Q'arlynd's lips formed the required word of their own accord. "Yes."
Welcome, grandson.
The second word reverberated with deeper meaning. "Grandson" was inadequate to the task. Whoever was speaking through the kiira was much farther removed from Q'arlynd's time than that. Not mere centuries, but millennia.
Yes.
Q'arlynd no longer saw the corridor he stood in, the door in front of him, or his apprentices. All faded to distant shadows. His mind's eye filled instead with the figure the kiira shaped for it. A female with long white hair and a face that reminded Q'arlynd of his mother-but without the harsh lines and pinched, suspicious eyes. Instead, this female's expression conveyed both serenity and sorrow. On her forehead was a kiira. He was startled to see how dark it was against her skin. Her face wasn't an ebon hue, but something several shades lighter. A faded brown.
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 Faerun 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 blood."
The male returned. Indeed, grandson. It flows in your veins-and in the veins of all who can trace their ancestry back through bloodlines that are of pure Miyeritari descent. I suspect there are few of us, now-fewer with each generation. The Ilythiiri will have mixed their bloodlines with ours, producing yet more offspring who bear the demon's taint. But I am glad to hear that some of us continue to serve the goddess. Some of us remember her and keep the faith.
Both voices spoke together. Male and female, backed up by a chorus of dozens more. That is why this lorestone, and others like it, were placed here. Because we knew that, some day, the goddess might guide the footsteps of someone who would be able to hear us.
"Me," Q'arlynd whispered.
Yes.
He touched a finger to his forehead. "But why did you strip me of my memories, the first time I wore you?"
That was a different selu'kiira. Because you were not of its House, its embodied sentiences stripped you of all memory of it and forced you to return it to this place. They did the same to the boy. He was of the correct House but not wholly worthy of wearing that selu'kiira. He is fortunate that some dark elf blood, at least, flows in his veins. Else he would have died the instant it touched his mind.
"Just as the chitines did?"
He felt their disapproval and overheard a snatch of conversation.
… certain he is Miyeritari?
He is.
"So…" Q'arlynd glanced at Kraanfhaor's Door. By concentrating, he could just make it out. "There are more kiira in there?"
Dozens. One from each House whose patriarch or matriarch survived the Killing Storm.
He touched his forehead. "And since I'm a Melarn-a pure descendant of your House-you'll teach me high magic?"
When you're ready to wield arselu'tel'quess, then yes.
"What must I do to prepare?"
Learn to trust.
"Done." Q'arlynd waved a hand in the direction of his apprentices. "You can see the proof. I brought them along to share in whatever knowledge I might glean."
Is that why three of them still stand bound by your magic?
"I had to. Piri-"
You placed that enchantment into the rings long before that.
"Yes, but the point remains that Piri-"
What did you expect of someone who bonded with a demon? the male chided.
You cannot fault Q'arlynd for trying, the female interjected. The yearning for companionship, for family, comes instinctively to him. It was only the cruelties he suffered as a child that beat it into dormancy. There is a kindness in him still.
Q'arlynd bristled. They seemed to be implying that he was the equivalent of a surface elf, soft and weak. Not a true drow at all.
Your skin may be black, but you're no dhaerow, the female said. She gave the word its original meaning: traitor. A spark of moonlight flickers within your heart. The dhaerow did their best to extinguish it, but it dances there still.
That sounded just like something Qilue had once said.