R. Salvatore - Archmage

For a long while, for many years, Kimmuriel had hated House Baenre. When first he had learned of Jarlaxle’s heritage, he had even considered murdering the mercenary.

That was a long time ago, of course, but now, hearing K’yorl, Kimmuriel realized that he hadn’t dismissed those feelings of rage quite as thoroughly as he had believed.

“I do not expect you to expose yourself to suspicion,” K’yorl said, as if reading his thoughts-and she probably was, he reminded himself, throwing up more mental guards.

“You ask me to serve as your instrument, your assassin against House Baenre, but do so without wishing me to expose myself to their wrath?” he asked skeptically.

“Not my instrument, but my conduit to my instrument,” K’yorl said with a crooked and knowing little smile, one that took Kimmuriel back across the centuries, one that he had known well in his youth.

“A mighty Baenre studies under you, I am told,” K’yorl said.

It was beginning to bother Kimmuriel more than a little just how much K’yorl was being told.

“The archmage, no less,” she said.

Kimmuriel remained impassive-there was no need to confirm anything, apparently.

“And how does Gromph Baenre feel about his sister the matron mother filling the streets of Menzoberranzan with demons?”

“He thinks it a brilliant ploy to insulate the matron mother from the wrath of the Ruling Council over her. . choices.”

“But how does he feel ? Is he pleased by his sister Quenthel’s dangerous ploy?”

“You clearly know the answer.”

“He hates her. They all do,” K’yorl said. “She imposes order on a city of chaos. It will not stand.”

“I will not stop it.”

“Not directly.”

“I do not enjoy cryptic conversations, Matron Mother,” Kimmuriel said, and what he really didn’t enjoy-and he knew that this drow in front of him understood it well-was not being able to read her thoughts. Kimmuriel was used to holding a huge advantage in such conversations, with all but the mind flayers and Jarlaxle, for he could read the meaning behind every word with a simple glance into the flittering thoughts as the words were spoken.

“Fan the flames in the archmage’s humors,” K’yorl explained. “Subtly suggest a way for him to strike back at his sister. Let him battle demon with demon.”

“You ask me to implant a suggestion into the mind of the archmage to summon demons of his own? Into the mind of Gromph Baenre?” Kimmuriel didn’t try to hide his doubts. Those dark elves expecting and hoping for a long life simply didn’t do such things.

“It will be no difficult task. Gromph’s thoughts already flow in that direction.”

Movement to the side caught Kimmuriel’s attention, and he noted a massive, leather-winged beast moving toward them, one he knew to be the mighty balor Errtu. The creature moved close enough to tower over Kimmuriel, and sniffed the air a few times before plopping down in a mushroom fashioned into a throne just off to the side, one Kimmuriel hadn’t even noticed before-had Errtu brought it with him?

“To have Gromph call in a balor, perhaps?” Kimmuriel asked K’yorl, but he was looking at Errtu.

“Think bigger,” K’yorl replied. “Perhaps Gromph will think he is calling forth a peer of Errtu, but let his spell draw a bigger prize, a prize beyond his control?”

“You?” Kimmuriel asked dryly.

Both K’yorl and Errtu laughed at that.

“You cannot return to the Prime Material Plane at this time,” Kimmuriel said to Errtu.

The balor growled, but nodded. Errtu had been defeated on the Prime Material Plane, and so banished, a penalty of a century of exile.

“Banished by a Baenre,” K’yorl said. “Tiago Baenre.”

“Who is now Tiago Do’Urden, if he is even still alive,” said Kimmuriel.

“All the more reason to hate him,” said Errtu. The demon stared hard at Kimmuriel and focused his thoughts at the drow psionicist, who was overwhelmed by the sheer wall of demonic hate emanating from the creature.

“What do you know of the Faerzress?” K’yorl asked.

“What every drow of Menzoberranzan is taught at the Academy,” said Kimmuriel. The Faerzress was a region of the Underdark teeming with magical energy-the very stones of the region glowed with the power of magic, both the Weave and the extraplanar energies of the lower planes. Through the emanations of the Faerzress, the drow gained their innate magical abilities, and their innate resistance to magic. With the permeating glow of the Faerzress, drow smiths fashioned their fabulous weapons and armor. As the sun nurtured the surface world with its warmth and life energy, so the Faerzress fed the darkness of the Underdark.

“I will give you a spell,” K’yorl said, and closed her eyes. “Open your mind.”

Kimmuriel similarly closed his eyes and focused on receiving-and studying-K’yorl’s psionic impartation. He didn’t know all the words, for it was an arcane chant and not a psionic pattern.

“Give that to Gromph during your sessions,” she bade him. “Bit by bit, inflection by inflection. Let him find the strength to battle his sister and foil her plans, and so we will pay back House Baenre.”

Kimmuriel opened his eyes to stare at her intently.

“Would it so pain you to see House Baenre punished and Menzoberranzan thrust back into chaos?” she asked. “Would not Bregan D’aerthe profit from such. . tribulations?”

“And you would find a deep sense of sweet revenge?”

“Do you expect me to deny it?” K’yorl asked.

“No.”

“And would you not share in your mother’s satisfaction?” Kimmuriel said nothing.

“Then we are agreed?” K’yorl asked.

“When next Methil summons me to Gromph’s chamber to continue our work, I will offer him a view of what he might do to counter the matron mother. And, too, I will begin showing him a more powerful gate to the Abyss.”

“He will light the Faerzress with the power of that spell, and oh, but his surprise will delight you, my noble son.”

Despite himself, Kimmuriel grinned. He nodded and bowed deferentially to the mighty Errtu, then bent time and space and was once more back in Faerûn, in a tavern called One-Eyed Jax, in the port city of Luskan.

“What is wrong?” Matron Mother Zeerith asked when Tsabrak walked into her private chamber-unannounced and without knocking. She could see the look on her most powerful ally’s face, though, and so she knew he had not shown the disrespect out of anything more than abject misery.

“Tsabrak?” she demanded as he moved over and numbly sat down on a chair across from her.

“I looked in on the Silver Marches,” he said, his voice a defeated monotone. “I went to see if I could confirm the areas where our other warriors likely fell. It would make the corpse summoning easier, of course, if we knew. .” His voice trailed off.

“What do you know?” Matron Mother Zeerith asked, moving forward, sliding from her chair and across the floor to kneel before the seated mage, one hand on his knee, the other holding him by the chin, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“It’s gone,” he said.

Matron Mother Zeerith’s face screwed up with confusion as she tried to decipher that. “ ‘It’s’? What is gone?”

“The dweomer.”

“The dweomer?” she echoed, but suddenly it hit her and her eyes widened.

“The gift Lady Lolth imparted through my physical form,” Tsabrak confirmed. “The Darkening, Matron, it is gone.”

“Gone? The sky over the Silver Marches is cleared?”

“The sun shines brightly,” the despondent wizard replied.

“How can this be?” Matron Mother Zeerith looked all around. She rolled away from Tsabrak and up to her feet to begin pacing, muttering to herself. The implications were staggering. The Darkening had been channeled through Tsabrak, through a representative of House Xorlarrin, who had become the archmage of Q’Xorlarrin. Tsabrak was a powerful wizard-none would doubt that-but Zeerith wanted him spoken of in the same hushed tones normally reserved for Gromph Baenre alone.