"I'll never get this stink off of my clothes," Azriim said, beside him.
Vraggen made no reply. He stood on the edge of the Lightless Lake with the half-drow and Serrin to either side.
The Lightless Lake was a small body of water, but Vraggen knew its depths to be infinite. Like a well in the world, it had no shallows. Stepping into even the edge of its waters meant sinking to depths beyond measure. No starlight, no glow from Selune's tears reflected on the pitch waters. Ripples did not mar its surface. It was a darkened mirror, a perfect reflection of the night.
It was a holy place.
Vraggen waited, increasingly anxious. The midnight hour approached. If Azriim had correctly deduced the time from the star globe, soon the Fane would appear, soon he would be transformed.
The Fane was a gift of the gods of shadows to their faithful, a sanctuary that journeyed through time and worlds. It was a bastion, an armory for servants of the twilight. Only one who understood the shadow could enter it safely and bypass its guardians.
A cold breeze stirred, whispering through the stands of cypress. As one, the bullywugs uttered a low croak of awe. They sensed the growing presence of the Fane, but dared not approach nearer than a spearcast to the water.
Ochre light began to pulse from deep in the depths of the lake.
"Look," Vraggen said.
"I see," Azriim said softly, and Vraggen heard the anticipation in his voice.
The green light grew brighter, fuller, but somehow did nothing to dispel the darkness of night.
Beside him, Azriim shook his head sharply, as though to shed an unpleasant thought.
"There is a problem," he said, softly.
What problem could there be? Vraggen's triumph—Cyric's triumph—was at hand.
"Speak," the mage commanded.
Azriim looked him in the eyes. The ochre light from the lake cast the half-drow's face in a sinister light.
Azriim said, "Cale is coming."
Vraggen couldn't believe it so he asked, "Why do you think this?"
Azriim hesitated a moment before answering, "Elura and Dolgan were to transport themselves here at this hour. Something must have prevented that. It can only be Cale. He must have tracked us from Selgaunt."
Vraggen whirled on Serrin and spat, "You—!"
Azriim held up his hands and interposed himself between Serrin and the furious mage.
"They left Serrin for dead at the Twisted Elm, Vraggen," the half-drow said. "He told them nothing. If it were otherwise, I would know. Cale probably tracked us by magical means."
Vraggen stared into Azriim's mismatched eyes and knew the half-drow was right. Besides, it didn't matter how Cale had tracked them. To Vraggen, Cale was nothing more than another obstacle to overcome in his quest to glorify Cyric. He recovered his calm.
"The bullywugs will have some sport, then. Excellent." Vraggen turned back to the lake and looked across its still surface, into the glow in its depths. He pointed and said, "Behold, Azriim. The Fane of Shadows."
Azriim and Serrin leaned forward to see.
Deep below the surface of the lake, the diffuse ochre light pierced the pitch to illumine marble columns veined in black, graceful arches, thick pillars, obsidian sculptures of a hundred world's gods of the night—a temple, the Fane. Living shadows swirled around the columns, danced through the arches. The waters of the Lightless Lake blurred the image but the beauty of the Fane was undeniable. It seemed to hang suspended in the depths, like a star in the heavens.
Within, Vraggen knew, was power.
"Open the way," said Azriim.
Vraggen nodded. He held up his arms, uttered the arcane words to a spell of opening, and powered it by tapping the Shadow Weave. He sent the shadow magic spiraling into the lake. In answer, the waters seethed and hissed.
Behind them, the bullywugs croaked in unison, caught in a religious ecstasy.
The waters of the lake parted, solidified, and formed a narrow, step-lined, hollow shaft that pierced the lake's depths all the way to the Fane. It appeared as though the invisible finger of a god had penetrated the lake to point Vraggen's way.
"Well done," Azriim breathed.
Vraggen couldn't help but smile as he said, "Only one who wields the Weave behind the Weave can do what I have done."
"I know," said Azriim.
Vraggen turned to the bullywugs and in their tongue, which he could speak only through the power of his magic, he shouted, "Ramenos shows his favor to this tribe and I am consumed in his maw. Remain until the sign has passed, then go with the blessing of the Maw. Kill any others who appear."
The shaman and fat chieftain echoed Vraggen's words and the tribe croaked agreement.
"Come," Vraggen said to Serrin and Azriim. He turned to look down the shaft. "The Fane remains in each world for only a short while. What we seek is within."
"Indeed," Azriim said, and he smiled with his perfect teeth.
Despite the steep angle of the shaft, the footing within it was firm, the water somehow solid. Far below them, the Fane beckoned, itself seemingly situated on an invisible platform and surrounded by a dome of air. Its shadow guardians lurked at the bottom of the shaft, in the statue-littered courtyard before the great iron doors of the Fane's entrance. As they descended, the shaft closed behind them, and the shadows swarmed toward them.
"They will not harm us," Vraggen said to Azriim and Serrin as he led them downward. When they neared the bottom of the shaft, Vraggen announced to the guardians, "I am a servant of the hidden power, the Weave behind the Weave, Shar's darkness to Selune's light and Mystra's folly. I will pass."
The shadows parted as had the water. They stood on an invisible disc, surrounded by a dome of air. Vraggen savored the moment. Around them, the statues of a hundred gods from a hundred worlds looked on.
Vraggen walked through the courtyard to the doors. He put his hand to the iron pull ring and heaved open the door.
The forest floor sloped downward and grew increasingly soft as they moved through the Gulthmere. After a time, the thick stands of pines and cedars gave way to brooding cypresses. Pools of stagnant water dotted the undergrowth, increasingly common as they moved along. A pungent organic smell wafted from the water.
"It is well for you that this was a dry spring," Magadon said. "Otherwise, these ponds would be more like lakes, and the ground nothing but a muddy swamp."
Even in the scant illumination from Jak's bluelight wand, Cale could see that the swamp was no real swamp at all. Rather, it was just a lowland area within the forest that was dotted with pools—the Gulthmere's drain.
Still, the air felt different, thick, oily. Some evil slept there, Cale was sure of it.
Jak pulled at his sleeve and said, "Your sword."
Cale nodded. He knew. He held his blade unsheathed in his good hand and wisps of darkness played along its length. Ever since they'd passed the border stones, it had been bleeding shadows.
"The sphere ..." Cale began
". . . transformed it," Jak finished, nodding. He eyed the wisps of shadow swirling around Cale's hand and forearm. "They don't hurt, do they? Do you feel yourself?''
Cale went to put his hand on Jak's shoulder and instead thumped him with his stump. Jak grimaced, but Cale forced a smile.
"What's left of me feels like myself, little man."
Jak's eyes were pained. "There's magic that can fix that, Cale," he said, indicating Cale's wrist.
"That's for later," Cale said. "For now, let's do what we came to do."
Jak nodded and they continued following Magadon and Nestor.
Midnight arrived—Cale felt it—and still they had not reached the Moonmere. He feared they would not arrive in time to stop Vraggen.