Dreketh blinked, the light from the lantern across the room interrupting her quiet sleep. Suppressing the need to stretch, fearful of waking her wood elf companion nestled comfortably in her arms, she instead yawned and rubbed her eyes to clear them of their sleep.

Laera lay motionless, save for her slow, rhythmic breaths. Though the druid’s skin remained chill for having stayed underneath three separate blankets during the course of the night, at least her skin wasn’t ice-cold as it had been the previous evening.

Shaking her head to herself silently, Dreketh boggled at the chills that so vexed her companion. Never had she seen or even heard of such extremes in anyone being observed in this manner. Nevertheless, the wood elf did seem somewhat better for the shadow knight’s efforts in keeping her warm during the night, so there was little cause for alarm. All it would take is to seek out her observer and kill him, whoever that might be.

Risking another yawn, Dreketh shaded her eyes from the annoying lantern when it suddenly dawned on her that she’d blown out all the lit flames in their quarters before going to bed. Squinting in the light, her bleary eyes caught sight of a robed figure standing calmly near the door. Alarmed at this intruder, she raised her head.

“Who goes there?” she demanded in a threatening tone.

The silhouette made no reply.

“I said, who-”

“Relax, daughter.” Dreketh recognized the muted voice of Xon Quexill. “None but I could enter this room. I’ve seen to that.”

“Master Xon,” she gasped, partially in relief and partially in embarrassment. “My apologies, father, I-… What are you doing here?”

Without comment, the shadowy necromancer stepped quietly across the carpeted floor to sit on the mattress next to his daughter and her slumbering companion. Seeing her father’s expression, Dreketh cast a timid glance at the the wood elf in bed next to her.

Swallowing, her eyes downcast, she whispered her explanation.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

Quexill’s piercing gaze gleamed in the wavering lantern light, his manner serious, but offering no rebuke or comment on his daughter’s words.

Dreketh’s eyes raised to meet her father’s.

“We need to talk.”

“Yes…we do.” Master Quexill nodded slowly.

The brisk morning air of the Highkeep courtyard assailed Dreketh’s senses with the lingering tang of a light rain that had fallen during the night. Small puddles of water pockmarked the ground and surrounding walls. The only sounds were those of the night watch being relieved as the aura hovering over the eastern horizon threatened to blossom into full dawn. At her side as she sauntered her leisurely pace was her father and beloved mentor, Xon Quexill.

Not knowing quite what to say, Dreketh fell into her initiate mode—speaking only when spoken to, and answering only those questions she was asked. If only Xon would say something to break the awkward silence, she would have gladly answered any inquiry he might have posed.

Instead, Quexill continued his measured pace in silence. Perhaps he, too, was at a loss for words.

“Laera is being observed,” she heard her voice say, breaking the calm like a thunderclap.

Still Quexill made no comment.

“She has been observed since Kithicor,” she continued.

Quexill lifted his face to peer up at the balcony gracing the suite in which the two young women were berthed, the wood elf no doubt still sleeping inside. Breathing deeply, the necromancer took in a healthy portion of the crisp air, but still offered no comment.

“At first I thought it was the lich who was after her, but it appears I was mistaken,” Dreketh pressed on, seeing no need to return to the lingering silence now that she’d spoken. “The chills are severe enough to reveal blood flow beneath her hands and feet—the sign of a master. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about-”

“No,” Quexill interrupted cryptically.

Blinking at her father’s abruptness, Dreketh licked her dry lips before she spoke.

“Can you intercede?”

“I will do what I can,” the master necromancer replied, his gaze lowering.

“Thank you,” Dreketh whispered.

“Even though it will be all for naught.”

The shadow knight’s skin crawled, knowing her father’s meaning.

“So I hear,” she commented, alluding to her eavesdropping on the closed session the night before.

Father and daughter walked several paces before the necromancer spoke again, his voice direct, but not without a certain degree of charity as he addressed his former student.

“You will have to kill her, you realize.”

“I know,” Dreketh answered, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

For the first time since their reunion, Quexill looked to his daughter with an expression not entirely distant and callous. Noting the mark of restraint across her face, the necromancer looked away, trying to suppress his feelings over the source of that restraint.

“How have you fared in the company of our blood enemy?” he asked, his voice carefully monotone.

Dreketh’s lips pressed together, her answer carefully considered.

“We have overcome all obstacles in our path, master. The wood elf has proven valuable multiple times, both in combat and out. She even…” the shadow knight hesitated. “She saved my life, master. She nurtured me back to health for weeks when I would have perished, otherwise. I owe her my life, and the continued chance to serve Innoruuk.”

