Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The dolgaunt, however, stood silent. It took a moment for Vennet to realize that the second voice was his own, that his lips and tongue were moving in time to Dah’mir’s. That he had settled down to kneel on the rocky floor as well.

He thrust himself to his feet and stumbled backward, but the words of the priest’s chant stayed with him, forcing themselves out of his mouth. He tried clamping his hands over his mouth. It only muffled the words. The chant rose to a peak.

Within the ring of the Gatekeeper seal, the air shimmered and grew bright. The tunnel beyond seemed to contract, rushing toward him-

And Vennet peered through an enormous lens into a great chamber, the throne room of a wealthy lord. Of a prince!

Except that the courtiers who turned to look back through the window were tall and spindly beneath their fine robes. They had broad, hairless heads with slick, pulsing skin and dead white eyes-and dangling, writhing tentacles where there should have been a nose and jaw. Mind flayers.

There were other strange creatures as well. Dolgaunts stood as guards and dolgrims crawled on the floor like dogs. A mind flayer carried a small creature like an eyeless monkey on its shoulder. A beautiful elf-like woman turned to reveal thick fleshy tendrils growing among her hair and down her back.

At the center of the grand chamber, on a throne carved from glittering black stone, sat a human man of astounding beauty. The robes that spilled off him exposed pale, muscular arms and a broad chest. His hair was black as night and fine as silk; his skin was as pale and smooth as marble. His eyes were solid acid-green, the same color as Dah’mir’s but without pupil or iris. His ears, his nose, his brow, the line of his jaw-all were so perfect that it took Vennet a long moment to realize that he had no mouth, only smooth skin between nose and chin.

“Storm at dawn,” whispered Vennet. A fragment from the rites of the Cult of the Dragon Below came back to him. They are perfect in their power. They are without flaw save those flaws they choose. Their triumph is delayed but not denied-they will hold Eberron as they held Xoriat. They are the great lords of the dark and nothing is beyond their will .

Dah’mir touched his fingers to his forehead and his lips, then bent low, prostrating himself. “Master,” he said, his voice thick with adoration.

The voice that answered the priest crashed through the cavern like thunder. It slammed into Vennet and sent him staggering. The half-elf screamed at the sound of it. He clapped his hands over his ears, but it did no good. The only sound he blocked was his own scream. The voice of the great lord of the dark, of the daelkyr, was in his mind.

Vennet had stood at the helm of Lightning on Water to guide the ship through storms, the rain lashing him, the roar of the gale and the howl of the ship’s great elemental ring blending together until he could hear nothing else. The daelkyr’s voice was like that except that the thunder was broken by the rise and fall of words. Words that Vennet could recognize but not grasp-words far larger and older than him. Words that seemed older than Eberron itself. They ate into him like bitterly cold acid, numbing and searing at the same time. He stumbled and fell, cracking his knees against the rough stone of the cavern floor.

Dah’mir seemed to understand the daelkyr’s voice, though. As the thunder stopped and Vennet reeled at a moment of respite, the priest shook his head and turned his eyes downward. “No, master,” he said. “Your new servants aren’t ready. There have been complications. Medala is dead-”

The daelkyr spoke again. Vennet reeled. Across the cavern, he saw Hruucan, standing as motionless as a soldier on parade, shift his weight and brace himself. Even Dah’mir went pale.

“The kalashtar who escaped, master. She found allies. I captured her and returned her to the mound, but her allies recruited Gatekeepers. There was a battle-”

In the great throne room beyond the lens, there was a soundless stir as mind flayers looked at each other. The daelkyr sat forward, his voice a whip crack on the air.

“Dead, master,” Dah’mir said. “All of them-killed by the kalashtar’s allies.” His hands fumbled with his leather robes. “I was wounded, too. It was a chance blow, a desperate strike, but the blade was Dhakaani and powerful.”

He parted his robes. Vennet was behind him and couldn’t see the wound he exposed, but he heard the sucking sound of leather peeled away from raw, bloody flesh.

Contempt emanated from the daelkyr. Vennet fell over and wept as the silent words of disgust that rolled from the great lord peeled back the layers of his mind. Hruucan staggered and went to his knees.

Dah’mir fell prostrate one more. “Master, I know! I am weak! Without the shard, my strength is gone, your gifts fade.” A shudder shook him. “There is more, master,” he added with the despair of someone forced to deliver ill tidings. “The great stone has been broken.”

The daelkyr said nothing. The only sound in the cavern was Vennet’s own weeping. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the daelkyr and his priest, however. He saw Dah’mir hesitate, then look up. “It’s not the end, master. I believe I can create another stone, one suited to our needs and not a flawed cast-off. One closer to the true stones. My studies, my experiments-I can draw on them.” Dah’mir took a ragged breath. “It will take time.”

The thunder of the daelkyr’s voice rolled again. This time, though, it seemed to Vennet that he could actually understand something of the green-eyed lord’s silent speech. As his thoughts fell apart, the ancient words became distinct. They burned in his tortured mind, melting sanity like wax. We have time .

Dah’mir lifted himself from the floor and wrenched his robes wide once more. “Then heal me, master! Heal me, I beg you!”

The daelkyr sat back, his eyes narrowed-then held out a hand. A mind flayer, taller than its fellows and with long tentacles that made Vennet think of an old man’s trailing beard, stepped forward and placed a blue-black dragonshard in the daelkyr’s hand. The great lord stroked the shard for a moment, then casually pitched it forward toward the shimmering lens.

For a moment, the bright air within the ring of the Gatekeeper seal rippled and churned like water as the shard plunged through it. The dark crystal fell free. Dah’mir, rose to his feet, stretched out a hand, and snatched it from the air. His eyes were wide and shining.

“Vennet!” he called. His voice cracked. “Come here! If you want your reward, help me now!”

Vennet would gladly have given up the wildest of his dreams for power and glory just to have fled the cavern. His limbs and his will, however, seemed to belong to someone else. Trembling, he rose and moved forward. The eyes of the daelkyr and all of his strange and horrible courtiers were on him as he stepped around to stand in front of Dah’mir. The wound in the priest’s chest lay bare, a jagged rip in his flesh. Broken ribs showed in its red depths. It oozed dark blood and thin clear liquid like the seepage from a blister. There was no sign of festering or rot. It could have been inflicted only moments rather than weeks before.

Dah’mir held out the dragonshard. Still staring at the wound, Vennet took it without looking-then gasped as his hand closed around its cool surface. Power thrummed beneath his fingertips, like grasping a rope under too much strain and ready to snap. He looked down at the shard. It was the size and shape of a thick spike, longer than a finger, tapering from a narrow point to a flat-topped bulb three fingers wide. The swirls that patterned its heart seemed almost to shift as he watched.

Before him, Dah’mir tugged his robes wide and pushed out his chest. “Close the wound, Vennet!” he commanded. “Close the wound with my master’s shard and restore my strength!”