Darksong- Warning, mature content.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

Lothir didn’t know how much time had passed; he was still pinned beneath the dead cave fisher, staring out from under its huge mass at the floor and a part of the tunnel wall in the utter silence of the passage. But then he heard a sound; something shuffled along through the corridor, coming toward the dim light the crevice gave off to his heat-sensitive vision. Whatever it was, it was large. It made a soft noise like many feet stepping lightly. He knew it was only one creature- or possibly two, since the noise seemed to echo in a slightly different cadence- for though it sounded like many feet, the steps were in a precise order and tempo that suggested the gait of a many-legged creature, rather than several individuals. He wondered what it might be- some new horror come to finish him off? As it turned out, he did not have long to wait to find out.

When he saw the thing that made the sound, he gasped in renewed fear. A three-foot grub-like beast with a thick green hide, many small, padded feet, and a toothy maw with a pair of large mandibles and several long tentacles beneath it came crawling toward the carcass. He nearly gagged from the smell of rotted flesh that emanated from the thing, as its eyes waved about on small stalks above its head, as if searching for enemies. When it found no threat, it began to move toward the corpse, its mouth-parts clicking together hungrily. It was a young carrion crawler, not even half-grown. They were scavengers of the Underdark that fed on anything they could find or kill, with paralyzing venom in their long mouth tentacles. He gulped, knowing his situation had just become even more dire. If even one of those slimy appendages touched him, he would be unable to move at all, doomed to a slow, agonizing death from which there would be no escape.

He froze, hardly daring to breathe. The carrion crawler started slurping at the oozing fluids from the carcass, its tentacles waving about randomly as it fed. He watched in terrified silence as the scavenger slowly devoured its meal. He looked about frantically for his weapon, but he could not see it. He had been holding it when he fell, but the blade had been knocked out of his hands when he struck the ground, and now lay on the opposite side of the dead monster. With his head pinned to the left, he could not see that it lay just inches from his right hand. In any event, the sword was on the wrong side to do him any good against the carrion crawler.

Then he heard another sound coming down the tunnel, very much like the first. He strained to see what it was, and stared in horror as he saw another of the long-bodied crawlers approaching the cave fisher’s corpse. It saw the first one, and made a hissing noise; the first crawler reared up, pausing in its feeding as it turned to ward off the intruder. They both hissed at each other, and for a moment the young drow thought they would forget the carcass entirely in their squabble. Such was not his luck, however. The newcomer finally backed off, moving past the first one to take a spot on the other side of the cave fisher, and both settled down to feed.

As if his straits were not dire enough, the drow felt something wet brush against his feet were they poked out from under the dead monster’s bulk- then his legs went numb. He was vaguely aware of the crawler’s tentacles sliding over his legs a few times, but could feel nothing. For all he knew, it might already be devouring his feet, and there would be nothing he could do to prevent it. Fear gripped him, as he wondered how long it would be before the two scavengers finished off the cave fisher and started in on him. His only good fortune was that the corpse was more than large enough to feed both carrion crawlers for some time. Perhaps if the venom wore off, he might eventually be able to push the dead monster off himself, once they had devoured enough of it. But he doubted he would get the chance.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

Several more minutes passed while the creatures continued their grisly meal. Lothir watched in fascinated horror; never had he seen such creatures alive, and never had he thought to see one so close. After a while, he heard a new sound echoing down the corridor, a clicking noise like claws on the hard stone. Certain that yet another fearsome beast had arrived, he said a silent prayer, hoping that by some miracle he might live.
It was only when he heard the strange chittering that he realized it was coming from down the other end of the passage- the same way he had come. That puzzled him, for he knew that he had not passed any other creatures that way. What could be making it?
Then he heard a strange crackling noise, followed by the intonation of ancient words in some eldritch tongue. The voice was vaguely feminine, yet with a harsh quality that he barely recognized. Yet it was somehow familiar, too. He realized that someone was casting a spell, and one that he thought he knew. Sure enough, he heard a new sound of something- no, several things- streaking through the air. There was a brief flash of light, a loud sizzling and screeching, and then something large and heavy thudded to the ground.
He waited to discover what was happening, and suddenly saw something flash downward at the carrion crawler near him. It gave a loud shriek that echoed through the passage, and its head suddenly fell off, severed neatly. He looked up as far as he was able, and saw that the end of his own sword had sliced off its head. A moment later, he saw a bare of small, black-skinned bare feet stepping close to the side of the dead monster pinning him.
He glanced higher, and saw that the feet connected to a rather shapely pair of equally nude legs, which met a pair of voluptuous hips, and…. He could not see the rest, but from his vantage, he had a very good view indeed of an attractive and curvaceous lower half. In fact, it looked extremely familiar.
“Ah, so there you are, little morsel. I told you there was nothing but trouble for you down here, did I not?” said a sultry voice, with just a hint of amusement. The legs bent, and suddenly he could see the aranea crouching before him, leaning forward with her head cocked to one side, smirking at him.
The young drow almost shouted with relief. Instead, he just grimaced, pretending not to care. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he gasped out matter-of-factly, in spite of the pain in his chest. Still, he knew that if she had not come when she did, he might soon have been dead. “Besides, I did kill the fisher,” he shot back, a touch of pride in his voice.
Shelatchka tossed her head back and laughed outright. “That you are, little elf. But you are fortunate that I came looking for you, else you’d be food for those crawlers now. You were lucky.” She shrugged, and began to rise.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, afraid she might leave. “Could you- help me? Please?” he asked, wincing through the pain of trying to speak.
“Why should I help you?” she asked, using his own words from earlier. “It would be a pity to let a little morsel like you go to waste.” The boy’s stomach sank. Was she simply going to let him die?
“Be- Because I helped you,” he finally answered. “Fair is fair, is it not? And I found you something to eat, just like I said,” he finished weakly.
She stared at him for a long moment, then finally laughed again. “So you did, foolish boy. Very well, I suppose I do owe you a small favor. But do not think that I am doing this because I care. It simply suits me to keep you around a bit longer, for amusement.” She gave him an indifferent wave, then she shifted to her spider form, and he watched as she grasped the edge of the cave fisher’s shell with her humanoid arms, then her two front pairs of legs pushed up beneath it as the hands lifted, shoving the dead hulk over until it rolled off.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

The drow winced, stifling a moan as the bulk was lifted off of him; then he was free, though he still could not move. He lay prone, relieved and grateful for her aid. When she attempted to lift him, he let out a sharp yelp, causing the aranea to pause in poorly-disguised concern. She knelt down beside him, her brow furrowed, a frown on her beautiful features.
“What is it now?” she asked impatiently.
“I- It hurts,” he said, wincing. “I can’t move…” He grimaced, for his chest burned, and his legs were still numb from the carrion crawler’s venom.
Shelatchka sighed. “Then perhaps I should just leave you…” she began, only to have the drow reach up to grab her arm.
“No! Please, don’t-” He was trying not to cry, though every move brought pain, and his nerves were frayed from the ordeal.
The aranea only chuckled. “Of course not, silly boy- I was teasing you. But I will have to move you somehow, as I did not bring any of my potions with me.” she said matter-of-factly. She felt beneath his gore-covered tunic, and heard his sharp gasp when she touched his chest. “Hmm, you’ve broken some ribs. One, two, three… four. Five? My, it’s a wonder you did not pierce a lung, You really should not have come out alone.”
“I’m- not a boy, I told you.” Lothir protested, annoyed by her condescending attitude in spite of the pain. “Can’t you just use my name? It’s insulting.” He said irritably, glowering at her. She glanced at him sharply, but finally sighed and shook her head.
“My aren’t we presumptuous? Do you think to order me about like one of your servants? Your Matron would be appalled.” She chided him, clucking her disapproval. “But I suppose it would not hurt, little prince. Now, how shall we get you back to my home, hmm?”
Lothir thought for a long moment, knowing he could never make such a trip back in his current condition. He ignored her snide remark, not really caring if she thought he was being pushy. Then it dawned on him- hadn’t there been a travel bag by the goblin corpse by the crevice? “Look- by the crack,” he said, each breath making him want to cry. “Goblin- it had a sack. Check for a potion?” He pointed to it, so she would see what he meant.
Shelatchka looked toward the crevice, and saw the pile of remains. In a flash, she rose and leaped over to it, snatching it up quickly, and began to dig through it even before she returned to the young dark elf. Soon, she smiled triumphantly, and brought out a small bottle of deep red liquid. It was nearly identical to the one she had quaffed earlier.
She pulled out the stopper, and tilted his head up so he could drink. He downed it in two quick gulps, then she settled back to wait for it to take effect. In seconds, she could hear the peculiar grating sound of the bones knitting back together, as he hissed in pain, for drow healing potions were not meant to ease suffering, only to mend the wounds that caused it. Soon enough the potion had done its work, and he was finally able to raise up on his elbows, looking half-dead from the gore that covered him from head to foot, but whole once more.
“There, now we can return to my nest,” she said, rising. She moved over to one of the dead crawlers, and changed to her hybrid form. “After I wrap up a few snacks to take home, of course,” she continued, and began to calmly web up the first carrion crawler.
“Uh- there’s just one problem,” he said after a moment. “I can’t walk,” he said, pointing to his feet. Though the potion had healed his injuries- even the lump on his head- it had done nothing for the numbness of his legs, since it was merely an effect of the crawler’s paralyzing venom. That would have to wear off on its own.
Shelatchka glanced over as she continued webbing up the dead scavenger, and sighed. “Wonderful. I suppose you are expecting me to carry you, then? Never mind, don’t answer, of course you are. Fine. But you are fortunate I’m in a generous mood, or I would tell you to get back on your own. If you hadn’t provided me such a marvelous feast…” she shrugged, letting the threat trail off.
Lothir sighed, and rolled his eyes as he sat up, though his feet were still unresponsive. He had already decided she was bluffing. He watched as she wrapped up the second crawler- severed head and all, and then moved on to the cave fisher. He gaped as she began to deftly cover the remains in a tight cocoon. How in the Abyss did she expect to carry them all back?
He puzzled over that for several minutes, until she was done. Then she shifted back to her huge spider form, and picked up the goblin’s pack with her small arms, handed it to him, then used the arms and her front pair of legs to carefully lift him onto her humped back. When he was settled, she shot a thick strand of web to each of the dead monsters, and gathered them all up into a bundle. Then she turned and began to scuttle back down the corridor, dragging the carcasses along behind her.
The young drow was amazed- he had forgotten that araneas- and all spiders, for that matter- were incredibly strong, able to lift or drag very heavy loads that were often many times their own size. Finally, he shook his head in awe, and grinned, leaning back to enjoy the ride back to her lair. He had never ridden on a spider before; his family’s soldiers kept a pen of them in the fort at the entry tunnel, along with the stable for the riding lizards, but he had never actually worked up the nerve to try to ride one. It was almost fun, if one ignored the short bristly hairs that poked up. He decided that perhaps the aranea might not be so bad, after all.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