“You owe her nothing,” her father corrected. “In preserving your life, she honored her oath to the Pact. Nothing more.”

“I believe…” Once again, Dreketh hesitated, checking her words. “I believe she would have saved me regardless.”

Quexill nodded, understanding all that she said, and all that she hadn’t. Knowing fully well that Dreketh was not about to volunteer anything more unless specifically asked, he decided the time for tact was at an end.

“Do you love her?” he asked without a hint of a quiver in his voice.

The question washed over Dreketh the same way it did when asked by a prominent ambassador in Faydwer. Only this time, it meant so much more—as did her answer.

“Yes,” she responded, a tear running down her blue cheek.

This was the blasphemy she knew her father was loath to hear, and yet must hear in order to fulfill the Pact. Only through the precepts of love would the Cup of Ages be unsealed—implicit love that prevailed over all other considerations of self-preservation. Love between a true worshipper of Innoruuk and a sincere devotee of Tunare.

Her father’s unspoken feelings cut deeply into her soul. Dreketh suppressed a sob that threatened to escape her throat as her steps were brought short by the firm grasp of Quexill’s hand on her arm. Turning away, her face twisted with the pain of confessing her sin to the man who meant the most to her in this life, she hid herself from his eyes in shame and disgrace. The haunting words of persecution shouted in her fevered ears… Elf lover! Elf lover! Elf lover!

For all her efforts at retaining composure, the sob was released as she felt her father take her by the arms, and hold her before him, like a parent demanding the attention of their disobedient child. Raising her hands, she covered her face.

“Look at me Dreketh,” he demanded. “Look at me!”

Quivering in the master necromancer’s grip, the taciturn shadow knight slowly lowered her hands to peer with tear-filled eyes into the face of her master. Though his features shown blurred in her vision, she could see the stalwart features of her father as he held her gaze with his own.

“Listen to me very carefully, and accept my words as the absolute truth,” Quexill said, his voice calm. “You have undertaken the most profane and heinous task our Father could require any of his children. Your grievous sacrifice of hate for love is beyond sacrilege in order to serve His divine will—a demand wholly unwarranted of claim by any partisan of hate.”

Dreketh’s chest heaved at her father’s recriminating words, her face turning way once again.

“But hear me, child, and believe my words when I say it was truly necessary!” the master necromancer persisted, holding tightly to his daughter, lest she break and run. “You carry the lives and future of all Teir’Dal upon your shoulders, and your sacrifice will serve to ensure the survival of our people. If you trust in nothing I have ever told you in your life, you must trust in this!”

Forlorn, Dreketh ceased her futile struggle, to rest limply in her father’s hands. She longed to fall on her knees and beg his forgiveness for betraying him and all the principles he’d taught her, but Quexill’s grasp was unrelenting.

“Would that I could have spared you this fate, daughter,” he continued. “Alas, I am unable to thwart this much of Kella N’Threk’s legacy. And in this, I regret that I have failed in my duty as your surrogate father and guardian.”

Dreketh’s eyes raised in disbelief at what she was hearing. Here she was, the heretic elf lover scorned and exiled by her own people, and yet here was her own teacher and mentor apologizing to her in earnest!

“I’m sorry, my child.” Quexill whispered, his own face marked with self-recrimination. “I’m so sorry I was unable to shelter you from this.”

Looking from one eye to the other, Dreketh raised her hand to caress her father’s cheek.

“Please don’t do this, Master Xon,” she whispered solemnly. “You were not the one who made the selection. N’Threk told me as much.”

Quexill’s eyes closed as he shook his head, denying the relevance of this claim she made.

Placing her hands on her father’s chest, she grasped at his robes to emphasize every word she spoke.

“It’s not your fault, father! If anything, it’s mine! I was selected because of my shortcomings—because my soul is impure! I was selected because I had it in my heart to…”

Though the ardent look in Dreketh’s eyes remained poised on her father’s, her throat constricted of its own accord, as if unwilling to speak such heresy, even about herself. Quexill released one hand on his daughter’s arm to wipe away her drying tears.

“Come what may, child, always remember this. You are a true servant of Innoruuk.” Before Dreketh could argue, he held up a forestalling hand. “You are a true servant of the Prince, in a way few others can claim. In answering His call, you have forsaken yourself and your values to serve Him. That was N’Threk’s one true intent as custodian of the Pact. It was never anything else.”

Dreketh’s grasp on her father’s robes loosened, her hands to rest gently against his chest as she listened.

