Seeing Vhostym, Azriim stood and bowed, a reluctant gesture for the prideful slaad.
"Sojourner," he said.
Vhostym smiled. Azriim had never called Vhostym "father" or "master," only "Sojourner." It was enough. Vhostym respected his independence.
On the floor near Azriim, Dolgan crouched on his haunches in his natural form-a hulking, bipedal, toadlike creature with leathery green skin and a face full of fangs. The flesh of his muscular forearm oozed black blood from self-inflicted claw scratches. His dullest son was obsessed with pain-both giving it and receiving it. The fact that the slaadi quickly regenerated their wounds only fed Dolgan's fetish. Even as Vhostym watched, Dolgan's wounds closed to light scars.
"Master," the big slaad croaked, and abased himself on the floor.
Vhostym looked upon his largest son with impatience and replied, "Stand, Dolgan. You are my son, not my slave."
At those words, Vhostym thought he detected a sneer on Azriim's lips.
Dolgan clambered to his feet, his hind claws scratching against the stone floor, and said, "Yes, Father."
Lightly and quickly, so as not to humiliate his sons, Vhostym extended his mental perception into the brains of his slaadi and brushed their surface thoughts. He found impatience and eagerness. Azriim gave it voice.
"You have studied the Weave Tap for days, Sojourner, and now have been in sanctuary still another."
Had it been so long? Vhostym thought he had been amidst the stars but a few hours. Strange. Still, he did not approve of Azriim's tone. His sons took liberties with him that few in the multiverse would dare.
"You state the obvious, Azriim. And your tone borders on impertinence."
To give his point an edge, he entered Azriim's mind and caressed the pain-receptors of the slaad's brain. Azriim went rigid and bared his perfect teeth.
Dolgan grinned at his brother's pain.
Vhostym released his favorite son.
Azriim shot Dolgan a glare, returned his mismatched gaze to Vhostym, and adopted a more respectful tone.
"I meant only to suggest that we stand ready to begin the next phase."
Dolgan dug his claws into his palms and said, "But first Father must tell us what the next phase is."
Vhostym said, "That is your brother's very point, Dolgan." He looked at Azriim. "You wish to begin the next phase because you desire the transformation? The drive is strong upon you?"
"Now you state the obvious," Azriim replied, and his eyes-one blue and one brown-narrowed with perturbation.
At that, Vhostym considered causing more severe pain to Azriim, but decided against it. Instead, he opted for magnanimity and smiled benevolently on his son.
"I do, but my intent in doing so is to teach a lesson."
Azriim took a half step backward, no doubt thinking more pain to be forthcoming, and asked, "A lesson?"
Dolgan too looked puzzled, enough so that he stopped tearing gashes into his own hand.
Vhostym waved his hand in the air, spoke a word of power, and a chalice of two-hundred year old Halruaan wine materialized in his grasp.
"Sit," he said, in a tone of voice that the slaadi dared not disobey.
Both dropped to the floor. Vhostym floated between them and sat on the cushions of a divan. Their eyes followed him to where he sat. He sipped from the wine and sighed-full bodied, and as magically smooth as the velvet he sat upon.
"I am pleased with your success in recovering the Weave Tap. But oftentimes, we learn more from failure than from success."
The slaadi looked questions at him.
"The priest of Mask did not thwart your recovery of the Weave Tap. He failed. Not so?"
They nodded, though Azriim scowled, and his hand went to his abdomen, where the Shadowlord's priest had wounded him.
"His failure has something to teach us," Vhostym said. "Characterize him."
Dolgan looked perplexed. The big slaad looked from Azriim to Vhostym to Azriim again. His confusion caused him to scrape still more flesh from his palm.
"What do you mean, 'characterize him'?" Azriim asked.
Vhostym smiled. He enjoyed these interactions with his sons; they made him feel paternal.
"You, Azriim, are precise. You, Dolgan, are brutal. Serrin is merciless. That is each of your respective characters. Do you understand?"
Azriim nodded.
"Excellent. Now characterize this priest who killed your sister, nearly killed Dolgan, and managed to wound even you."
That tweaked Azriim's pride, exactly as Vhostym had intended.
"This is ridiculous," Azriim said, his tone bitter. "The priest is dead."
"Drowned," Dolgan added.
"Perhaps," Vhostym said. "Characterize him nevertheless."
With typical stubbornness, Azriim refused to answer. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked away. Vhostym could scarcely contain a smile. His slaadi, each of them a powerful, skillful killer when out of his sight, reverted to childishness when in his presence. He supposed the phenomenon was the same across all sentient species.
"Come, Azriim," Vhostym chided, "characterize him."
"Relentless," Dolgan blurted.
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."