An hour later, he had finally said his farewell to Shelatchka, promising to visit her again- she had tried rather unsuccessfully to hide her pleasure at the prospect- and ran back down the long passage to the fissure that led home. He was still covered in dried, sticky cave fisher ichor, and he knew he was going to be scolded for getting so filthy if anyone saw him. Thus, he made a point of diving into the cove clothes and all before he approached the House compound, hoping to wash off as much of the gore as possible. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was late. He only hoped he would have time to eat and bathe- and possibly get some sleep- before his morning lessons.

He was just sneaking into his room, having levitated straight up to the window, as before, when he heard a distinctly annoyed sound of someone clearing their throat impatiently. He cringed, and turned to see who had caught him sneaking in. He was both relieved and remorseful to find Ravyn sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

“Where have you been?!” she asked, frowning. “Do you have any idea what time it is? The morning meal is only an hour away! And what in Elrinya’s name is that on your clothes?” She asked, aghast. “You are fortunate your mother never noticed your absence, or you would surely be in for it now.”

Lothir looked down, shame-faced. “I was exploring, and lost track of time. I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said, though he knew it was a lame excuse.

“You did not answer my question,” she said pointedly. The boy sighed, and shrugged, realizing he was well caught.

“I killed a cave fisher,” he said meekly, hoping to make it seem like a small matter. In truth, he had never been more terrified, yet he could not help feeling a bit of pride, too. Fighting a creature as dangerous as the fisher was no simple feat. Even many full-fledged warriors could not defeat one alone, yet he had not only killed it, but had even managed to bring back a small trophy of his victory, in the form of a talon from one of its feet.

“You what?!” she exclaimed, shocked. Ravyn could not believe what she was hearing. Yet again the lad had gone out and gotten into some sort of trouble. He did not admit it, but she suspected that he had been in mortal danger, and had very nearly died. If the state of his clothes was anything to go by, it had been a fierce battle.

“Don’t worry,” he said hastily, “I’m fine. It was just a bit- messy, that’s all,” he tried to shrug it off, and gave her a weak smile, but he could tell by her stern expression that she saw right through his bluff.

“Really?” she asked, one thin black brow rising in disbelief. He hung his head, and she knew she was right. Something had happened during the hours he had been gone, that he was afraid to tell her.

“Well, maybe it was a little dangerous,” he amended. “It fell on top of me when I killed it. I had to wait for Shelatchka to come find me,”

Ravyn frowned. “Shelatchka?” she asked, puzzled. He had forgotten to tell her the aranea’s name.

The drow nodded vigorously. “Yes- the aranea; she helped me! She even killed a pair of crawlers that were attracted by the dead cave fisher. I guess we’re friends now, since I saved her life. You should have seen her stuck on that stalagmite- it would have been funny if she wasn’t hurt so bad! She looked like a spider-ka-bob!” He choked off a laugh, in spite of himself, at the memory of the aranea flailing helplessly on the spike.

“I think you should tell me just what you’ve been up to, young master, while I help you get cleaned up.” Ravyn said sternly, and his grin faltered. He looked away, and sighed again, as she pulled fresh clothes from his wardrobe. He took a deep breath, and began to tell her all that he had done. By the time he had finished his tale- and his bath- it was time for breakfast. Ravyn scolded him for getting into danger, as he had expected, but he knew that she was secretly impressed with his accomplishments. Even her ire and worry had not been enough to dampen his feeling of pride in defeating two foes in one day. He spent the rest of the day in renewed dedication to increasing his skills, until he was too tired even to practice or study any more. He was happy to have achieved so much, yet grateful when sleep finally came.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

The next few weeks passed quickly. Lothir spent his days in constant honing of his skills, reading, and learning everything he could. His evenings were spent in the secret tunnels of his own private domain, as he now thought of it. He visited Shelatchka frequently, sometimes bringing her news of what was happening at home- most of which involved his mother’s constant harping about one thing or another, Morganna’s continued terrorizing of everyone outside the family, and the occasional battles fought by the patrols with encroaching duergars or sahuagin.

His visits with her were always brief, however, for he spent most of that time silently slipping through the winding passages and caverns like a shadow. He had learned how to hide and to move with almost no sound at all, in order to avoid some of the most dangerous beasts in the wilds. Once, he had come upon a cavern full of deepbats, and had used several stones to distract them so that he could pass through unharmed. Whenever he came across a new tunnel that he had not been through, he would mark it, and proceed cautiously in, always searching for some new wonder to explore.

Yet he always returned to the geode chamber; it had become his own special place, where he could practice playing his flute in secret, as he slowly discovered how to use it. The hardest part had been learning how to form the notes, and how to use the stops to change the sound. Once he understood how it worked, though, he had taken to experimenting with different sounds, stringing random notes together to learn the various finger positions. After the second week, he had memorized nearly every combination of positions well enough to begin playing simple tunes. He still had not learned what sort of magic it held, but at least he was getting there.

After the first few days, he had taken his hidden cache of treasures from the cove and the vaults- as well as the things he had taken from the mage’s lab- and hidden them all in the crystal cavern. He brushed away the broken crystals from the floor, and used the wide empty space to practice with his sword. It was becoming easier every day to lift and swing the weapon, in spite of its size in his hands. Eventually, he even began to include his kukri in the exercises, slowly improving both in strength and skill. Even Nalvir had begun to notice the change, though of course he believed it was due to his own instruction.

Three months had passed since his battle with the cave fisher, and in that time he had fought several other monsters. He discovered a small darkmantle on one foray, and another had led him to a den of dire rats. The darkmantle had proven difficult to fight, being large and able to fly. In the end, he had tricked the beast into flying into its own globe of darkness, where he had waited with his sword and kukri pointed straight up as it tried to land on his head to suffocate him. The creature had skewered itself on his blades, leaving him once again covered in a bloody mess, but unscathed except for a few small bruises where its tentacles had tried to latch onto his arms.

Then one day he was reading in the library, and came across a small tome bound in dark blue leather, with the title written in silver letters in elven script. That in itself was not so unusual, as there were many books written in elvish among his father’s collection. But what drew him to it was the symbol on the cover- a familiar-looking sword on a circle with swirls around it. He recognized it instantly as the same symbol as the amulet he had found. Excited, he read the words on the cover again. Hymns of the Moondancer. He opened it cautiously, somehow knowing that the book was holy. Hymns? He had never heard of any Moondancer, though he vaguely knew what a moon was from his cosmology lessons with Jezdin. Was this a book about other gods? That other deities existed, he knew, but their worship was strictly forbidden within the House by his mother. Only Aldan himself followed any other deity than Lothrenya, and his mother seethed bitterly at that affront.

As he sat poring over the many songs, a strange feeling began to come over him. It took some time before he knew it for what it was. Hope. The words stirred something inside him, that had never been given a name before. Who was this Moondancer? Why did the songs speak to him so? “Come to the Lands Above, come dance in the moonlight and find your true place,” one song said. He wondered- could he? What was the surface world like? He did not know anything of dancing, but somehow he found himself wanting to do as the song said. Suddenly his mind was awhirl with questions, and none of them seemed to have answers. The drow sat going over the hymns again and again, committing them all to memory, before he tucked the book inside his tunic and took it with him out into the wilds to hide in his sanctuary.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

Two weeks passed, and he had nearly forgotten about the book, when he came upon a tunnel that he had never seen before. He was far from the tunnels he knew well, having only recently worked up the courage to explore a chimney that led into still more winding passages and caves. He had come across a chasm that ran through a wide cavern that held a colony of myconids- strange, intelligent mushroom people. The chasm ran through a deep, wide crack in the cavern wall, and disappeared off into the darkness, with no end in sight. A large stalactite had fallen across the chasm, forming a natural bridge to the other side, where a small stream rushed into the gap, falling for hundreds of feet before continuing on its way. A large, smooth round passage led out of the other side, the long-forgotten burrow of a huge purple worm.

He had been afraid to cross at first, worried that the rock bridge would crumble if he tried to walk on it. But at last he steeled himself, and cautiously inched his way across. He was relieved to find that it held him easily. He continued on, wondering where the path would lead him. As it happened, he did not have to go far to find out.

The burrow ended abruptly in a large grotto which held a deep, clear spring surrounded by a large patch of moss, lichens, and various fungi, as well as cave ferns, deepstar blossoms, and giant mushrooms. Small fish swam in the pool, which he decided must connect to a larger body elsewhere. Another huge burrow led away from the cavern, while a smaller passage ran off to the right. After a brief pause, he decided to take the smaller one.