“Now he is passed, his task now fallen to me,” Quexill continued. “And serve Innoruuk you shall. Only now, I will make certain your actions serve our people as well. I promise you.”

Laera woke to the sound of words she couldn’t understand being muttered above her as she lay prone in her bed. The words sounded harsh and brutal as they were spoken by the assertive, masculine voice, reminding the wood elf strongly of Dreketh whenever she spoke in…

Teir’Dal!

Immediately, Laera’s eyes opened wide to find the blue face of a dark elf male dressed in robes chanting over her. Her comprehension mulled by having been yanked from a fitful sleep, the wood elf shrieked in panic. Scrambling her legs beneath the tangling covers, she struggled to back away against the headboard when she felt Dreketh’s touch on her arm.

“Laera, relax!” her companion’s voice spoke urgently. “It’s all right! It’s my father! He’s removing the spell from you!”

Turning, Laera recognized Dreketh at last, and ceased her frantic struggles to get away. Hesitantly, she looked back at Master Quexill lost in his spellcasting above her bed. The necromancer’s chanting had died to a dull mumbling as he worked his power. Seeing this, she cast a doubtful look at her companion kneeling on the bed next to her.

“Really, it’s okay,” the shadow knight reassured her. “In a few seconds, the observance will be severed, and the chills will leave instantly. Trust me, my father is the best at what he does.”

Nodding nervously, Laera sought comfort in her companion’s confidence. Glancing askance to Dreketh, Laera leaned over to speak in low tones.

“You could have at least woke me up before he started,” she muttered accusingly.

“With chills this intense, we were concerned about what we're up against,” Dreketh explained. “These are very powerful and complex magics. It’s easier to begin while the subject sleeps.”

“So, what’s he doing?”

“Merely exploratory right now. Master Xon is attempting to figure out the nature of the observance being placed on you. It’s kind of like sorting through a mess of ropes to find the opposite end of the one you’re looking for without tangling it up even more. Don’t worry, though, it’s painless and should be over in moments.”

Laera looked back up at Xon Quexill as he continued muttering his arcane words. Having had it just explained to her, she could almost feel the subtle probing of the necromancer’s spells as they wove around her. At first, she thought it a trick of the mind, but as the seconds wore on, she distinctly felt a faint caress of something flowing about her arms, legs and torso beneath the covers. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant—quite the opposite, in fact. The young wood elf became surprised to discover a wary fondness for the experience.

As promised, the spell came to an end, and Quexill opened his eyes, allowing his hands to fall. Contrary to his protégé’s assurances, however, the master necromancer’s expression shown distorted in a mild show of frustration.

“What’s wrong, master?” Dreketh asked.

Gnawing at the inner part of his lower lip, Quexill shook his head.

“I cannot break the observance,” he declared with bitter dissatisfaction.

Blinking at Dreketh questioningly, Laera looked between the necromancer and her companion, wondering what this meant. The shadow knight calmed her with a touch as she addressed her father.

“Are you sure?” she asked. At her master’s dire look, she qualified her impertinent question. “It’s just that I’ve never known you to find any web of the dead you couldn’t unravel. Has this happened before?”

“Not since I became master of the guild,” came Quexill’s concerned reply, his hand stroking his chin in disturbed thought as he pondered over the timid wood elf.

“W-what does this mean?” Laera asked, hesitant.

“It means we can’t break the spell being cast on you until the moment of inception,” Dreketh explained. “Whoever is observing you must complete the spell before anything can be done to stop it.”

“That may be easier said than done,” Quexill commented, his manner still ponderous. “I don’t know the nature of the spell itself, but I can say with some confidence that it is one of the Prime Cants of necromancy.”

Dreketh looked up at her father in disbelief.

“Prime Cants?” Laera asked innocently.

“In theory,” Quexill explained, “only I should have knowledge or the authority to cast such a spell in all of Neriak, which obviously suggests an outside influence of some sort at work here.”

“Bertoxxulous, then?” Dreketh suggested. “Or Cazic-Thule, maybe? We’ve had dealings with the god of fear before.”

“Bertoxxulous has already played His trump with that fool Kieran Shadowseek.” Quexill dismissed the suggestion with a toss of his hand. “I’ve seen to it that His minion’s influence on this world is permanently at an end. As for Cazic-Thule or any of the gods whose worshippers meddle in necromancy, there is no way of knowing. What’s worse is the longer the observance is allowed to continue, the more potent the end result will be.”

“What are we to do, then?” Dreketh asked.

