped the thick fabric around Laera like a makeshift cloak. “This will help retain your body heat. That should ease the cold a little, at least for now.”

“Thanks.” Laera grabbed hold of the blanket, clasping it tightly around her neck.

“Right,” the shadow knight nodded. Reaching out, she took hold of the wood elf’s arm through the blanket, helping her to stand. “Let’s get this over with. With any luck, Xon won’t be asleep yet.”

The two young companions stole their way down the hall, their feet making less noise than assassin’s leather against the sleek marble floor. Laera balked at the touch of the cold stone against her bare feet, but decided not to press patters with Dreketh. Her small victory was hard-won, and she didn’t want to risk the dark elf changing her mind about this midnight jaunt to see her father.

Instead, the wood elf wrapped the blanket around herself more tightly, hoping that soon she would be able to feel a difference in temperature as Dreketh promised. As it was now, she didn’t feel any warmer than before, but at least she wasn’t getting any colder beyond her feet. Laera marveled at how the dark elf was clad only in her scant halter-top and bottoms that she typically wore beneath her armor. The climate seemed far too cold, but she reminded herself that the air inside the keep wasn’t truly as chill as it felt to her.

Approaching what Laera presumed was Xon Quexill’s room, Dreketh knocked slowly on the wooden door.

“Master Xon? Are you awake?” she called in a muted voice. When no answer came from within, she knocked again, her voice going somewhat louder. “Father? Forgive me, master, but this is important…”

Still no answer.

The sound of footfalls approached from down the hall—the familiar sound of a guard walking his patrol through the keep. As the tall human rounded the corner, he saw the two young women lingering outside the chambers of Neriak’s visiting dignitary, and approached.

“You two lost?” he asked from within his surrounding helm.

“These are my father’s quarters,” Dreketh explained.

“And who would your father be?” the guard challenged.

“Xon Quexill, master necromancer from Neriak,” the dark elf replied, folding her arms in annoyance at having her word questioned by this human.

The guard looked briefly to Laera, then back to Dreketh.

“The Teir’Dal is currently in conference.”

“Do you know where?” Dreketh asked.

“Down the stairs and to the right, in the Summit Room,” the man said, tossing his head casually back down the hallway. “But that won’t do you any good. It’s a closed session. No partisans allowed inside.”

The shadow knight looked to her companion, silently asking if Laera knew about any of this. The druid shook her head, shrugging slightly.

“Do you know what the conference is about?” Dreketh asked the guard. “Who’s attending?”

“Do I look like the chamberlain?” the man replied irritably. “The only reason I know he’s there is because his room’s on my beat, and it’s my job to pay attention.” The guard resumed his patrol, muttering under his breath about demanding inkies.

“He’s holding a meeting?” Dreketh asked of no one in particular.

“Do you think it’s about the Pact?” Laera added her own question.

“Xon is custodian of the Pact now,” the dark elf replied. “I can’t imagine what else it could be about.”

“Then why weren’t we invited?” The druid’s demeanor turned sour.

“I don’t know.” Dreketh pondered, idly rubbing the back of her neck. “This is something I’d expect from Kella N’Threk, but my father?” The shadow knight shook her head.

“Maybe it’s something else,” Laera suggested. “Maybe he’s settling matters with our stay here at the keep?”

“In a closed session?” Dreketh replied skeptically. “No, this has something to do with the Pact. He wouldn’t instruct us to travel all this way to meet him just because of some trivial business he had.”

Laera looked warily down the hall in the direction the guard had indicated.

“Then what is it?”

“Let’s find out.” Dreketh started down the hall, her jaw set.

“How?” persisted the wood elf. “The guards aren’t going to let us just breeze into a closed session with a Neriak diplomat and the-gods-know-what-else.”

“Then we’ll have to-…” Dreketh stopped dead in her tracks. Her stunned features slowly melted as a winning smile crept across her face. “Of course!” she said, lifting a small fist to press against her own forehead.

“What? What is it?”

“Come on. Hurry.” The shadow knight continued her walking, her step nearly double what it was before. “My father does want us in that session, but for some reason can’t have us there in any official capacity.”

“How do you know?” Laera asked peevishly as the two climbed the cold, stone stairs leading to the luxury suites.

“I know because he slipped me a few hundred platinum as we spoke,” Dreketh explained. “He said it was to cover any ‘unforeseen expenses.’ I had no idea what he meant until now.”