The small passage wound for a fair distance- perhaps a mile or so- gradually leading upward. As it wound its way through the earth, it progressively became smaller, until at last he was forced to crawl through it. The young drow had just begun to consider turning back when the tunnel simply ended. A huge pile of rubble blocked the path, preventing any further progress. He looked around, wondering whether he could dig though it, but decided against it when he found that the walls were soft. In fact, he suddenly realized that they were no longer made of solid stone, but earth and soil. A small shaft of light shone down from the ceiling near the end, half concealed by strange tendril-like things that hung down from the ceiling.

He looked up, and discovered that the light came from a small hole in the ceiling amid the tangled mass. There were several large stones surrounding the opening, with more scattered about on the floor, and embedded in the walls. A small hollowed out area against the wall near the cave-in had once been the dug-out nest of some creature, as evidenced by the large depression in the floor. Earth and debris had been pushed up around it, and he saw bits of fur lining the hollow. Not far away, there were several old, half-chewed, dried bones with teeth marks in them, most from large rodents, by the look of them. The air smelled strange; he knew the smell of soil, and the musty scent of old death, but there was another odor in the air, coming on a slight breeze from the hole. It smelled like water and mushrooms- and something else.

It was clear that he was in a den of some sort, that had been invaded and partially collapsed long ago, yet he worried that whatever had dug the small den might return. He had noticed several sets of strange tracks in the hollow, suggesting that the former inhabitants had four legs and relatively small feet with short, sharp claws. He judged that they must have stood at least three feet tall, and had been covered with grayish-brown fur. Several sets of smaller tracks much like the others suggested that there had been young present. However, whatever had burrowed through here had been large enough to have possibly eaten all of the den’s inhabitants.

He wondered what manner of creatures had made the den; some kind of carnivores, surely, by the look of the gnawed bones, though he knew of no creature that made four-toed prints with rounded centers. After several more minutes spent pondering the mystery, he decided to investigate the hole from whence came the strange scent. He approached the long, thick tendrils near the hole warily, for in the Underdark, even mushrooms sometimes moved and attacked. The things were not unlike the thin roots of the giant mushrooms in the grove near his home, but were much thicker, and covered with some rough, hard outer layer.

He poked one with his sword; nothing happened. So he began to climb up, pulling himself up to the opening. He slipped out of the top onto something soft and fuzzy; he glanced down, and found himself sitting in a bed of moss. However, this moss was not the pale, grayish stuff he was used to- it was bright green, like an emerald from the vaults beneath Argos Hall. He looked around, and discovered that he had come out into a grove of huge plants bigger than even the tallest giant mushrooms, with long, wide arm-like structures that branched out into many small, flat green things. Everywhere he looked, there were shades of green. The ground beneath his feet was soft and springy, with even more green things sprouting here and there. Strange rope-like things with green foliage wound around the larger hard-bodied plants. Even more amazing was that some of the growing things had flowers, much like the pale cave lilies he had seen so often before, but in colors and shapes he had never imagined possible.

Then he looked up. The sight that greeted him nearly took his breath away. High above, far beyond even the tops of the gigantic plants, was a vast open space of velvet black, studded with tiny twinkling lights. In the distance, he could see two much larger lights, one huge, round, and white, the other smaller, grey, and half-concealed by a dark shadow. Dark grey billows like gigantic banks of smoke drifted across the expanse, gathering overhead to slowly obscure the lights. The young drow gasped in awe, for he realized that he was looking at the sky.

He had heard of the twinkling lights and great orbs of light before, yet never had he dreamed they would be so bright- or so beautiful. A dozen tiny sounds came from every direction, soft chirping noises, deeper croaks, and even a few distant howls that sent a slight shiver up his spine. He searched for the source of the noises, but found only a few small insects and some sort of small soft-bodied creatures with warty skin, bulging eyes, and webbed feet. He laughed, suddenly excited for no reason he could explain, and began to feel around of the many strange plants, touching them, taking in their textures and colors as if they might disappear at any moment. He was surprised to discover that it was the blooms that made the sweet, heady scent he had noted earlier; once he realized this, he was eager to sniff them all, marveling at their varied fragrances.

Then he heard a low, soft rumble, and paused. He had never seen clouds before, and knew nothing of weather; so it came as a surprise when a bright, blinding light flashed across the sky, followed by a sharp crack of booming noise. He ducked behind the nearest large plant- a tree, he thought it was called- and peeked around it, expecting some great dragon or other monster to come sweeping down at him. Instead, he was surprised to feel large drops falling from the air, a few at first, then thousands of them. Water from the air itself? He was completely baffled, as the light rain fell upon the forest- for that was what he found himself in.

Lothir laughed again, happily basking in the cool rain, and soon spotted a narrow trail that wound off into the forest. He decided to follow it, wondering what other wonders the surface world held. Would he see one of the many strange creatures from his books? As he walked, the gentle sound of the rain seemed to comfort him, lending a sense of peace to the shadowed forest. Somehow, he knew that he was safe here- he could not explain it, but he was certain that no harm would come to him in this place.

After a while, the rain slowed and finally stopped, and the clouds parted to reveal the two lights once more. Moons, he realized, searching his memory for the name of the lights. They were Anterris’ moons, and the smaller lights were stars. He frowned briefly, for he seemed to recall that there were three moons. Yet he had seen only two. He concentrated for a few seconds, trying to remember their names. Semerrya was the white one, he recalled, while the smaller was Brakis. And Crinos- that was the smallest one, the one called the Dark Moon because it was only visible when seen by day or when it passed in front of one of the others.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

He was still wandering silently along the trail when he heard a new sound nearby, coming from above. It was a soft, mournful hooting; he froze, looking up quickly toward the sound. On a low branch of one of the trees, sat a large white creature with a round, flat-faced head, a small sharp beak, and a body covered in soft fluff, with two large clawed feet that clung to the branch easily, balanced perfectly on the narrow, round surface. It shook its body, sending droplets of water flying, and spread a pair of wings that had previously lain flat against its sides. The creature turned its head to stare at him with large round eyes, blinking, and made a soft chirp, fluttering its wings briefly before it dropped off the branch, and swooped down over his head to land on a stump a few feet away.

The creature bobbed its head at him, then turned it until it was nearly up-side-down, blinking again, then turned it back upright, and chirped once more. Puzzled, he took a few tentative steps toward the strange animal. It fluffed up and began to preen beneath one wing, as if it was ignoring his presence. He moved slowly toward it, one hand out, until he was only an arm’s length from the winged creature. As if finally acknowledging his nearness, the avian turned its head inverted again, and hopped closer on the stump.

He held out his hand to it, and it hooted softly, blinking up at him with those wide golden eyes. He touched its downy chest, and marveled at the sensation, for it was softer than anything he had ever felt. It fluffed its wings, and took off, circling above him before flying silently down the path. Curious, he followed, wondering how a wild creature could appear so tame, as if it knew he meant it no harm. Or was it something more?

A little further on, the narrow trail widened out, with tangled undergrowth along the edges, drooping with large pink or white many-petaled blooms, and a carpet of moss and soft earth. As he followed the avian, he soon heard a new sound- one that he knew well. He heard a woman singing a sweet, joyful melody, in a high, pure voice more beautiful than any he had heard before. The voice drew him on, as if some part of him needed to be near the singer. He knew, though he could not say how, that he had heard that voice before. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

As he continued, the trail soon ened at a large clearing, carpeted with flowers, surrounded by tall, majestic trees. A large pool in the center reflected the light of the two moons, and a large white, flat-topped stone rose up near the water’s edge. The water was dotted with floating plants with large white blooms, and the trees were draped with more of the rope-like things with pale blue blossoms. Everywhere the scents pervaded the air, wafting to him on the gentle breeze.

Yet he noticed all this almost as an afterthought, for in the middle of the clearing was a tall, beautiful female drow, with long silvery hair that fell to her feet- and she was moving about with a long, slender silver sword in her hand, waving and swinging it around in a series of complex moves that were as inspiring as they were deadly. Even more amazing, was that she was wielding it while completely nude, the moonlight gleaming off her smooth onyx skin, her feet as bare as the rest of her. He gasped in awe, amazed by her serene beauty and grace. He drew closer, entranced by the song and her strange dance with the sword.

The woman seemed oblivious to his approach, but he sensed that she knew he was there. In fact, as the winged creature swooped and circled over her, then landed on the stone, he realized that she had known he was near all along- the avian had led him to her. It was then that he heard the voice in his own mind.
Come, my child. I have been waiting for you, it said gently, and he had to fight the urge to weep for joy at the warm feeling that rose up inside at her mental touch. He took a few steps closer, afraid that he was imagining her. Do not be afraid, she whispered in his mind, even while she continued to sing.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

“Who are you?” he asked, pausing in the clearing, near the stone. The woman’s laughter tinkled in his head like tiny bells, silvery and sweet.

You know me, she said. You have always known me. Did you not wonder why your heart was so different from all the others? I am there. I have called to you, and now you have come. She whirled and leapt, pirouetting around him as he came nearer, and he felt the barest whisper of the flat of her blade touching his cheek. Yet he did not flinch, somehow sensing that she would never hurt him. He heard her light laughter in his head again, and smiled hesitantly.

“Moondancer…” he whispered; she smiled back, and swiftly stopped her dance, standing before him with her sword held straight up above her head. The sword flashed, and faded from view, into a swirl of glimmering motes of moonlight. She was taller than any drow or surface elf he had ever seen- taller even than an orc or bugbear. Awed, the young drow gazed up at her lovely face, and suddenly fell to his knees, head bowed in reverence. He knew he was in the presence of a goddess. “You honor me, Lady,” he said softly.

She knelt down on one knee, and reached out to lift his chin gently. “Did you think that you were alone?” she asked. “I am always with you. When you feel lost, or afraid, you need only call on me, and I will hear you, child.” Her voice was soothing, and tears of happiness welled up to trickle down his cheeks. “Come, little one, and join me in the dance. Listen to the song of the Night Above- do you hear it?”

