“A typical pond might have ten different types of fish wriggling through its blackness,” Gromph said.

“And I would have speared them all.”

Gromph snorted at him and turned back to regard the skull gem. “You would cast your spear at whatever swam near enough to skewer. Line fishing is not so indiscriminate.” He stood up straighter and turned back to regard the weapons master, acting as if he was just realizing the curiousness of his own statement. “Even though you will see the fish you seek to impale, you will not be, in the true measure, as particular in your choice of meal as the line fisherman.”

“How can you claim such?” Andzrel asked. “Because the line fisherman will throw back any fish he deems unworthy, while I would already have slain my quarry before bringing it from the pond?”

“Because the line fisherman has already chosen the type of fish,” Gromph corrected, “in his selection of bait and placement, point and depth, of the line. Fish have preferences, and knowing those allows a wise angler to properly lay his trap.”

He turned back to the skull gem.

“Is it possible that Archmage Gromph grows more cryptic with the passing years?”

“One would hope!” Gromph replied with a glance over his shoulder, and again he saw that the nuance of his words was somewhat lost on the poor Andzrel. “Living among the folk of Menzoberranzan is often akin to line fishing, don’t you agree? Knowing the proper lures to attract and catch adversaries and allies alike.”

When he turned back to Andzrel this time, he held the skull gem in one hand, aloft before his eyes. The skull-shaped crystalline gem danced with reflections of the many candles burning in the room, and those sparkles, in turn, set Gromph’s eyes glowing.

Still the weapons master seemed as if he was in the dark regarding the archmage’s analogy, and that confirmed to Gromph that Tiago had not betrayed him.

For Andzrel did not know that Ravel Xorlarrin had looked into this very skull gem, in which the young spellspinner had gained the knowledge of the prize that he and House Xorlarrin now pursued. And Andzrel did not have any hint that Tiago had facilitated the spellspinner’s intrusion into Gromph’s private chambers at Sorcere, as a favor to the House Xorlarrin weapons master Jearth, who was one of Andzrel’s greatest rivals in the city’s warrior hierarchy.

“House Xorlarrin moves exactly as House Baenre would wish, and to a destination worth exploring,” Gromph explained clearly.

That seemed to rock Andzrel back on his heels a bit.

“Tiago is with them, by request of Matron Mother Quenthel,” Gromph continued, and Andzrel’s eyes popped open wide.

“Tiago! Why Tiago? He is my second, at my command!”

Gromph laughed at that. He had only mentioned Tiago in order to make Andzrel tremble with outrage, a sight Gromph very much enjoyed.

“If you instructed Tiago one way, and Matron Quenthel commanded him another, to whom should he offer his obedience?”

Andzrel’s face grew tight.

Of course it did, Gromph knew. Young Tiago was indeed Andzrel’s second, but that was an arrangement which few expected to hold for much longer. For Tiago had something Andzrel did not: a direct bloodline to Dantrag Baenre, the greatest weapons master in the memory of House Baenre. Tiago was Dantrag’s grandson, and thus the grandson of Yvonnel and the nephew of Gromph, Quenthel, and the rest of the noble clan. Andzrel, meanwhile, was the son of a cousin, noble still, but further removed.

To make matters worse, not a drow who had watched these two in battle thought that Andzrel could defeat Tiago in single combat—young Tiago, who was only growing stronger with the passing years.

The archmage spent a moment considering Andzrel, then recognized that he had planted the doubt and concern deeply enough—that Tiago was out with House Xorlarrin on this matter of apparent great importance would keep this one pacing his room for days.

Gromph, therefore, thought it the perfect time to change the subject.

“How well are you acquainted with Jarlaxle?”

“Of Bregan D’aerthe?” Andzrel stuttered. “I have heard of . . . not well.” He seemed at a loss with his own admission, so he quickly added, “I have met him on several occasions.”

“Jarlaxle always seems to set interesting events in motion,” said Gromph. “Perhaps this will be no different.”

“What are you saying?” the weapons master asked. “House Baenre facilitated this move by Xorlarrin?”

“Nothing of the sort. Matron Zeerith moves of her own accord.”

“But we played a role in guiding that accord?”

Gromph shrugged noncommittally.

“What do you know, Archmage?” Andzrel demanded.

Gromph replaced the skull gem on the shelf and moved back to sit down at his desk, all at a leisurely pace. When he had settled once more, he turned his attention back to his parchment and took up his quill.

“I am no commoner,” Andzrel shouted, and he stomped a heavy boot like the sharp crack of an exclamation point. “Do not treat me as such!”

Gromph looked up at him and nodded. “Indeed,” he agreed as he reached for a corked, smoke-filled flask. He brought it before him, directly between him and Andzrel, and pulled off the cork. A line of smoke wafted up.

“You are no commoner,” Gromph agreed. “But you are dismissed.” With that, Gromph blew at the smoke, sending it toward Andzrel. In so doing, he released a sequence of spells in rapid order.

Andzrel looked at him curiously, startled and very much concerned, even afraid. He felt his very being, his corporeal form, thinning, becoming less substantial.