“What did he mean?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see this before,” Dreketh berated herself, opening the door to their quarters. “There were too many people and guards hovering around for him to tell me what he really wanted to say…”

“So, what did he want to say! Tunare’s mercy, I hate it when you do this!” the wood elf growled at her cryptic companion.

The shadow knight stopped midway as she entered their room to turn and whisper at her frustrated companion.

“We’re supposed to bribe the guards.”

“…would be within this issue over and over.” The words of Xon Quexill echoed through the Summit Room, heard clearly by all save for two pairs of pointed ears high above as they crept their way among the empty seats on the balcony. “The Prophecy of Zeranon spoken by the mouth of Erollisi Marr is upon us, and will be ignored at the peril of those who turn a blind eye.”

“Bold words for a follower of Innoruuk!” another voice erupted from below. “Since when does a Teir’Dal necromancer pay heed to the words of the Queen of Love, or any other god besides his conceited Prince of Hate?”

“Can you see anything?” Dreketh whispered, crawling along the stone floor.

Laera shook her head from within the folds of the blanket. Jutting her chin forward, she silently suggested they inch closer to the railing.

“It is at the behest of Innoruuk that I am compelled to pay heed for the good of all Neriak and its citizens,” Xon Quexill answered grandly. “Truth is truth, regardless of its source. Adherence to the truth is the opiate of the wise. Ignorance of the truth is the downfall of fools!”

“Oh, the absurdity at hearing the voice of deception speak of truth!” the other voice returned amidst the collective muttering of those assembled. “What now? Are the Teir’Dal to embrace the principles of Mithaniel Marr as well? What else would you have us believe, necromancer?”

“I still can’t see anything,” the shadow knight muttered through clenched teeth.

“I see your father,” Laera replied, craning her neck cautiously. “There’s a human standing next to him in a uniform, but he’s not the one arguing with him.”

“Any other Teir’Dal?” Dreketh tried to see from the wood elf’s angle.

“Not that I can see.” The shivering druid risked a closer look.

“Belief is of no importance,” Xon Quexill replied, his voice calm and ominous as he addressed the unseen dissenter. “Only actions hold any relevance…or consequence. Are there any present who deny the profound consequence the Pact holds for both our nations?” The necromancer’s gaze scanned the room sternly, challenging even one person to dispute his words.

None did. The room remained deathly silent as Xon Quexill slowly resumed his normal stance.

The uniformed man cleared his throat softly, breaking the tension.

“Pursuant to the petition of Xon Quexill of Neriak, the chair recognizes Yeolarn Bronzeleaf, High Priest of Tunare representing the high elf city-state of Felwithe.”

The human extended a hand below the view of the balcony where the assemblage sat. From behind the bottom edge of the railing emerged a light-haired, pale-skinned figure of a high elf dressed in gleaming silver armor.

Laera gasped at the sight of the high elf, the shadow knight’s hand quickly covering the druid’s mouth to silence her.

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf turned to address the hidden assembly.

“Dutifully wise,” he said, his voice filled with strength. “I come to this place not by the summoning of a Teir’Dal, but in adherence to the calling of my own common sense. In a short time, war will be unleashed between our peoples…”

Dreketh raised an eyebrow at the now silent wood elf, warning her to be mindful. Laera nodded slowly, and the dark elf’s hand was removed. Together, the two companions crawled behind the railing surrounding the balcony’s edge to gain a better angle.

“…the cause of which can no longer be denied within the walls of this chamber. The Pact of Zeranon and possession of his Chalice, the Cup of Ages.”

The assembly stirred. Voices muttered amongst themselves at hearing the truth being spoken openly when such things had until then only been spoken in whispers. Having gained a better view of the floor, the young elves witnessed an audience comprised of elves—a collection of dark elves seated to one side with a collection of high elves and several wood elves seated to the other.

The human spoke to regain order.

“Is it then to be assumed that King Tearis Thex of Felwithe is willing to negotiate a peace treaty that will dissolve both armies for the good of the lands of Norrath?”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf turned to address the speaker.

“I have come to Highkeep to speak on behalf of the king by voicing it thusly…” He spared a moment to turn a critical eye toward the master necromancer. “There will be no dissolution of Tunare’s army!”

Bedlam broke out in the Summit Room as dark elves stood to voice their dissent, shouting cries accusing the forces of light of perpetrating genocide upon the Teir’Dal. The high elves and wood elves responded in kind, blaming Neriak for posturing first by forming a secret alliance with the Crushbone orcs in Faydwer.

