his head to clear it of the ringing and the dizziness. It didn’t work, but he planted one foot on the ground and levered himself upright, drawing Keryvian. The banquet hall was nothing less than screaming, smoke-wreathed pandemonium, the equal of any battlefield he had ever set foot on. Several of the Sembian lords, led by Selkirk himself, rushed the bandstand and struck up a furious melee with the surviving assassins.
Ilsevele whirled and fired her wand again, this time at a crossbow-wielding sniper who appeared on one of the upper balconies overlooking the hall. The thundering lance of white energy smashed the balcony to pieces, dropping the fellow to the floor below in a cascade of rubble.
Fflar turned, looking for any other threat, just in time to see an assassin dressed in the livery of a wine steward stealing up behind Ilsevele, a wavy-bladed dagger in his hand. But the young captain Seirye, so badly burned and charred that he couldn’t even hold a blade in his gnarled hands, simply lurched into the knife wielder and held him up for a crucial moment. The blade flashed once, then twice, and Seirye sank to the floor, still clawing at the killer’s tunic. But the young elf’s valor was not in vain. Before the knifeman could pull himself free, Fflar staggered over and took his arm off at the shoulder with one wild, off-balance swing.
“Drow! They’re drow!” cried one of the Sembians.
Fflar glanced down at the man he’d just downed, and saw the magical guise slip away with the assassin’s death. In place of a round-faced, unremarkable human, an ebon-skinned drow with red eyes lay staring sightlessly up at him.
“I could have told you that,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Keryvian rang shrilly on the stone floor. He looked down, surprised that he had dropped the blade. He leaned over to pick up the sword, but lost his balance entirely and crumpled to the ground beside his blade. Fight it! Fight it! he raged, trying to find the strength to push himself upright again. But all he managed to do was roll weakly onto his back. He found himself looking up at the proud banners that hung in the upper part of the hall, now burning merrily from the fireballs and lightning bolts that had been loosed in the attack.
The hall seemed to fall silent. The ringing of steel on steel faded, and no more thunderbolts or roaring blasts of flame split the smoke-filled hall. The battle was over, and a dozen drow warriors lay scattered here and there on the floor, still dressed in the tatters of their disguises.
“Starbrow! Starbrow!” Ilsevele rushed up to him and fell to her knees at his side, grasping his hand in hers. Tears streaked her face. “What happened? Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
“Arrow in the arm,” he managed. “I think… I’ve been poisoned.”
“You saved me,” she murmured. “Just like the time you faced the ghost in the vault. You saved me again, Starbrow.”
“I couldn’t let you get hurt, Ilsevele,” he said. He was so tired
… all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“I know.” Ilsevele smiled through her tears, and she leaned over him, her hair of fiery red cowling her face and his, and kissed him deeply, passionately, her hands cupping his face and lifting him up to her. “Stay with me, Starbrow,” she whispered between her kisses. “Don’t die, not now! Stay with me.”
Somehow he found the strength to reach one hand up to her face, to caress her perfect face and brush away her tears. Then he laced his fingers in her hair and gently pulled her down to kiss her again, to feel her breath mingling with his, her lips warm and soft.
“I won’t die,” he whispered to her. “I’ve found what I came back for.”
Then he fell away into darkness, still lost in her emerald eyes.
Araevin and his companions passed the night, such as it was, in a princely suite. Ornate lanterns of gold ringed the room, but the dim lanterns did little to push back the encroaching darkness outside, and nothing at all to alleviate the bitter cold. They eventually had to make use of the sleeping-furs waiting atop the great round beds, even though Araevin’s skin crawled at the dusty age of the covers. He couldn’t avoid the impression that he was wrapping himself in the cerements of the grave.
After what seemed like an age in the dimly lit apartments, two of Selydra’s pallid warriors came for them. Araevin and his friends followed the Lorosfyrans through the long, echoing corridors of the palace for quite a distance. Shadows gathered in each doorway they passed, fleeing their light slowly and reluctantly. They came to a winding staircase and climbed up a floor, and their grim guides led them out into a courtyard of sorts. A tall white tree grew in a knurled knot of clawlike branches and leaping roots. Not a single leaf graced its sharp branches, but here and there dark red fruit like drops of blood gleamed in the darkness.
Araevin surveyed the rest of the court carefully, and found a blank trapezoidal archway a short distance to his left. A portal like the one above, he realized. That might be useful later.
“The Pale Sybil comes,” whispered the dead warrior.
From another passageway leading into the courtyard, a ghostly pale light grew. Selydra drifted into the courtyard, still dressed in the raiment of silver and white in which she had first greeted her guests. Two of the hunched giants followed behind her, stooping to fit in the hallway. She paused, studying Araevin and his friends, her face set in a look of smooth, cool bemusement.
“Welcome, travelers,” she said. “I trust your sleep was restful?”
“Nothing tried to kill us,” Maresa said. The genasi made a show of gazing around the courtyard, admiring the stonework and the barren white tree. “What a strange tree that is! We don’t have any like that back in Waterdeep.”
“It is a sussur tree,” Selydra answered her. She seemed amused by Maresa’s insincerity. “It is rare indeed, growing only in those places where Faerzress exists in sufficient strength to nourish it. The tree subsists on the magical emanations of the Underdark.”
“Interesting,” Araevin murmured, feigning a calm he did not feel. “I have never seen anything quite like it.”
“I have found that Lorosfyr is full of unsuspected wonders,” Selydra said. She approached the company, and the sussur tree whispered softly as she came near. “So, Araevin, you have said that you have an urgent need for the gemstone in my possession. What is so pressing that you would leave the surface world and come here to find my shard?”
“I must sunder a very old and powerful mythal,” Araevin said. “Demonspawned sorcerers have seized the ruins of Myth Drannor for their stronghold and are protected by its ancient spells. Thousands of people will die or fall into slavery if I fail to stop them. No place in-or below-Faerun will be safe.”
“I am not unmoved by your plea, Araevin,” Selydra said. She descended into the court by the tree and sat on a stone bench, brushing her midnight hair away from her face. “But the artifact that has found its way into Lorosfyr could be gainfully employed here. You have no doubt noticed the swordwights who attend me here. There is an entity in this lightless place that consumes life and magic. These poor wretches were devoured by the hungry power in this old city. I think that the device you describe may hold enough magical power to finally slake the slayer of this city.”
“You have escaped harm so far, my lady,” Nesterin observed.
“Only because I have learned to… shield myself from its attentions, you might say.”
Araevin found himself glancing up at the impenetrable darkness over their heads. The courtyard was open to the sky, as it were. The vast and airy reaches of the monstrous vault soared for unseen miles above his head, and the darkness pressed down on him with a weight that was almost tangible.
“The Maddening Dark…” he murmured.
“It is alive, and it hungers,” Selydra said. “It devours its victims so slowly that they never even know they are being consumed. Truly, it is a wonder you made it down the Long Stair alive.” She folded her feet under her, and returned her attention to Araevin. “It would seem that we are at an impasse, then. I have need of your shard, and you have need of mine.”
“I will return you a shard as soon as I can,” Araevin said. “The Gatekeeper’s Crystal separates after each use, but I am reasonably confident that I can locate at least one of its pieces not long after I employ the device. I will bring it to you as soon as I can.”
“But if I have understood what I have learned from the shard in my possession, there is at least some chance of a much more violent separation, is there not? The three pieces might literally be scattered across the cosmos.” Selydra pursed her lips. “Even a mage of your skill might find it difficult to locate a piece after such an event.”
“If I cannot bring you a shard after I use the device, perhaps there is something else you might want? Some means of paying you for the use of the device?”
