“His name is Drizzt,” Deudermont said.

“Yes, that one,” the wizard replied. “He defeated a wizard by name of Huantar Seashark, paramount among the Hosttower at summoning elementals and demons—even elder elementals and demon lords.”

“Paramount? Even better than Robillard?” Deudermont said to lighten the wizard’s typically dour mood.

“Be not a fool,” Robillard replied, drawing a wide smile from Deudermont, who took note that Robillard hadn’t actually answered the question. “Huantar’s prowess would have served Arklem Greeth well when our flames tickle at his towers.”

“Then it’s a day of great victory,” Deudermont reasoned.

“It’s the day we awakened the beast. Nothing more.”

“Indeed,” Deudermont replied, though in a tone that showed neither agreement nor concession, but rather more of a detached amusement as the captain looked past Robillard and nodded.

Robillard turned to see Drizzt and Regis coming down the road, the drow with a tattered cloak over one arm.

“You found a fine battle, I’m told,” Deudermont called to them as they neared.

“Those two words rarely go together,” said the drow.

“I like him more all the time,” Robillard said so that only Deudermont could hear, and the captain snorted.

“Come, let us four retire to a warm hearth and warmer brandy, that we might exchange tales,” said Deudermont.

“And cake,” Regis said. “Never forget the cake.”

“Cause or effect?” Arklem Greeth asked quietly as he padded down the hallway leading to the chambers of the Overwizard of the South Spire.

Beside him Valindra Shadowmantle, Overwizard of the North Tower, widely considered to be next in line to succeed Arklem Greeth—which of course was a rather useless tribute, since the lich planned to live forever—gave a derisive snort. She was a tiny thing, much shorter than Greeth and with a lithe moon elf frame that was many times more diminutive than the archmage arcane’s burly and bloated animated vessel.

“No, truly,” Arklem Greeth went on. “Did the Mirabarrans join in the battle against Pallindra and our safehouse because of the rumors that we had threatened to intervene with the stability of the Silver Marches? Or was their interference part of a wider revolt against the Arcane Brotherhood? Cause or effect?”

“The latter,” Valindra replied with a flip of her long and lustrous black hair, so clear in contrast to eyes that seemed as if they had stolen all the blue from the waters of the Sword Coast. “The Mirabarrans would have joined in the fight against us whether Nyphithys had gone to Obould or not. This betrayal has Arabeth’s stench all over it.”

“Of course you would say that of your rival.”

“Do you disagree?” the forceful elf said without the slightest hesitation, and Arklem Greeth gave a wheezing chuckle. It wasn’t often that anyone had the courage to speak to him so bluntly—in fact, beyond Valindra’s occasional outbursts, he couldn’t remember the last person who had done so. Someone he had subsequently murdered, no doubt.

“You would then imply that Overwizard Raurym sent word ahead of the meeting between Nyphithys and King Obould,” reasoned the lich. “Following your logic, I mean.”

“Her treachery is not so surprising, to me at least.”

“And yet you too have your roots in the Silver Marches,” Greeth said with a wry grin. “In the Moonwood, I believe, and among the elves who wouldn’t be pleased to see the Arcane Brotherhood bolster King Obould.”

“All the more reason for you to know that I did not betray you,” said Valindra. “I have made no secret of my feelings for my People. And it was I who first suggested to you that the Arcane Brotherhood would do well to stake a claim in the bountiful North.”

“Perhaps only so that you could foil me later and weaken my position,” said Greeth. “And that after you had gained my favor with your prodding for the spread of our influence. Clever of you to insinuate yourself as my heir apparent before leading me to a great chasm, yes?”

Valindra stopped abruptly and Arklem Greeth had to turn and look back to look at her. She stood with one arm on her hip, the other hanging at her side, and her expression absent any hint of amusement.

The lich laughed all the louder. “You are offended that I credit you with such potential for deviousness? Why, if half of what I said were true, you would be a credit to the twisted dealings of the dark elves themselves! It was a compliment, girl.”

“Half was true,” Valindra replied. “Except that I wouldn’t be so clever to desire anything good to befall the Silver Marches or the worthless fools of the Moonwood. Were I to love my homeland, I might take your words as a compliment, though I insist I would have come up with something a bit less transparent than the plot you lay at my feet. But I take no pleasure in the loss of Nyphithys and the setback for the Arcane Brotherhood.”

Arklem Greeth stopped smiling at the sheer bitterness and venom in the elf woman’s words. He nodded somberly. “Arabeth Raurym, then,” he said. “The cause for this troubling and costly effect.”

“Her heart has ever remained in Mirabar,” said Valindra, and under her breath, she added, “The little wretch.”

Arklem Greeth smiled again when he heard that, having already turned back for the door to the South Tower. He recited a quiet incantation and waved a thick hand at the door. The locks clicked and humming sounds of various pitches emanated from all around the portal. At last, the heavy bar behind the door fell away with a clang and the portal swung open toward Arklem Greeth and Valindra, revealing a darkened room beyond.

The archmage arcane stared into the black emptiness for a few moments before turning back to regard the elf as she walked up beside him.

“Where are the guards?” the Overwizard of the South Tower asked.

Arklem Greeth lifted a fist up before his face and summoned around it a globe of purple, flickering flames. With that faerie fire “torch” thrust before him, he strode into the south tower.

The pair went up room by room, the stubborn and confident lich ignoring Valindra’s continual complaints that they should go and find an escort of capable battle-mages. The archmage arcane whispered an incantation into every torch on the walls, so that soon after he and Valindra had made their way out of the room, the enchanted torches would burst into flame behind them.

They found themselves outside the door to Arabeth’s private quarters not long after, and there the lich paused to consider all they had seen, or had not seen.

“Did you notice an absence of anything?” he asked his companion.

“People,” Valindra dryly replied.

Arklem Greeth smirked at her, not appreciating the levity. “Scrolls,” he explained. “And rods, staves, and wands—and any other magical implements. Not a spellbook to be found….”

“What might it mean?” Valindra asked, seeming more curious.

“That the chamber beyond this door is equally deserted,” said Greeth. “That our guesses about Arabeth ring true, and that she knew that we knew.”

He ended with a grimace and spun back at Arabeth’s door, waving his hand forcefully its way as he completed another spell, one that sent the reinforced, many-locked door flinging wide.

Revealing nothing but darkness behind.

With a growl, Valindra started past Greeth, heading into the room, but the archmage arcane held out his arm and with supernatural power held the elf back. She started to protest, but Arklem Greeth held up the index finger of his free hand over pursed lips, and again added the power of supernatural dominance, hushing the woman as surely as he had physically gagged her.

He looked back into the darkness, as did Valindra, only it wasn’t as pitch black as before. In the distance to the left, a soft light glowed and a tiny voice lessened the emptiness.