He nodded, gazing up into her serene face. Her eyes were the hue of perfect amethysts; they reminded him of Ravyn’s, or Morganna’s, if his sister had not been so cruel. “But I don’t know your name,” he protested, and frowned. “I don’t even know how to dance,” he finished mournfully.

“It does not matter, my child- only what is in your heart is important. You need only follow it,” she murmured gently, then leaned forward to kiss his forehead lightly. “But perhaps you are not yet ready. When that time comes, you will know. But now it is late, and you must leave soon. My name is Elistarrya, the Dark Maiden and Lady of the Dance. Remember it well, and call on me when you have need.” She smiled, and rose, moving over to stand beside the stone. The white avian fluffed up, and fluttered up silently to land on her shoulder, its taloned feet clinging so gently that they did not even scratch her obsidian skin.

“What is that?” he asked, gazing up at the strange creature curiously. “Does it have a name?”

“He is my servant- an owl named Snowfeather. He likes you,” she said with a chuckle, smiling.

Lothir rose, and held up one hand to stroke the owl. “He’s very beautiful,” he said wonderingly. After a long moment, he looked up at the goddess again, with a serious but hopeful expression. “I- I wish to serve you, my Lady,” he said hesitantly. “If you wish it,” he continued, “May I? What would you ask of me?”

“To serve me is an important decision, my child, and you are young,” the goddess replied. “Are you certain you want this? I ask nothing but that you follow the ideals of faith in me. To act always with kindness and courtesy, spread music and joy, and to give aid to those in need. But you know this already- it has always been in your heart to do this. Yet think carefully before you pledge yourself to my service, for if others learn of it, you will be hunted, perhaps even killed for your faith. Are you willing to take such a risk?”

He looked down at the ground for a long time before answering. “As you said, Lady- I have always done so. Yes, I would gladly do as you ask. I pledge myself to you, Jabbress.” He replied, kneeling with his head bowed. She laid her hand on his shoulder, smiling, and nodded.

“Very well, young one. As you wish.” She raised her arm, and the silver sword appeared in her hand. She brought it down before her, and held it out. “Hold out your hand,” she said solemnly, and he did so. Then she drew the blade across his palm, leaving a long, shallow cut. “By this are you bound to me, to serve as one of my faithful. Be true to the calling of your heart, and remember your oath, for by your own blood freely given is it made.”

The young drow nodded, and let the ruby drops fall upon her blade and onto the ground. “As you will, Lady,” he said, and stood up once more. “I will remember.” Then she smiled again, and stepped back, before slowly fading out into sparkling moonbeams that soon disappeared. He stared at the two moons for a long time, then finally turned and began to caper back down the trail to the hole beneath the tree.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

Some time later, he had finally returned home, and was quietly slipping up the stairs to his room when he felt something sharp poke him in the back of the neck. The young drow froze; then he heard a soft chuckle, and turned slowly to see who was behind him. His stomach sank when he saw the familiar swirl of black, silver-streaked hair and violet eyes. Morganna. He sighed, and glared at her, as she stood there grinning wickedly at him from the shadows of a guard post.

“Careless is dead, little worm,” she sneered, casually flipping a dagger in one hand. She stepped out of the alcove, watching him with narrowed gaze, moving like a cat stalking its prey. He noted grimly that she had blood spattered on her cloak and tunic; no doubt, she had been down at the outpost practicing her fighting skills by slaughtering wild beasts brought into the cavern from the wilds, or perhaps even on the soldiers and scouts themselves. He was certain that the blood was not hers.

“What do you want, Morganna?” he asked warily. She rarely ever deigned to notice him unless it was to torment him, a habit she seemed to have picked up from his mother. She flashed him a wicked grin, her teeth showing white against her dusky grey lips. Her eyes glittered coldly, as she held the dagger pointed toward him, circling slowly like a shark.

“I know you’ve been keeping secrets, little brother,” she hissed; she laughed softly when she saw the hint of worry in his eyes. “I do not know where you have been hiding, but even our Lady Consort is beginning to take notice of your frequent disappearances. Where do you go, I wonder? Shall I tell her you have been sneaking out somehow? Past the patrols, perhaps?” She teased, as if daring him to dispute her claim.

Lothir blew a lock of hair from his face, annoyed. She had played this game before, always pretending she knew more than she did. “Don’t you have a goblin to torture somewhere?” he asked scornfully. “And just what if I have? What are you going to do about it? I can do as I please- I don’t answer to you.” He made certain she caught the slight emphasis on the last word, reminding her that she had no real place within the family.

The half-drow girl bristled, all pretense of civility suddenly gone. “You little-!” she began, but then paused, as though she could not think of a curse vile enough. “You may think you are special because you are the Heir, but one day Father will realize what a mistake he made in naming you his successor. And when he does, I will see to it that you fall. It should have been me!!” she hissed, then turned and stormed away in a red haze of fury.

He stared after her until she had disappeared down the long spiral stair, then shook his head with a sigh, wondering how she could be so jealous of him, when in truth, he had nothing. For all the expectations of his family, he was treated little better than the slaves, and only his blood kept him from being shoved aside and forgotten, into the ranks of the common servants and soldiers of the House. Morganna was too blinded by her hatred to ever understand that she had far more freedom than he ever would. He finally trudged the rest of the way to his small room, with its bare walls and stark furnishings- so unlike those of the House priestesses, or even his father- and fell onto the bed, exhausted. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he was glad she had not noticed the bandage around his hand.


The following weeks passed quickly. Several times, he had gone back to the forest clearing on the surface, exploring the strange new world excitedly, always amazed by each new sight or smell or sound, yet he never saw the goddess again. He found himself saddened by that fact, wishing she would return, so that he could ask all the questions that seemed to continually bubble up as if from a never-ending fountain. Still, at least the owl had remained, for it was always there waiting when he climbed out of the hole onto the soft, earthy-smelling soil of the forest.

He had quickly discovered that the forest was set in a small valley, secluded and peaceful, with few creatures larger than Snowfeather himself. Occasionally, he would find tracks like those from the abandoned den, though he never saw the animals that made them. On several occasions, he heard distant howls that brought a chill to his spine, but whatever made the sounds never came close enough for him to see what it was, though he knew there must be at least half a dozen.

Strangest of all was the night he had come upon a large creature with four long, slender legs, a graceful arched neck, and a small, long head with large ears and a pair of large, curving, many-pronged horns. It had stared at him with huge dark eyes, flicking a tiny tail with a white underside as he watched it move slowly through the clearing toward the pool. It had tawny fur, and its tiny hoofed feet made it seem to almost glide across the clearing. The drow wondered what sort of creature it was, and whether it might be dangerous, until it began to graze quietly on the grass and flowers, reminding him of the placid rothe herd at home. He had sat by the stone near the pool, watching until it left the clearing, awed that a simple beast could be so beautiful.

He continued to explore the tunnels, as well, until he was satisfied that he had memorized nearly all of them. Most were empty of anything more dangerous than a few shrieker fungi or the occasional rust monster or hook horror. Once he had found a small, deep hole that led into the lair of a beholder. He had wisely left it alone, for he knew well enough that beholders were some of the most dangerous and intelligent beings in the Underdark. Even the deep gorge he had discovered with a colony of grey oozes at the bottom was easily avoided, since it was narrow enough to jump across. He had been excited when he found a narrow tunnel that wound around to exit at a small, high ledge above a large tunnel whose walls and floor bore the marks of many years of traffic from riding lizards and booted feet. When he had followed the larger passage, he had discovered that it was part of the main trade route from his home to the various Underdark cities that dotted the deep caverns beneath Argonia.

That meant two things- first, that the secret warrens he had found were, in fact, part of the larger cave complex that his family knew, and second, that only their relative inaccessibility and the fact that the entrance was hidden behind a huge boulder had kept them from being discovered. Naturally, he set about doing what he could to insure that they would not be found. He liked having his own private domain in which to learn and practice his skills, and he enjoyed keeping the secret of their existence even more. Morganna thought he had been sneaking out through the outpost, and had begun watching it to try to catch him. It amused him immensely to know that she was watching the wrong place, and would probably never discover where he really went.

As time went by, he began to gain more skill, not only at swordplay, but his magic, as well. He had already learned several spells, though none was very powerful, or even particularly useful for more than amusement. Even his proficiency with the flute had greatly improved, to the point where he was able to produce several recognizable tunes, though he knew that he still needed improvement. Unfortunately, he still had not unlocked the magic in it, a fact which frustrated him more and more each time he tried.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