Through the noise and confusion, Dreketh glanced at her father. Xon Quexill’s reaction was surprisingly mild. The master necromancer merely stood there motionless, a knowing grin twisting his lips slightly as if sharing a private joke with himself. With chaos filling the room, she doubted anyone but she saw it amidst all the distraction.

The uniformed human shouted over the clamor, demanding order. His insistence was lost on the irrepressible crowd of elves all shouting at once. It appeared as though the negotiations were about to break into outright hostility until Xon Quexill’s commanding voice rang out over the ruckus.

“Dissolution is not the purpose for which I have petitioned you all here!” he declared.

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf folded his armored arms, casting the dark elf a glowering look as he listened.

“On the contrary, the massing of armies and the threat of violence serve ideally to conceal the true nature of what I am about to propose.”

Several dissenting voices rose from behind Tunare’s high priest until he raised a hand, demanding silence from his entourage. Together, high elf and dark elf matched each other’s gaze.

“Make your point.” Yeolarn Bronzeleaf spoke with equanimity, his hand still raised.

The necromancer’s hands disappeared into the sleeves of his crimson robes as he paced the floor.

“The massing of armies to sequester possession of Zeranon’s Chalice is a pointless endeavor, for only the forces of Hate know its whereabouts. Once the Chalice’s location is revealed to your advocate, the amassed army of light will set sail across the Ocean of Tears and march on Neriak, is that not so?”

The high elf’s hand lowered slowly. His eyes followed the Teir’Dal’s every move, but offered no answer.

“Both factions know the futility of waging war for the possession of the Chalice,” Quexill continued. “An army tens of thousands strong could never traverse enough landscape to arrive before the Teir’Dal have staked our claim. Contest?”

All eyes turned to Yeolarn Bronzeleaf’s iron features.

“No contest,” the high priest admitted, his bearing cautious.

The assemblage stirred.

The necromancer nodded.

“This being so,” he held up one finger, reminding Dreketh strongly of the gesture Xavier used when lecturing a classroom filled with students, “the army of light has but one and only one solution left to them, and a singular reason for massing to begin with… Destruction of the Teir’Dal and the city of Neriak before the Prince of Hate is able to take possession of the Chalice.”

Whispered mutterings erupted from the dark elves assembled while Yeolarn Bronzeleaf continued to watch the necromancer with silent wariness, his expression betraying neither confirmation nor denial.

Xon Quexill spread his arms wide.

“Only a fool will dispute the ability of Tunare’s massing army in achieving this goal,” the necromancer admitted, his hateful grin twisted with irony. “Even with the assistance of our ogre allies of Oggok and the trolls of Grobb anchoring our forces, the fate of Neriak is spelled as doom in Teir’Dal blood.”

More whispered voices came from those assembled in the Summit Room. Even the human guards standing watch at the entrance turned to look at one another. For a diplomat to make such an open statement was brazen—even reckless—in the face of an enemy during negotiations. Xon Quexill had as much as admitted defeat before the high priest of Tunare for all to hear.

“Nevertheless, Innoruuk will still be in possession of Zeranon’s prize,” the necromancer qualified his words. “My predecessor, Kella N’Threk, has seen to that. Though Tunare’s victory may be gained on Norrath, the war of conquest in the higher planes will be a definitive one. With the Cup of Ages in His divine hands, Innoruuk will trounce your goddess and all other deities who stand against Him.”

“Dear goddess,” Laera whispered, drawing the blanket around herself tightly. Dreketh turned a melancholy glance to the dismayed druid briefly, her attention going once again to the floor below as her father resumed his address.

“I have called you here to offer an alternative for our peoples, our gods, and for all of Norrath,” he said quietly.

“Why?” asked Yeolarn Bronzeleaf, his voice even and undisturbed by the necromancer’s grand statement.

Xon Quexill returned the high priest’s stare with equal calm.

“Because our Father is a selfish and fickle parent,” he said. “In His ambitions, He would forsake His children and all who answer His call to their fate for the chance at gaining ascendancy over all other gods. I do not wish to see my people defeated and scattered to the winds by the army of your goddess. I do not wish to see our home crushed under Her heel a glimpse before she Herself falls to the same fate. In short, the idea of the Prince of Hate obtaining the Cup of Ages is as terrifying to me as it is to you.