He tried to speak out, but it was too late. He was like the wind, flowing away and without control. Gromph watched him recede from the room, then waved his hand to throw forth a second burst of wind, a stronger one that not only sped Andzrel’s departure, but slammed the room’s door closed behind him.

Gromph knew that Andzrel wouldn’t regain his corporeal form until he was far away from this wing of House Baenre.

The archmage didn’t expect the annoying weapons master to return anytime soon. That brought a frown to Gromph’s face, though, as he considered the expression he could elicit on Andzrel’s face with the other little secrets he kept. For among Tiago’s entourage on the expedition was one of Gromph’s oldest associates, an old wizard-turned-warrior-turned-blacksmith drow named Gol’fanin, who carried with him a djinni in a bottle, a phase spider in another, and an ancient sword design, one which had eluded Gol’fanin for centuries because of his inability to properly meld the diamonds and metal alloys.

If the destination of the Xorlarrin expedition was as Gromph and Matron Zeerith and Matron Quenthel all expected, and if the cataclysm had been wrought of the rage of a primordial fire beast, then Andzrel’s current state of outrage would seem utterly calm by comparison when Tiago returned home.

That thought pleased the old drow archmage greatly.

Part I: Old Grudge

I am past the sunset of my second century of life and yet I feel as if the ground below me is as the shifting sands. In so many ways, I find that I am no more sure of myself than I was those many decades ago when I first walked free of Menzoberranzan—less sure, in truth, for in that time, my emotions were grounded in a clear sense of right and wrong, in a definitive understanding of truth against deception.

Perhaps my surety then was based almost solely on a negative; when I came to recognize the truth of the city of Menzoberranzan about me, I knew what I could not accept, knew what did not ring true in my heart and soul, and demanded the notion of a better life, a better way. It was not so much that I knew what I wanted, for any such concepts of the possibilities outside the cocoon of Menzoberranzan were surely far beyond my experience.

But I knew what I did not want and what I could not accept. Guided by that inner moral compass, I made my way, and my beliefs seemed only reinforced by those friends I came to know, not kin, but surely kind.

And so I have lived my life, a goodly life, I think, with the power of righteousness guiding my blades. There have been times of doubt, of course, and so many errors along the way. There stood my friends, to guide me back to the correct path, to walk beside me and support me and reinforce my belief that there is a community greater than myself, a purpose higher and more noble than the simple hedonism so common in the land of my birth.

Now I am older.

Now, again, I do not know.

For I find myself enmeshed in conflicts I do not understand, where both sides seem equally wrong.

This is not Mithral Hall defending her gates against marauding orcs. This is not the garrison of Ten-Towns holding back a barbarian horde or battling the monstrous minions of Akar Kessell. In all Faerûn now, there is conflict and shadow and confusion, and a sense that there is no clear path to victory. The world has grown dark, and in a dark place, so dark rulers can arise.

I long for the simplicity of Icewind Dale.

For down here in the more populous lands, there is Luskan, full of treachery and deceit and unbridled greed. There are a hundred “Luskans” across the continent, I fear. In the tumult of the Spellplague and the deeper and more enduring darkness of the Shadowfell, the return of the shades and the Empire of Netheril, those structures of community and society could not remain unscathed. Some see chaos as an enemy to be defeated and tamed; others, I know from my earliest days, see chaos as opportunity for personal gain.

For down here, there are the hundreds of communities and clusters of farms depending on the protection of the city garrisons, who will not come. Indeed, under the rule of despot kings or lords or high captains alike, those communities so oft become the prey of the powerful cities.

For down here, there is Many Arrows, the orc kingdom forced upon the Silver Marches by the hordes of King Obould in that long-ago war—though even now, nearly a century hence, it remains a trial, a test, whose outcome cannot be predicted. Did King Bruenor, with his courage in signing the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, end the war, or merely delay a larger one?

It is always confusion, I fear, always those shifting sands.

Until I draw my blades, and that is the dark truth of who I have become. For when my scimitars are in hand, the battle becomes immediate, the goal survival. The greater politic that once guided my hand is a fleeting vision, the waving lines of rising heat showing rivers of sparkling water where there is only, in truth, dry sand. I live in a land of many Akar Kessells, but so few, it seems, places worth defending!

Perhaps among the settlers of Neverwinter there exists such a noble defense as that I helped wage in Ten-Towns, but there live, too, in the triad of interests, the Thayans and their undead hordes and the Netherese, many persons no less ruthless and no less self-interested. Indeed, no less wrong.

How might I engage my heart in such a conflict as the morass that is Neverwinter? How might I strike with conviction, secure in the knowledge that I fight for the good of the land, or for the benefit of goodly folk?

I cannot. Not now. Not with competing interests equally dark.

But no more am I surrounded by friends of similar weal, it seems. Were it my choice alone, I would flee this land, perhaps to the Silver Marches and (hopefully) some sense of goodliness and hope. To Mithral Hall and Silverymoon, who cling still to the heartsong of King Bruenor Battlehammer and Lady Alustriel, or perhaps to Waterdeep, shining still, where the lords hold court for the benefit of their city and citizens.