Blooding

Days passed quickly, and all too soon, Lothir found himself with less than two months before he would be sent to the Academy in Terrillis. As each day began, he found himself dreading more and more the prospect of leaving home, especially in light of some of the more questionable duties he was expected to learn there. Shiallin had long since explained the many customs and traditions of city life, all of which she ingrained into him repeatedly. The most important of these was obedience to female Nobles, especially the clergy, and Matrons in particular. Though nearly half the noble Houses were now led by Patrons, the priestesses of the Venom Queen were still a powerful force to be reckoned with. She made certain he understood that compliance with their wishes was not only expected, but demanded.
This left him feeling less interested in the more physical skills she insisted he learn; more than once, he had found himself completely revolted by some of the activities she commanded of him. Yet he knew there was little choice in the matter- as she frequently reminded him, even being he Heir of the First House did not elevate him above the edicts of the city’s ruling Council, which was still run by the eight most powerful Matrons. Inwardly, he seethed at the thought of what might be asked of him. He had not forgotten the abuse he had suffered from his former master, nor the mental invasion Shiallin had used to alter his memory of the affront. It had taken days for the truth to return to him- mostly in the form of horrid dreams that left him trembling, curled up clutching his blanket around himself for the scant comfort it gave. When it finally did, he had almost refused to continue with the “lessons” she taught in her chamber. Only the knowledge that the punishment for doing so would be far worse than what she planned made him continue.
The one bright prospect of it all was that he would be relatively free to do as he wished in the city, though with the condition that there would be an armed escort with him whenever he left the Academy grounds. He had groaned aloud on hearing his mother mention bodyguards, knowing without a doubt whose idea that had been. In spite of Shiallin’s assurance that he would be prepared, Aldan did not seem to share her confidence, which left the young prince to wonder if he would ever be allowed to make his own decisions.
When only five weeks remained, he was summoned- via his House insignia- to the throne room by his mother early one morning, shortly after breakfast. He arrived to find her standing beside the huge seat, one arm draped over the high back. He stopped dead when he saw the throne’s occupant, for he had not known that the Lord Patron had returned home late the night before. Evidently, the trip from Deimos had taken less time than expected. The young drow gulped, wondering what had prompted his parents to summon him formally. Had his father decided to send him to the Academy early?
He approached the dais slowly, cautious of the condescending gaze of his sire, who lounged casually on the huge stone chair with the air of one who knew he was in command of everything around him, leaning on one cushioned arm. Aldan still wore his sailor’s vest over a black silk tunic, and a brace of throwing knives, and Lothir noticed that he wore the blood-red sash that marked him as a member of the Venomed Daggers, and his customary whip and cutlass. He sported a silver cuff on one ear, and a pair of adamantine bracers engraved with coiling serpents. Only his magical black piwafwi- a cloak that made its wearer invisible even to dark-vision when the hood was raised- marked him as a Noble, rather than a common soldier.
“Vendui, ussta Senger Ilharn,” the boy said, bowing deeply. The Patron scowled as Lothir gave the customary formal greeting, clearly displeased about something. Had he done something wrong? He began to grow worried, for neither had spoken- surely a bad sign.
“It has come to my attention that you have not yet completed your Blooding Rite. It is necessary that this test be passed before you leave. The test is simple. You must prove your worth by slaying a powerful enemy in combat, alone and within the time allowed. It will be a fight to the death- there is no other option. You will have one month to prepare, before the Blooding begins. You will then enter the wilds to hunt your prey, and may return again only with proof that you have slain your foe. You are permitted to use any weapon you wish, but you must return within one week. Do you understand the rules of the Blooding?”
The youth gaped at his father’s words. Blooding? He tried to remember what it was about; he thought he had heard Morganna boasting about it once, that she had slain a behir for hers, and now wore the huge multi-legged lizard-creature’s scaly hide as her only armor. She had been so smug, taunting him with insinuations that he could not have defeated so dangerous a beast. Her own Blooding had been a mere formality, though, for she had long since made her first kill, even keeping gristly trophies of some of the more deadly ones.
He opened his mouth to speak, wanting to correct his Patron by telling him that he had already fought and killed several dangerous beasts- but then he remembered that they did not know of his explorations, and decided it would be best not to have to explain how he had managed to escape the vigilance of the soldiers at the outpost. If they knew he had been sneaking out to seek adventure in the deep caverns, they might never allow him out of the compound again. He had already decided to enjoy his time away from home as much as possible, Matrons or no. Better to seize what freedom he could, before returning to the dull, empty life of his family, than to never know what experiences waited in the wider world.
“Did you not hear him?! Speak!” The Lady Consort snarled, her hand moving to her snake-headed whip. He cringed involuntarily, as she cocked it back to strike. But the Patron stopped her with a word.
“Enough! Ardra, this sort of handling is precisely why the boy has never learned to think or act for himself. If you spent less time disciplining him every time the mood strikes you, he might have the confidence of a true leader by now. How is the boy to become a worthy successor if he is constantly relegated to the level of a common slave?”
Aldan glared at his mate, as if daring her to argue. She seemed inclined to protest for a moment, until she noticed the many soldiers flanking the room, all of whom were utterly loyal to their Lord, and would attack her on his slightest order. The number and loyalty of his men was the very reason she had never dared move against the arrogant upstart. Her own former Matron Mother had made the mistake of underestimating that loyalty when he had been brought into her House as the Shipmaster. When he had turned on her, staging a coup with nearly all of the males of the House behind him, Ardra had been one of the few priestesses of the former House Alean’viir who had chosen to swear allegiance to him, rather than be executed, along with Shiallin and a few of her younger sisters and cousins. The memory of his betrayal and ascension still grated on her, but she had little choice but to bide her time and wait for the opportunity to take back her rightful place as head of the combined might of his mercenary forces and her own former House soldiers.
“Yes, Matron,” replied the boy at last, surprised that his father had interceded on his behalf. He had never expected the cold and distant lord to defend him. “I understand, Patron. Who am I to fight?” he asked cautiously.
“Your prey will be revealed the day before your Blooding begins. Remember- you have three weeks to prepare. Use the time to decide what manner you will use to slay your foe. By the sword, arrow, or spell, it makes no difference, but you must bring back proof of your victory, or you will fail the test- and I will not tolerate failure.” There was a dark undertone to his words that the young drow did not like, which boded ill for him if he did not succeed in the test.
“Yes, my lord, sir. I will do as you command,” the boy said, bowing again. The stern Lord nodded, then waved him off.
“Very good. Now, return to your duties,” he said imperiously, and Lothir knew he had been dismissed. It was ever the way of things, that his father had not even expressed interest in his progress- he merely expected his son to excel automatically.
Lothir sighed, nodding to his parents, then turned and left the room, frowning in disgust. His only thought as he trudged down to the training room was to wonder what sort of creature they would require him to fight.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