“Regardless of what happens now, our two peoples are forever doomed, should the gods have their way.” Xon Quexill spread his arms wide, the folds of his robes falling about his arms to drape loosely in the still air.

The high priest of Tunare stood motionless, still offering no hint of his inner thoughts as he listened. The assemblage remained so silent, the two hidden companions feared the beating of their own hearts would give away their presence.

“I have called you here to offer another option,” the necromancer said, appealing to Tunare’s priest. “An option of possible victory for your people… or perhaps mine. Either way, it will bring us from the brink of mutually assured destruction with which the Pact of Zeranon presents us.”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf folded his arms once again, his marble features remaining cold and expressionless.

“And what alternative solution do you present for our consideration, necromancer of Innoruuk?” The high elf’s eyebrow rose, indicating that he still had not forgotten that subtle fact.

“I submit to you, the prophecy of Erollisi Marr, Queen of Love. I present to you its true meaning, and why I believe neither of our gods are destined to possess the Cup of Ages.” Xon Quexill’s eyes darted among those assembled, taking note of the quizzical looks that marked many faces around him. Advancing toward the high priest standing nearby, the necromancer raised an inviting hand. “If you would indulge me, high elf, and quote the prophecy as stated by the lips of the goddess?”

The high elf’s eyes narrowed briefly before he spoke.

“The tears of the slayer upon the brow of the slain shall herald the unsealing of the Cup of Ages…”

“Tears of the slayer!” Quexill interrupted. “…upon the brow of the slain… Not, I think, an indication of war between blood enemies. Not, I think, an indulgence either of our races would choose to practice if the other were wiped from the face of Norrath.” Having made his point, the necromancer made another gesture, inviting the high priest to continue.

“Sundered light and shadow will be cast upon mortal soil, wielded in the hand of innocence…”

“Mortal soil!” Quexill interrupted again. “Not soil of the heavens! Sundered light and shadow wielded in the hand of innocence. Not by the hand of any god.”

“And the whispered convergence of power will reign unleashed upon all lands of Norrath by privilege of its keeper.”

Once again, all eyes turned to the custodian of the Pact. Xon Quexill’s hands disappeared in the sleeves of his robes as he returned to his pacing.

“Sundered light and shadow. Whispered convergence of power,” the necromancer mused, his step growing slower. When he spoke, his voice remained muted and ominous. “I submit to you, priest of Tunare, honored delegates…that the cup of ages still holds the blood of the defeated gods.”

A collective gasp spread across the room.

“Furthermore,” Quexill continued speaking slowly and concisely, “I submit to you that the power of those defeated gods—the whispered convergence of power from sundered light and shadow—is to be wielded by the hand of one of the advocates.”

Another gasp escaped the mouths of the assemblage—some proclaiming their revelation, others marked in skepticism, and still others in pure disbelief. Ignoring the voices of his delegates, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf stood motionless, returning the necromancer’s gaze as both high elf and dark elf waited for the tumult to dissipate.

The high priest opened his mouth to ask his question.

“Which advocate?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Simple,” Xon Quexill shrugged, bowing slightly from the waist. “The one who survives to shed her tears upon the brow of the other.”

More voices erupted from below, and Dreketh’s vision dimmed at hearing her father’s words.

“I can’t believe this. This is impossible, I-” the shadow knight muttered, stopping to look at her companion.

Laera had retreated into the folds of her blanket, shivering uncontrollably from her chill.

“No…no, it can’t be,” she whispered tremulously. Looking up from within her makeshift cowl, the wood elf spoke to Dreketh directly. “I won’t fight you, Dreketh. I won’t! Even if I did, I could never kill you, and that…that can only mean…”

Reaching over, the dark elf tried to calm the dismayed druid.

“Come on,” she said. Taking hold of Laera’s arm gently, she guided them both toward the nearest exit. “Let’s get you back to the room. I’ve heard all I care to hear.”

“We have to leave, Dreketh!” Laera insisted for the fifth time since leaving the Summit Room. The trembling wood elf remained adamant about them turning their backs on the Pact, and escaping while their respective superiors were in conference.

Dreketh stopped before the door to their room.

“Keep it down,” she warned under her breath, looking down the hall both ways to see if there were any guards about. “We can’t just leave. Xon’s the custodian of the Pact now. He’d know exactly where we went and what we were doing. He knows every move we make. How else do you think he knew to send the note to Crushbone?”

