Storm of the Dead - Lisa Smedman [119]
Understanding filled him. "You're a dark elf," he said. "Not a drow."
I am what we were.
The figure suddenly changed. A male stood where she'd been a moment ago, his skin as black as Q'arlynd's own. And I am what we became.
"I am honored to meet you, ancestors," Q'arlynd said, bowing low. Excitement surged through him. At last! Dark elves, from the time of the Descent! He couldn't even begin to guess what secrets their minds might hold.
High magic?
Q'arlynd nodded carefully. He'd have to keep a tighter rein on his thoughts. The kiira was able to hear his every word, even those that remained unspoken. "Yes. If you'll teach it to me."
The male ancestor's eyes blazed. High magic is what condemned us! We were uncorrupted, still clean. Not like them. Q'arlynd's head wrenched to the side, directed by a mind that was not his own. It forced him to look at the dim shadows that were his apprentices. And yet we were condemned to share the same fate as these Ilythiiri.
The sentience released Q'arlynd. Relief flooded him. Losing control of his body, even for a moment, had felt uncomfortably close to the time he'd been forced to wear his slave ring.
It wasn't enough for Aryvandaar to wipe Miyeritar from the face of Faerыn with their killing storm, the presence continued. They could have left those few who survived to eke out their lives, but even that small mercy was beyond them. They and their allies had to alter our very bodies and drive us from the surface with their dominating magic, forever imprisoning us in the Dark Realms Below, together with those whose alliance we never sought.
Q'arlynd drew in a sharp breath at what his ancestor had just said. Those two words. Z'ress-to hold dominance or to remain in force. And faer-magic. Q'arlynd had heard these words for a lifetime, but always the other way around. As Faerzress: "magic that remained." Faerzress, he'd been taught during his days as a novice at the Arcane Conservatory, was native to the Underdark. A form of raw magic that was similar to a volcano, or a rushing river, in its ability to build or carve away stone. Something that had always been around, from the moment of the world's creation.
With the words reversed, the resulting term took on an entirely different layer of meaning. "Dominating magic." Magic that compelled.
"You mean to tell me that Faerzress was a creation of high magic?" Q'arlynd asked. "That it was linked to the Descent?"
It created much of the Dark Realms Below. It lured us into that prison and locked us inside. The male frowned. Did it never occur to you to question why the drow chose to found their cities in regions that were permeated with Faerzress?
Q'arlynd understood. "Because we were drawn to it? That would make sense. It would ensure we couldn't teleport out. Or use divination to view the World Above."
Thus we were "contained." That was the word the mages of Aryvandaar coined for our imprisonment. We could, through manual effort, return to the surface-climb up through those few tunnels the Faerzress had created that touched upon the World Above-but each time we emerged, the warriors of Aryvandaar beat us down again. The male shook his head sadly. And now we learn, through your thoughts, that it has become possible for us to escape this prison and reclaim the daylit sky-but that this freedom may once again be denied us. That the Faerzress ebbed, but is rising again.
"I played my part. I teleported the Protectors to the Acropolis. Whatever the Crones are creating with the voidstone will be destroyed."
And if it isn't?
The male was replaced by the female who had spoken when Q'arlynd first placed the kiira on his forehead. I am disappointed in you, grandson, she intoned. I would have expected more of someone who had sworn himself to the Lady.
Q'arlynd glanced down at his wrist-at the House insignia that adorned his bracer. The glyph it bore was no mere stick figure. It was, just as Zarifar had observed, the figure of a dancing female.
Eilistraee.
Q'arlynd swore softly, "Mother's