He had intended later that day to go down to the mushroom grove to enter the crevice into his private tunnels; unfortunately, that proved impossible when Nalvir commanded him to follow him after his daily weapon drills. “Come, boy- it is time you chose your weapon for the Blooding,” he said simply, then strode through the doors down the corridor that led to the armory. He did not wait for Lothir to answer, so the young drow was forced to follow behind him, vaguely excited that he would be allowed to choose his own weapon. Usually, the Weapon Master dictated what he would be practicing with.
When they reached the armory, Nalvir held his House insignia up to a small round indentation on the doors- the only way to open them, for they were magically locked to anyone but the bearer of the devices. The heavy adamantine doors opened with a loud grating sound, and several torches sprang to bright, blazing life throughout the large room. Lothir gasped softly as he gazed around the room, for though he had been inside the smaller armory that kept many of the simple practice blades and sticks, he had never been inside the main repository for the House’s magical and masterwork weapons and armor.
“Make your choice carefully, boy. Remember that the weapon you choose today is what you will use for the test, so you will want something you can wield with ease, that feels most right in your hand.” Nalvir stood aside, waving him into the chamber where the racks sat in row after row, with dozens of shelves and racks on the walls, holding weapons and armor of every size and description imaginable. Swords hung alongside glaives and halberds, maces lay on shelves beside daggers and helms, spiked gauntlets and the small hand crossbows for which the drow were so famed lay near axes, whips, and spears. Suits of adamantine and steel armor stood among tridents and harpoons, shields and bracers lay shining near a stack of bows and quivers full of arrows. He saw throwing stars, spiked chins, even an exotic chakram or two, and more kinds of blades than he had ever believed could exist.
Lothir moved slowly among the many racks and shelves, occasionally picking up a random weapon, holding it for a few moments, even making a few practice swings or jabs before putting it back down again. Eventually, he found himself drawn to the many swords on a long rack near the center of the room, examining each blade to find the one that truly called to him. Several seemed promising- a large, heavy cutlass like the one his father always carried, a slender serrated long sword, even a whip-thin rapier. Yet none of them seemed quite right, so he continued his search, undaunted in spite of the myriad choices gleaming in the torchlight.
At last he saw it- or rather, them- tucked together between a massive claymore and a double-bladed scimitar similar to the weapon Morganna was so fond of. A pair of identical short, narrow-bladed sabers, with a simple hand guard curving down the side of each hilt. They were unadorned save for a bit of leather and wire wrapped around the hilts, and the blades were mithril with only a narrow groove down the blade for strength. He held one up, swished it in the air a few times, then on impulse took the other, and slashed with both. He smiled; the sabers were neither heavy nor especially long, and felt perfectly balanced.
At last he turned back to Nalvir. “Am I allowed to use more than one?” he asked, for nothing had been said of being limited to a single weapon. When the old scar-faced male nodded, the boy grinned broadly. “Then I choose these,” he said with finality, “Besides, you said yourself that I fight better with two, at least when they’re not too big and heavy.”
Nalvir nodded, frowning. “True enough, but keep in mind that sometimes it is better to have protection than a second weapon. Would you not prefer a shield?”
The boy thought for a moment, then looked around at all the shields and armor with a slight frown. At last he shook his head. “No. I just don’t see myself with one- they’re too heavy and awkward; it would only slow me down, and if I’m going to be fighting something really tough, I’d rather not get hit at all than try to run around with some bulky piece of armor weighing me down and tiring me out.” He didn’t add that he had already learned the hard way that some creatures could attack in ways that would go right through whatever armor he might wear. Instead, he picked up a pair of bracers, and a simple mithril chain vest, which were light enough that they would not be too cumbersome, but still provided a bit of protection.
“This is all I need,” he said finally, smiling. He noted that Nalvir did not seem impressed by his choices, but neither had the Weapon Master argued for something else. He hoped that was a good sign, especially since he still had no idea what he would be fighting. He hoped it was nothing too terrible, as he wasn’t even certain that he would be able to kill whatever they sent him after.
“Good enough, then,” the older male replied, nodding. “Come on, let’s get to work. You’re to begin practicing with them at once.” He started out the doors, motioning for the boy to follow him.
That brought the youth up short. “But- didn’t we already do drills today? I thought we were finished?”
Nalvir whirled around on him, growling fiercely. “Do you want to live through this test, or not, boy?” He glared, obviously annoyed by the foolish question from his student.
“Well, yes, but I thought-” Lothir began, but the look on his mentor’s face shut him up. He knew that look, for he had seen it often enough. It meant that the discussion was over. He sighed, then grimaced and strode out after the scarred male, mentally chafing at being forced to endure another round of wearying drills. He almost hoped that whatever they wanted him to fight would kill him, just so he would no longer have to put up with such annoyances.
Thus began another long, arduous bout of practice, this time with his new sabers. He found himself enjoying it more than he had anticipated, for the blades felt light in his hands, and rang out almost sweetly when he struck at his Master. They were sharp and quick, too, slicing through the air in swift strokes that left audible swishing sounds when he slashed out with them. After a few minutes, he actually found himself smiling as he fought, and soon he even began to sing out one of the many songs Ravyn had taught him, an old battle-song meant to boost warriors’ spirits and give courage to those who heard it. His voice rang out merrily, as he began striking out in time to the tune, as though the song itself was fueling his strength and energy. Nalvir snarled, quickly becoming angered by the boy’s light-hearted attitude.
“Enough nonsense, boy! Do you think this is a game?!” He yelled, but the young prince only laughed.
“Why not? If I’m going to go get myself killed, I might as well have a little fun doing it!” Lothir laughed, and continued singing, for he had noticed that his master was beginning to lose his concentration, clearly annoyed by the song. Metal rang, and the boy discovered that the music distracted the old drow, giving him openings in which to strike, though Nalvir had declared that they use the flats of their blades only. Even so, the boy managed to make several quick hits in rapid succession that would have left his mentor dead had they been in earnest. Little did he realize that he had opened the door to his own special magic, the song instilling him with a power that leant strength and energy to his blows, and swiftness to his blades. Unknown even to himself, he had tapped into the bard’s gift of song-magic, the rare talent for infusing his music with arcane power that could encourage, inspire, or enthrall those it was directed at.
“You’ve improved, to be sure, but this is no laughing matter. Stop this at once!” The older drow snarled, infuriated by the boy’s jubilant singing. He whirled, slashed, and lunged, seeking any weakness, but only grew more frustrated when he found that this mere whelp had somehow become far more expert than he had believed. Several times he broke through the youth’s guard, only to have him slip out of reach, and even those hits that scored did little to discourage the lad from his bothersome ditty. It never even occurred to him that there might be some other force at work; all he saw was the youth fighting with more spirit and skill than he had shown before.
Lothir just gave him a devilish grin, and continued on. “Make me!” he warbled out, without missing a note, and drove home his point with a smack to Nalvir’s flank that left a sting on the Weapon Master’s rump. He howled in rage, and bull-rushed the smaller drow in an attempt to put an end to the rousing tune. The lad merely stepped aside, still grinning- and singing- and slapped his back as he barreled past.
His game ened a moment later, however, when a harsh voice shouted out from the doorway. “What in the Nine Hells is going on here?!” Nalvir spun, and Lothir jerked in surprise, inadvertently turning his blades to slash at Nalvir’s face and left thigh edgewise, leaving a pair of long, shallow gashes as he drew them across. Red lines appeared where his blades had been, and the Weapon Master let out a curse of pain as he lowered his sword to face the intruder.
The young prince was so startled by the accidental wounds he had made that he was struck dumb, whirling quickly to face the owner of the voice. His grin fell in an instant, as he found himself staring up into the coldly furious gaze of his sire. “F- Fath-” he stammered, backing away as the stern Lord Patron stormed in, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, and yanked him off his feet.
“What is the meaning of this foolishness?” He growled, his ice-blue gaze colder than any glacier, flashing with a dangerous rage that left his offspring trembling. The sabers fell from hands gone suddenly nerveless, clattering to the floor loudly.
“I- I was just pr- practicing, Father,” he apologized in a small, weak voice, suddenly contrite. “F- Forgive me, my Lord,” he said, lowering his gaze in deference, for he saw the steel in his Lord’s expression, and knew he had done something wrong, though he could not understand why his elder would be angry at him for singing during his practice.
“Practicing for what- a traveling minstrel troupe?!” Aldan replied acidly, sneering down at the boy. “And do not ever call me that again! You will address me as Lord Patron, or not at all!” His distain was obvious; he shoved his son back with such force that the boy lost his balance and fell to the floor, sending one of the sabers sliding across the stone with a grating sound, like nails on a chalk slate.
Lothir stared up at his elder in frightened silence, unable to answer. Finally, he looked back down to the floor, a lump rising in his throat at the Patron’s wrath, feeling ashamed and hurt. What was so bad about having fun with his lessons? He felt the familiar shadow of despair and guilt looming over him, though he could not say why it should be so. All his life, he had wanted nothing more than for his cold, distant parents to show some sign of affection or approval, yet all he ever received was indifference at best, or outright abuse at worst. He felt a tear threatening to fall, and quickly blinked it away, for he did not dare to show such weakness to his sire.
He was even more surprised when the enraged Patron whirled on Nalvir. “And you!” he roared. “I accepted you into this House to instruct him in combat, not teach him ridiculous ditties. And now I find you making a mockery of a position of honor, while he plays foolish games! I should cut you down where you stand for this affront. A skilled and powerful Weapon Master reduced to a bumbling buffoon by a mere child?! This is an outrage!” He yanked his cutlass from its sheath, and raised it to draw it back for what would have been a deadly blow, but was suddenly stopped when a small hand grabbed his arm.
“Wait! Please- it wasn’t his fault- punish me instead!” Both older drow turned to stare down in shock as the boy grasped his father’s arm, a pleading look on his face. He had already seen one teacher executed for treason, another transformed for abuse of power, and now his father meant to slay yet another- for no better reason than because he had allowed his student to make a fool of him.
“What?!” The word came from both at once, as though neither could grasp the notion that anyone would ever accept punishment in another’s stead. The Patron glared from one to the other, while Nalvir simply stared at the impetuous youth with a look of bewilderment. Blood still welled from the cuts on his face and leg; no doubt he would have a new scar on his face to match the other one, unless he saw one of the priestesses for healing. At last, Aldan shoved his cutlass back into its scabbard, scowling darkly.
“You have not heard the end of this, Nalvir. If you cannot control the boy, and teach him something useful, you will part company with your head- is that clear?”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the Weapon Master respectfully, with a deep bow, as he watched the Patron turn and stalk out of the room. When Aldan had left, he whirled on the boy, wiping at the blood on his cheek with the back of his hand. “I hope you are satisfied, idiot. Your insolent foolishness is going to cost you dearly. The next time you make a fool of me like that, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to my riding lizard! Now- you are going to keep practicing until you drop. Perhaps that will teach you not to mock your elders. Begin!” He shouted at last, bringing his sword down even before the boy had picked up his own blades.
Lothir was almost too startled to react, but recovered just in time to avoid the sideways blow that would have slammed into his head if he had not ducked and rolled aside. He grabbed one saber, then dived for the other as Nalvir swung back again. The older drow’s lips curled into a cold smile, fury burning in his crimson eyes. The young prince gulped, realizing that his tutor intended to make the fight more brutal- he was no longer holding the blade flat side out, but with the edge bared. He barely brought his own up to block in time, and felt the full weight of his mentor’s strength behind the next strike. Nalvir meant to wear him down through sheer force, and perhaps even to kill him for the insult to his dark elven pride.
He parried blow after blow, and dodged when he could, suddenly fighting for his life against his own teacher. The scarred male was relentless in his assault, hardly giving the boy time to breathe between attacks, let alone to counter. At last, the young drow was forced to scamper back even to gather his wits enough to do more than defend. He dodged aside as Nalvir rushed at him again, and swung one blade up to strike the Weapon Master from behind with the flat while he brought the other low to trip him. Nalvir went sprawling to the floor, cursing viciously.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

“Think you’re clever, do you? You’ll think differently when I’m finished with you. I am going to work you until you can’t stand, every day for the next week!” He whirled, slashing at the youth in a vicious arc that left a crimson line down Lothir’s cheek, then cut low and to the left on the back-swing, leaving another line on the boy’s leg. “Now we are even, whelp!” shouted the older drow, his red eyes blazing with vengeful fury.

The two traded blows until the young prince could hardly raise his arms, bleeding from a dozen small gashes where he had not been quite fast enough to avoid his mentor’s attacks. By then, several hours had passed. At last he fell to his knees, too tired to continue, heaving and dripping with sweat. The Weapon Master raised his blade to strike again, but then lowered it slowly, a look of satisfaction on his grim features.

“Do you yield, then?” he asked, lips curled in a victorious sneer. The boy nodded, and lay down his blades at the other’s feet. Nalvir made a roar, and brought the blade down- just inches from the youth’s head. “Perhaps this will remind you to respect those above you. Next time, I will not miss, fool. Now go see a healer and get cleaned up. We will do this again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the week!” He shouted, then turned and stalked out of the training room, sheathing his sword savagely as he went. The young prince watched him leave, and suddenly found himself shaking, humbled by his mentor’s harsh rebuke.


Several days later, he was wandering along the edge of the cove, wading bare-foot in the light surf, when he saw something lying among the rocks just a few feet down the pebbly beach. It appeared to be a small, sodden grey mass, tangled in seaweed. He approached it curiously, wondering what oddity the ocean had tossed up this time. When he looked more closely, he found that it was one of the large sea birds that the sailors of his father’s crew sometimes brought back as delicacies from the world above. He strained to recall what they were called, before he came up with a name- albatross. He had seen them many times before, but something was different about this one. He crouched down to examine the dead bird, picking up one limp wing, when the creature suddenly stirred, giving a weak squawk, and fluttered helplessly amid the mess of kelp fronds it was wrapped in.

Startled, Lothir scrambled back, his rump coming to rest on the soggy sand, as a wave crashed up around him. It flopped about, and he reached out to pull away the strands of seaweed to free it. It was then that he noticed the wing was broken. It flopped and struggled as he carefully picked it up, squawking furiously as it tried to nip and peck at his hands, its large webbed feet flailing about. He pulled it close to his chest, picking bits of kelp off its back and legs, in spite of its attempts to peck and buffet him.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m only trying to help,” he said soothingly, knowing the bird was only frightened. “I know how you feel; alone in a place you don’t belong, and everything seems hostile. I don’t know anything about fixing broken wings, but I’ll try.”