“We can’t just stay!” Laera argued, following Dreketh inside. “If we stay, they’ll make us unseal the vault. One way or another, the Cup of Ages will be returned to the world and one of us will be-”

“I’m not deaf!” Dreketh whirled on her companion angrily. “I was there! I heard the same thing you did! You don’t need to keep explaining it to me!”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” apologized Laera. Holding the blanket by one hand, she sank back into the cowl.

“And stop cowering from me!” The shadow knight continued to berate the wood elf. “You should know by now I’m not going to hurt you!”

“I’m not cowering, damn it!” Something in Laera snapped. Casting off the blanket, the agitated druid threw it angrily against the curtained wall to land on the carpet. “I’m freezing my butt off over here! You said it wouldn’t get any worse, and now it feels like it’s twenty degrees colder!”

Dreketh’s jaw dropped a she saw the wood elf’s arms and legs riddled in goose bumps all over—pale as if the druid had been playing in the snow without any protection from the cold. Her normally pristine tan skin shown marred by pinkish blue veins all over her hands and feet.

Laera stood trembling before the astonished dark elf. Dreketh couldn’t believe her eyes. Reaching out, she touched the druid’s fingers. It felt as if she were holding an ice cube in her hands.

“By all the gods,” she whispered.

“What’s happening to me, Dreketh?” Laera asked beseechingly, her anxious brow furrowed with worry as her eyes held the shadow knight’s gaze.

Fear and concern marked the dark elf’s expression.

“I…can’t say for sure,” she whispered in awe. “I’ve never seen chills this bad before.”

“What are we going to do?” the wood elf asked, her chin starting to quake slightly.

A moment of indecision passed before all sign of Dreketh’s apprehension was replaced by firm resolve.

“Come,” she said. Still holding the druid’s icy hand, the dark elf led her to the edge of her bed, and drew down the covers. “Xon won’t be available until morning. We’ll talk to him then.”

Climbing into bed, Laera slid her legs between the silken sheets, looking up at the dark elf.

“We’ll talk to him about everything,” Dreketh said pointedly at the wood elf’s questioning gaze.

Laera nodded shakily, turning over to face the wall as she pulled the covers up over her shoulder. Seeing the druid still shivering, Dreketh stepped over to where Laera’s discarded blanket lay on the floor. Picking it up, she spread it atop her companion, adding it to the wood elf’s arsenal against the chill.

Lying on her side, clutching the elongated pillow to her chest, Laera thanked the dark elf for the blanket. At receiving a customary grunt of acknowledgement, she closed her eyes and listened to the dark elf’s footsteps as Dreketh blew out each of the lamps lighting the room. Darkness fell, and it wasn’t long before the sound of the covers on Dreketh’s bed being drawn reached the wood elf’s ears.

Images raced through Laera’s mind in a whirlwind of disjointed thoughts. All that she’d witnessed in the Summit Room haunted her as the memory of all those important people casually discussing their fate entered her mind. Laera remembered the feeling she got in the Temple of Tunare in Felwithe when Yeolarn Bronzeleaf sized her up as if she were a prize animal at the fair. The same feeling hit her hard as she saw events unfold in the conference room. She also remembered small Widdlethorp’s words. “You’re the pawns of authority, and the play things of your gods.”

That thought alone was as chilling as the air. Try as she might, Laera couldn’t suppress the chattering of her teeth. Worried that she might disturb Dreketh, she clenched her jaw, silently willing it to still.

Too late, she heard the dark elf’s bedcovers rustling across the room. She knew she was in for a rebuke as the sound of Dreketh’s feet chafing across the carpet drew close.

Just as she braced herself to receive the shadow knight’s irritated words, she felt her own bedcovers lift, and the mattress behind her sink. Confused, Laera was about to turn over to see what Dreketh was up to, when an arm wrapped itself around her, covering hers in a warm embrace from behind. Without a word, the dark elf snuggled up against Laera’s back, her natural body heat warming every part of the wood elf’s skin that she touched. In time, the small druid’s trembling slowed to nothing more than an occasional shiver now and then, as the temperature began to rise comfortably beneath the covers.

Laera lay solidly still, deathly afraid that if she stirred too much, Dreketh might change her mind, and return to her own bed. Placing her hand over the dark elf’s, she laced her fingers between those of her companion, and clutched the dark blue hand to her chest.

“You’re not going to kill me,” the druid whispered. “…Are you?”

“Go to sleep, Laera.”

Chapter 25 - Departure