“For now, I have cloaked the chills from her body. Though she is still being observed, the effects will be considerably less dramatic than you witnessed last night. I can make further attempts to unravel this web in the future, but in the meantime there is nothing to be done but keep a watchful eye on your companion, and fulfill your oath to protect her when the need arises.”

The necromancer turned to address Laera.

“Remain bundled, especially at night,” he advised the wood elf. “Stay vigilant of any change. If the chills return, notify me without delay.”

Laera nodded.

“I must take my leave now,” Quexill continued, turning back to Dreketh. “There is still much to be done before we embark on our journey. Be ready to depart this place at noon, and prepare yourselves for inclement weather. For sake of the wood elf’s condition, doubly so for her.”

Acknowledging the shadow knight’s nod with one of his own, the master necromancer began heading for the door.

“We’re leaving?” Laera piped in. “Where are we going?”

Pausing in his stride, Quexill answered the druid’s question without turning around.

“To claim your prize, my dear. For the next seven days, you will be surrounded by the most eminently skillful journeymen of both Neriak and Felwithe as we jointly escort you and your companion to the vault of Erollisi Marr.”

All too soon, the sun rose to its apex in the sky, heralding the arrival of noonday. Assembled in the courtyard like an army preparing to march their victory on an intractable foe was the body of soldiers and footmen summoned to protect the advocates of Zeranon’s Pact.

Laera looked out upon the courtyard from their balcony, her meager traveling pack slung over her shoulder. The young druid couldn’t believe the numbers massed to accompany them on their journey. Though nowhere near approaching the numbers of the army they’d seen in Lesser Faydark, the sea of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder. It filled the courtyard to capacity as the pale-skinned high elves clustered on the east side, while the blue-skinned Teir’Dal assembled on the west in equal numbers—neither group looking particularly happy about this arrangement.

In the center stood a number of steeds, harnessed and equipped full with tack for the trip.

Horses, among most beasts of burden, were a rarity on Norrath—barely seen at all among the lands populating the known continents. As such, they were highly coveted by their owners, typically reserved for the highest nobility, if not full royalty, for use in matters of extreme import. Not even the League of Antonican Bards used such extravagance in delivering their parcels all over Norrath. Laera could only guess they belonged to Yeolarn Bronzeleaf and his entourage.

Dreketh emerged from the doorway behind her.

“You ready?” she asked, her own pack slung over her shoulder in a fashion similar to the druid’s.

Laera nodded absently, her eyes still glued to the scene below. Stepping forward, Dreketh followed the wood elf’s gaze to rest down at the spectacle of elves awaiting their arrival.

“Scared?” she asked casually.

Again, the wood elf nodded.

“Me too.”

In silence, the young advocates shared the final moments they would have alone with each other. Once delivered into the hands of the teeming masses they witnessed below, there was no practical way they would ever be allowed out of the watchful eyes of their chaperones. Too much depended on them and their safety at this point. Beyond the walls of Highkeep lay the outside world, undoubtedly poised and ready to cease this insanity set forth by the Mother of All and the Prince of Hate as they made their final stab at fulfilling the prophecy of Erollisi Marr.

Laera never felt more vulnerable. She would have given up anything, even personal soldiers measuring well into the hundreds, if she could once again have the watchful eyes of Ranin Treestalker protecting her from amongst the trees.

“Having any second thoughts?” the shadow knight’s voice intruded once again.

“No,” Laera replied. Tearing herself away from her musings, she turned to face her companion. “My life is now in your hands, my friend. I think…maybe it was always meant to be.”

Dreketh’s clear, azure eyes bore into the wood elf. At one time, those eyes delivered nothing but loathing and contempt for the druid and her paltry winsome ways. At one time, Laera could imagine nothing but falling to the dark elf’s blade, the gaze of those eyes the last thing she ever saw in this life. But now Laera knew what lurked behind those eyes. She saw past them into the soul of her companion. She trusted this dark elf standing before her like nothing she’d ever trusted before, and she knew this one shadow knight among shadow knights was worthy of it.

She would not betray her. Not Dreketh.

Accompanied by their individual protectors—Headmistress Netheel at Laera’s side, and Xon Quexill at Dreketh’s—the advocates of the Pact stepped from the gaping entryway out into the glaring sunlight of the courtyard. Sergeants from both detachments of elves barked their orders, and soldiers on both sides snapped to attention in unison.

Ceremoniously, the advocates made their way down the steps and across the loose gravel. With assistance from their protectors, they silently mounted their steeds.

More orders were barked as the soldiers turned, again in unison, and marched out of the courtyard, through the keep’s giant gates, and into the world of Norrath, escorting the advocates to their final destiny.

Chapter 26 - Divine Justice