He pulled a few pieces of rothe jerky from the pouch on his belt, and held one out for the bird to eat. The bird took it, and gradually quieted down as he fed it several more. Finally, it seemed calm enough for him to examine the wing. He knew that it would die without help, but he had no idea how to care for a wounded animal. He wondered briefly if it might not be kinder to put the albatross out of its misery. But somehow he could not bring himself to kill it outright, not when there was a chance it could be saved.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, looking down at it with a somber frown. He gazed at the bird in his lap for several minutes, trying to decide how to help. He knew he could not ask anyone in the House- they would simply want to kill it for the evening meal. He could try to keep it hidden, but where? And what would happen once it was healed and could fly again? He knew that it could not live in the cavern, for it was a creature of the daylight world, and needed light to see its food.

Finally he ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, and wrapped it carefully around the wing, then around its body. “This will have to do for now,” he said, more to himself than the bird, for he was sure it would not understand him anyway. “Now, where can I put you so you’ll be safe?” He looked around, and noticed a small area of high stones near the edge of the pen that held the rothe herd. It was out of the way, and had a small depression in the middle where the albatross might be safe from the hooves of the shaggy beasts. He remembered that the birds were supposed to eat small fish, and he was sure there must be some sardines or herrings in the kitchen, since they were a common staple of the House members’ diet.

Thus he carried the creature carefully in his arms to the pen, and down to the low cliff where the rocks were, and place the albatross in the rough circle of stones, being certain to place large rocks in the gaps so that it would not wander out of the small enclosure. Then he ran back to the House compound, racing to the kitchen in the second level. It was nearly dinner-hour; the cooks and several slaves were busily preparing the evening’s repast, scurrying about like ants to have the family’s dinner ready on time. Ardra was not one to forgive tardiness, and would often whip them if it was not on the long table in the dining hall when the gong for dinner sounded. A couple of common guards stood watch, ostensibly to insure that no poison made it into the food, but in truth it was more to keep the slaves from stealing.

He entered the kitchen cautiously, wondering where he should look- the drow had rarely been inside the busy kitchen, so he was not familiar with where things were kept. At last he decided to ask one of the servants. He looked around for one who did not look very busy, and finally spotted a fat, relatively clean goblin with an apron on, and a large spoon in one of its spindly hands. He walked over to the goblin, tapping it on the shoulder from behind.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where the fish barrels are?” he asked politely. The goblin whirled around, saw one of its masters standing there, and suddenly became frightened, falling to its knees in supplication.

“Oh, sorry, Master! Did not see yous there! Please forgive- not mean to ignore good Master!” The goblin looked up at him fearfully; Lothir just rolled his eyes, annoyed by the ugly yellow-skinned creature’s over-submissive demeanor. As a whole, goblins were stupid, vicious, and repulsive, with flat faces, broad stubby noses, beady red eyes, wide, fanged mouths, and lank, filthy hair that hung down around their pointed ears. This one was an average specimen, though perhaps a bit more intelligent than most, since he could speak drowish in addition to the harsh, guttural language of his own race. He stood just barely over three feet, and was hefty for his kind at about fifty pounds. The drow noted absently that his round belly was probably from sneaking bits of food when the overseer was not looking.

Lothir paused, searching his memory for the creature’s name. “Gruchak, I just need to know where the fish barrels are kept. I need a few sardines.”

“Yous need fishies? Hungry Master- dinner ready soon!” The goblin gave him a wide grin, nodding vigorously. He seemed pleased that the boy had remembered his name. Most of the Nobles of the House would not have even bothered. The drow shook his head, beginning to reassess the goblin’s intelligence. Perhaps he should have searched for the supplies himself.

“I just want some fish- just tell me where they are, and I’ll get them myself,” he said with a look of consternation. The goblin looked puzzled, but was accustomed to doing as he was told, and pointed toward a storeroom in the back of the kitchen. He looked of at Lothir with a fawning expression, as though hoping to be rewarded for being helpful to his master.

“In there- fishies in back corner. I show you, Master!” He exclaimed, and led the drow to the storeroom, pulling a key ring off a hook on the wall, then opened the door. He shuffled over to a stack of barrels in the back of the large storage room, and began shifting through them. “Here, yous have all fishies yous want, Master!” He pointed at one of the barrels, grinning broadly, with his sharp fangs showing.

“Thank you, Gruchak. Could you bring me a basket or sack for the fish?” He said, and the goblin nodded enthusiastically. Gruchak ran over to another area, where several empty sacks sat on a shelf, and brought one over to the drow. He handed it to Lothir, who took it and flipped the lid off of the barrel. He held his breath at the smell of the pickled fish, and almost balked at picking up the slimy creatures, but steeled himself and grabbed several handfuls, tossing them into the sack one after another.

“What yous need fishies for?” asked the goblin curiously, not realizing the presumptuousness of his question. Had he dared ask anyone else, he might have been whipped for even asking. Fortunately for Gruchak, Lothir was not the sort to hurt the family servants needlessly- especially since he was friends with one of them.

“It’s for, uh, my new pet. I found an animal down by the cove, and I mean to keep it. Just don’t tell anyone, please. I don’t want some idiot trying to stick it in a stew pot. Oh, is there any of the gauze for cuts around? I may need it.”

“Ooh! Yes, good Master! I find- I bring! Wait here. Gruchak get anything yous want.” He dashed off to another area of the kitchen, where a shelf of salves, bandages, and various herbal remedies hung from the wall. He grabbed a roll of the bandages, and brought it back to where the drow waited by the storeroom door. “Master needs anything else?” he asked hopefully.

Lothir considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that will do for now. But I may be back soon for more fish. Thank you- and tell the cook I said you could have an extra portion for dinner and a half hour break with it.” He said as he strode to the kitchen door. Not that the tubby goblin needed it, of course, but it was in his kind-hearted nature to reward the slave for being helpful.

“Oh, thank yous, good Master!! Yous need anything else, yous come see Gruchak!” He nodded vigorously, so pleased that he was almost bouncing with delight. The drow gave him an amused smile, then left the kitchen. He stopped off for a brief detour into the bathing room for a small towel before racing back to the small rock enclosure at the edge of the rothe pen with his loot.

Several minutes later, he had the bird’s wing properly bound, and the sack was lighter by a half-dozen sardines. The albatross ate the fish greedily; when it had finished, he tied the sack and placed it in a small crevice a few feet away. Then he made certain it would be safe and warm with the towel he had pilfered, before he finally headed back into the house for dinner. He was late, of course- his mother reminded him off the fact quite vehemently, complete with threats and chastisement in front of both Morganna, who smirked, and his father, who scowled darkly at him.

In the end, he had been sentenced to return to his quarters without dinner, which did not truly bother him, as Ravyn was one of the servers, and he knew she would bring him something later. It was a small enough sacrifice to help the injured bird. Besides, he could not wait to tell her of finding it.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

When she came in some time later, he was only too happy to tell her about the bird while he ate. She smiled, then reminded him that it could not survive in the cavern, for it needed sunlight and open skies to live. He already knew that, and said as much, explaining that he intended to find a way to release it outside the cavern. She approved of the idea, but suggested that it might prove an impossible venture. He merely shrugged, and said that he would think of something.

It was only when she mentioned hearing about his impending Blooding that he lost his light mood. He frowned unhappily, and asked if she knew what he might be facing. He knew well enough that rumors often spread quickly among the servants, and he was certain that his foe had already been chosen. When she replied that she did not know, he grew quiet for a time, as the many possibilities swirled through his mind.

He was more than a little worried- there were tales of young drow who had been sent out for the ritual hunt, only to disappear and never be seen again. Others had returned as failures, and were either promptly cast from their own Houses, or became sacrifices for the Venom Queen’s altars, for disgracing their family. More rare, but not unheard of, were those who were transformed into hideous monstrosities by the goddess herself, for having proven themselves unworthy of her favor.

“What do you think it will be?” he asked quietly after a while. He finished the salmon and sautéed mushrooms she had brought, while she sat beside him on the bed.

“Don’t worry, my dearest. I am certain it will not be anything you cannot overcome. You are stronger than you think, and I have faith that you will succeed.” She leaned over and hugged him, and he returned her embrace hesitantly.

“What if it’s a captured surfacer?” he asked softly, for his greatest fear was not the ritual itself, but the possibility that he might have to kill another intelligent being, perhaps even one of his race’s most hated enemies, the light-skinned elves that had once been their kin. He did not know whether he could look into the eyes of another elf like Ravyn and kill him. Having known her- and more to the point, having a father who had once been one himself- he could not feel hatred for them as he had always been taught that he should.

“I don’t know, but I do not believe it will come to that. Most likely it will be some beast from the Underdark,” she replied calmly. Inside, she was not so confident, for she understood- even as he did not- that the test was as much about having the will and the callousness to kill as it was about strength and cunning. She had heard a vague rumor that Lord Aldan had something special in mind for his son’s Blooding, but nothing beyond that. That alone was enough to worry her, though she was too kind to admit it.

Lothir held tight to her waist, taking comfort in her nearness. He lay his head against her shoulder, and a strange feeling slowly crept over him. It was similar to the one he knew from his lessons in Shiallin’s chambers, but different, too. It felt more natural, untarnished by fear or shame. He did not have a name for it, for the drow language did not truly encompass such a feeling. Had he been older, or lived among any other people, he might have known it for what it was- the first stirrings of romantic love, a concept as foreign to his kin as colors to a blind man. He only knew that he wanted her near, for as long as she would stay. With her, he could simply be himself, without any need to hide his true feelings.

