Surprised, Vhostym gave Dolgan an approving smile and the slaad fairly beamed. Perhaps Dolgan was not so dull, after all.
"Excellent, Dolgan," said Vhostym. "Relentlessness is an admirable characteristic. But it did not serve him, did it? As Azriim observed, he is likely dead."
"He is dead," Azriim said.
Dolgan merely stared.
"Now," Vhostym said, continuing the lesson, "characterize the shadow adept you manipulated into opening the Fane of Shadows."
Before Dolgan could answer, Azriim stared meaningfully at Vhostym and said, "Arrogant."
Vhostym decided to ignore Azriim's implication and said, "Very good. Consider-relentlessness in moderation is dedication. Arrogance in moderation is self-confidence. Learn this lesson, then: All things, when taken too far, become self-destructive and lead to failure." He fixed a hard gaze on Azriim. "This applies equally to both impatience and pridefulness."
Azriim understood the lesson then, and his mismatched eyes found the floor. Vhostym had made his point, so he gave his sons what they wished.
"Remember that," he said, "as the next phase begins."
Both slaadi looked at him sharply.
"It is beginning?" Azriim breathed. "The Crown of Flame?"
Vhostym smiled softly. Azriim did not understand the nature of the crown, only that his father long had sought it, only that once Vhostym possessed it, Azriim would be transformed into gray and freed.
Vhostym took a sip of wine and said, "It began, Azriim, long ago. Now it is finishing."
Vhostym had observed the universe through the eyes of his spell for the last time. Having plumbed the mystery of the Weave Tap, he was ready to put the final phases of his plan into motion.
"And afterward?" Azriim asked.
Dolgan leaned forward, eyes wide, digging his fingers into his flesh.
Vhostym looked upon his sons with approval and replied, "Afterward, my sons, you will have what I have promised to give you: transformation to gray and the freedom to pursue your own lives."
Dolgan, unable to contain his excitement, stood and capered. His dripping hand left a spatter of blood across the carpets. Azriim looked into Vhostym's eyes, as though trying to discern a lie. There was no lie to discern, of course. Vhostym would keep his word.
Azriim asked, "Yet you still will not tell us what the Crown of Flame is, or describe its appearance?"
"When the time is right," Vhostym said. He sent his mental consciousness through the various caverns and rooms of his plane until he located Serrin. The slaad was sharpening his weapon skills by slaughtering some of the penned demons Vhostym kept for research and spell component material.
"Serrin is in the barbazu pen. Retrieve him and bring him to the Weave Tap's nursery. One of its seeds are now ripe. I will explain what you are to do next."
CHAPTER 1
PERDITION
Dark knowledge churned through Cale's mind. Fell power coursed through his veins. He could not quite comprehend it, not rationally, but somehow he knew it. His body felt thick and insensate, as though he had been immersed in ice water. He could hear, but only dimly, as though from a great distance. He could see nothing. He felt stupefied; his thoughts ran as thick and as sluggish as tar.
With effort, he fought his way through the mental cobwebs. As he did, memories of the transformation from man to shade rose to the forefront of his consciousness. He recalled shadowy tentacles pulsing with power, piercing his skin, filling him with darkness, stealing his humanity. He pushed the memory out of his mind before it made him scream. He took a deep breath and drank in damp air heavy with the smell of organic decay, as fetid as a sewer. He knew he was in a swamp, a swamp that smelled like a charnel house. Many things had died there; many more things would.
Nearby, the buzzing and clicking of insects filled his ears, the sounds vaguely familiar but the rhythm somehow alien.
"What kind of water is this?" said a voice, Jak's voice, from somewhere near him.
Water splashed.
The sound of the halfling's voice helped center Cale, helped him climb the last few strides out of the darkness. Things became clearer.
He was not anywhere near the Lightless Lake. He was lying on his back in a bed of cold mud, covered in what he took to be a coarse blanket, or a shroud. He could not see because his eyes were closed, the lids caked shut with, scum, dirt, or blood. For the moment, he didn't try to open them. He didn't want to see what he thought they would reveal. He didn't want to know what his mind insisted he knew.
I'm not human, he thought, and the accusation hit him like a club. The simple truth of it left him empty. He thought of Tazi.
What would she say if she could see me now?
From Cale's right, Riven responded to Jak. Surprisingly, even the assassin's voice brought Cale some small comfort.
"It's the same water as anywhere, Fleet. Just . . . darker."
The creak of leather from Cale's right; Riven changing his stance.
"It's as thick as my mother's maple syrup," Jak said.
More splashing.
How long have we been here? Cale wondered.
"What is this place?" said another voice. "Where are we? The last thing I remember, we were watching an entire lake crash down on us. I thought we were dead."
It took Cale a moment to place the speaker-Magadon. The mind mage and guide from Starmantle. Cale had no recollection of the Lightless Lake crashing down on them.
"How many times will you ask the same question?" Riven said in a voice edged with tension. "You're the damned guide, Mags. You tell us where we are."
To that, Magadon said nothing, though Cale could hear him wading into the water.
Cale knew where they were-at least he thought he did-and he thought he knew how they had gotten there.
Jak spoke in a low voice: "Do you think we are? Dead, I mean?"
Riven scoffed. Cale could imagine his mocking sneer. He could also imagine the indignant glare Jak must have offered in response.
"You stuff that sneer," barked the halfling as he splashed through the water to get nearer to Riven. Jak's voice dripped venom. "You're right, though. Because if we were dead, you and I wouldn't end up in the same place, now would we?"
Riven chuckled darkly and said, "I wouldn't hang my sword belt on that, Fleet. You might think differently before this is all said and done."
Before this was all said and done. Cale did not even know what the this was. Slaadi in human form had murdered their ostensible master, a shadow adept named Vraggen, and taken a magical sapling tree-the Weave Tap-from a mysterious temple called the Fane of Shadows. Just before the slaadi had escaped, one of them, Azriim, had mentioned someone called the Sojourner, presumably their true master. That was all Cale knew, and his mind was too muddled to reason out the meaning of it all.
"The Wall of the Faithless," Jak said, still dogging the assassin. "That's the best you can hope for, Zhent. My guess-your afterlife is uglier than that. Much uglier."