They held each other for a while, then Ravyn said that she must leave, and finish her duties for the day. He reluctantly watched her leave, before he finally climbed into his narrow bed and tried to sleep. Yet, as tired as he was, sleep would not come. There were too many things on his mind, not the least of which was what to do with the bird. How could he get it out of the cavern? He thought of taking a launch and rowing out to the entrance of the sea-tunnel, but it was nearly ten miles to the opening, and he did not know if he could row that far.

[Aylstra Illianniis]

At last he decided to leave it for a later time, and eventually drifted off. When he finally fell asleep in the dead of the night, he dreamt of the goddess dancing in the wood with Ravyn beside her, and heard her song ringing sweetly in his mind. He saw a silvery shape in the shadows, and was surprised when a white feather floated down to land at his feet.

He looked up, to see Snowfeather winging silently above, as two moons shone down over the clearing, bathing everything in soft light. He shed his clothes and joined in the joyful dance, until the dream faded and he smiled and murmured softly in his sleep, giving thanks to the Maiden for the song. The melody was still on his lips when he woke in the morning, and he somehow knew that all would be well.


He spent the remainder of that week practicing with Nalvir. True to his word, the Weapon Master worked him to exhaustion each day. There was little time left even to visit the injured albatross to feed it and check on its wing. He was glad when Nalvir finally decided he had been punished enough, and no longer kept him toiling for hours in the training room.

The next two weeks fairly flew by. He made frequent trips to care for the albatross, whom he called Quilin- a name which meant Windrider- as well as out into the secret tunnels to visit with Shelatchka. He went as far as the hole up to the surface, always hoping to see the Dark Maiden again, though he had begun to suspect that he never would. He wondered why she had ever appeared to him at all, for he was no priest, and had no prospect of ever becoming one. The taboo against males becoming priests to any deity was so ingrained that it never occurred to him to ignore it. In any case, there was no one to teach him of the doctrines and traditions of her faith. All he had was a book of songs, and the words she herself had given him.

One evening, nearly two weeks after the incident in the training room, he was sitting in the library with a book of lore on creatures of the Underdark, when the door opened softly, and he looked up to see Morganna glaring at him. She had meant for him to hear her approach- he knew that, for he would never have known she was near if she had not wanted him to. She was disturbing that way sometimes, always silent as a shadow, speaking only when she chose, and always staring at him as if imagining some gruesome demise for him.

“Searching for some useful lore to aid your battle?” she asked, snorting cynically. “It won’t do you any good, mal’ai. I know what you’re to face, and you cannot win. I saw them bringing it in this morning from the ship.”

“From the ship?” he asked, suddenly curious. “What was it?” He suddenly had a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still, if he could convince her to tell him what they had chosen as his prey, he might have an advantage.

“Hah! Don’t expect me to tell you, fool. Let’s just say you’d better be able to move fast!” She grinned at him with a wicked gleam in her violet eyes, tossing her silver-streaked black tresses haughtily. She glanced down at the book he had set aside, and almost laughed. “‘A Tunnel-runner’s Bestiary?’ That certainly won’t help! This is going to be good- I can’t wait for Father to cast you out when you fail! Then I will take my rightful place!” The look of triumph on her dusky features, so cold and crazed, did more to unnerve the young drow than a dozen hook horrors could have. He suddenly grabbed the book, fury flashing in his ice-blue orbs, and slammed it to the floor with a loud thud.

“That’s it, Morg! I’ve had enough of your stupid jealousy and your superior attitude! You’re never going to be the favored one, because you’re nothing but a barmy half-blood! Do you really think he would ever let a mad beast like you take the throne? No one would follow you, even if he did- they all know you’re insane. So just give it up, pale-skin. You have no place here.”

He saw her jaw drop in shock, but he did not wait for a response- instead, he simply stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, even as he heard her outraged shriek muffled by the heavy wooden barrier. He allowed himself a satisfied snarl of victory, and continued up to his own room. It was only after he had reached its relative security that he let out the breath he had been holding, and his knees began to shake. What did I just do? he thought in shock. Never had he dared to speak to her so harshly. Nor was it like him to throw insults about. Yet throw them he certainly had, with all the vindictive cruelty of the most cold-hearted drow. Was he really so different from them, then?

[Aylstra Illianniis]

He was sitting on the edge of the bed later, when Ravyn entered to bring in the laundry. She glanced over to find him staring down at a small shiny object in his hand, with a worried look. She put down the basket of clothes and tread quietly over to sit beside him. She made a puzzled frown when she saw what he was holding. It was a silver pendant on a mithril chain, in the shape of a sword against a full moon. She wondered where he had acquired it, for she recognized it as a holy symbol. “Is something wrong?” she asked gently.

“Morg knows what I’m facing, and she wouldn’t tell me. I yelled at her.” he said sullenly, feeling guilty, though he did not quite know why. She had always treated him as an inferior- never mind that it made no sense, as she was the child of a slave and therefore had no true claim to the rights of a noble.

Ravyn sighed and shook her head sadly. “Sometimes I wonder if she truly is my child. I tried so hard to give her a mother’s love, yet she despises me, for what reason I cannot guess. Perhaps that is why I care for you so much, my darling lad. It is a shame that blood is the only thing Morganna and I share.”

He pondered that for a while in silence, staring down at the comforting trinket in his hand. Somehow even just holding it made him feel more at ease. She had said that she would always be with him, and touching her symbol gave him a feeling of peace, as if he could almost hear the goddess’s voice again.

“Can I ask you something?” he said after a few minutes, still idly playing with the gleaming amulet. It had reminded him of the gem he had found in the vault, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask about it. “Do you know what ‘Telu’kirra’ means?”

Ravyn shot him a startled look. “Where did you hear that word? And where did you get that amulet? Do you know what that is?”

“I found it in the vault. No one even knows I have it. It’s the symbol of Elistarrya. I found a book, too. It’s full of hymns to her. But what does that word mean? You know it?”

She nodded slowly, wondering how much she should tell him. If he had been in the vault, there was only one reason he could know about the ‘kirra. “It means ‘Lore Gem’ in the old tongue. How do you know about them?”

“I found a golden box with a big red stone in it. The word was written on the lid of the box. I had trouble getting it open- it had some sort of lock that used blood to open it.”

Ravyn frowned. “Blood? I see. That was meant to keep it safe. Only someone with the proper blood could open it. That stone must have been your father’s ’kirra. I am surprised that he would even still have one; only the heir of an elven noble House can use a Telu‘kirra. Each noble House has only one ‘kirra, and it passes to the eldest surviving heir of the family. They are very powerful, and also dangerous. Anyone who tries to use it without being of the family it belongs to is struck feebleminded or killed outright.”

He gave her a puzzled look, his head cocked to one side. “What does it do? It’s magic, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and sighed. “Yes, but you would be wise to leave it alone. It contains the memories of all its past owners- that is why they are called Lore Gems. They store the memories and knowledge of a family, for the wearer to learn from. Some ‘kirras even have spells stored within them, from past owners who were mages. But such power can be dangerous. If the wearer is not prepared, it can overwhelm the senses, and if it rejects its owner- if they are not a true member of the family it was created for- then it can strike them dead in an instant.”

“Do all drow families have one?” he asked, for he did not truly understand the significance of the stone.

“No, my dearest! You misunderstand- no drow House possesses one! They were created long ago, before the Banishing. Only Houses of true elven nobles have one- the darthiiri. All those who became drow were rejected by their family ’kirras ages ago. That one must have belonged to him before he was Cursed.”

He stared at her, stunned by what he had heard. He had always known that his father was not born a dark elf, but to fully realize what that meant was overwhelming and confusing to the boy. He had always simply assumed that it was nothing more than a minor difference, of no real importance. Was there more to it then? If his father’s own stone no longer accepted him, what did that mean for him? Was he cursed, as well? Was the very blood in his veins somehow tainted? The concept of being somehow corrupted was disturbing, to say the least.

“Do you think it would work for me?” he finally asked, quietly hopeful. If he used it, what would he learn? He knew there were secrets of his family that he might never know. The possibility of knowing the truth was almost too good an opportunity to pass up.

Ravyn gazed thoughtfully at the young prince, wondering what he had in mind. “I do not know, but it would not be safe to try.”

He let out a sigh, realizing that there was no point in discussing it further. He knew she was only worried for his safety, but he could not help feeling a little disappointed that she wanted him to leave the gem alone. “I suppose you’re right. Still, think of what I could do if it did work for me!”

Ravyn shook her head with a sad smile, for she had seen the gleam of excitement in his eyes. She knew that look, and somehow it always meant trouble for her young friend. “I am more concerned with what it might do to you. I’ve seen would-be heirs blasted into mindless, drooling idiots before my home was destroyed. And those were the ones whose blood was pure.”

Lothir glanced back down at the pendant in his hand, and suppressed a shudder. He knew all to well how dangerous magic could be, especially to one who did not understand its use. The thought of being reduced to an empty-headed feeblemind gave him pause, though he still wanted more than anything to know something of his true heritage. Would it show him ancestors he had never known? What had they been like? His desire to seek the truth was strong, but so was the need for caution. At last, he decided to pay heed to her warning- at least for now. The ‘kirra could wait, if only for a while.

Finally, Ravyn rose to put away the clothes, then left the room, though not without first giving him a gentle embrace and ruffling his hair affectionately. He sat for a while reading over his book of hymns, even humming a few versed softly to himself, before boredom and restlessness crept in, and he placed the small book back in its hidden spot beneath his bed along with the pendant, and went out to wander the corridors of his home, occasionally stopping in one room or another to watch the servants at work, until the dinner gong sounded. He ate little, as he continued to think over all that had happened, brooding upon Morganna‘s earlier gibes about the Blooding. Her derisive attitude worried him, for he could not help but see it as an ill omen. Eventually, he wandered down to the cove to check on Quilin, until it grew late and he finally decided to turn in for the night.