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Chapter Text

When an arcanist dreams, Dal Quor screams.

Thomas Lee Moore couldn't remember where he'd first heard that rhyming couplet. At Arcanix, the floating wizardry school in Aundair, to be sure. But who said it and when...that eluded him. Its meaning seemed clear: Wizards -- yes, and sorcerers, even warlocks, for all their slipshod casting, questionable contacts and lack of discipline -- already manipulate reality. After all, Thomas thought, what is a spell other than the caster defying the physical laws of the universe in some small way? So when such a soul went to the dreamscape where what's "real" is fluid and ever-changing, he or she brought lived experience.

Not that his arcane expertise had ever helped Thomas in his own dreams, so far as he was aware. He knew Dal Quor, the plane of dreams, was a real place, ruled by nightmare creatures called the Quori, who controlled the distant continent of Sarlona, had some role in creating the mysterious kalashtar and had fought a long-ago war with the giants of Xen'drik. He knew the real Dal Quor was almost impossible to reach ever since that war, yet every soul on Eberron visited each night...except the warforged who never slept and the kalashtar who never dreamed.

Thomas knew so much, things that would terrify even his companions, hardened adventurers who had fought horrors from Xoriat, dragons and demons, gangsters and evil cults. I'm the one who knows how close Sharn came to utter destruction at Czervanth Tower when the rift to Xoriat nearly opened. It was a clever solution he and the others had devised, with the help of the duergar artificer Kostas Knyarri: Tearing the doors off of Arthur Zimmall's chambers -- doors scribed with an anti-Xoriat ward Zimmall had maintained and strengthened for more than a century of his profanely-prolonged life -- placing them on top of the rift and then sealing it from below with a tower shield made of byeshk metal, which had properties against the creatures and works of the Plane of Madness. Clever, but temporary at best, a bandage on a wound that might yet fester. The shield was secured with glue, by the Twelve! And then we left, because something worse was pending.

Something worse always seemed to be pending. And that's what terrified Thomas -- the things he didn't know. This was the fear that he took with him to Dal Quor every night, that this battle he'd just won to save the Cyrans was not the climactic end to a story, but the start of another chapter. Who was behind the Swords of Liberty? Where was Guurgaal, the enchanted replica of a Dhakaani Emperor's weapon? What's the link to that short-lived hobgoblin dynasty 75 centuries ago, overthrown after another Daelkyr incursion led to another Dhakaani loss? I told Faye it may have been a staff for summoning creatures, like the Manifest Legion only bigger, but who knows? Are the illnesses that struck down King Boranel and nearly killed Lhesh Haruuc of Darguun related?

He scratched his left shoulder idly. If the Quori are screaming, it's probably with laughter.

Jaesa stirred next to him, mumbled softly and turned on her side. Her hair brushed his face.

Thomas was lying on a borrowed bed in a small bungalow, one of a row nestled between New Cyre's north wall and a street nicknamed "Embassy Row" -- in fact, it had been Aundair's embassy before Prince Oargev ir'Wynarn, leader of the Cyrans who'd survived The Mourning, became Governor Oargev, vassal to Breland's Regent, his cousin Kor ir'Wynarn. The locals he talked to still marveled at how swiftly the nations of Khorvaire had recalled their ambassadors, abandoning the tidy wooden houses gifted them by the then-Prince. A couple had burned in the fighting, but Darguun's still flew Haruuc's banner -- Ambassador Ka'vuun was by far the friendliest hobgoblin he'd ever met, and Choraan had settled there nicely with his huge Vadalis-bred dire wolf -- and the Mror Holds' embassy had become a love nest for his friend Golandar and the much-older dwarven Ambassador to Breland, Brunhild Mroranon. He'd expected Templar Aiwyn at the Thrane house next door, but instead found a family of homeless Silver Flame worshippers, praising the warforged priest who'd arranged their temporary shelter.

Embassies to a near-extinct people with little to offer but endless need, and diplomats pretending the last royal of said people still had authority, he thought, scoffing loudly to the darkened room. Jaesa stirred again, rolling back onto her back, blanket slipping down to expose one pert breast, nipple stiffening in the cool night air.

He reached over with his right hand to adjust the blanket without breaking his chain of thought. By the Host, Oargev has more real power as Governor than he ever had as the Pauper Prince. Not that his people understand the sacrifice he made, not only on their behalf, but for the thousands of ethnic Cyran slaves in Darguun who might be freed. Jaesa, part of Oargev's entourage, had explained the bargain.

Thomas scratched his chest under a borrowed sleeping shirt of Audairian silk. He’d been surprised to find Cyran women — men, too, he supposed — slept in the nude. He had tried to keep busy post-battle, to hold his worries at bay. Most days the little embassy became a workshop where he crafted potions and simple magic items for his friends. On the Fifth, he'd joined a mission to hunt down dangerous mercenary fugitives, traveling most of the day into the foothills, then spent that night in the field with Golandar Kolkarun, Choraan taarka'khesh, Lantern Ariel Elenwyd, a cleric of Dol Arrah, a House Deneith representative from Karrnath called Ullracht Markar, and a mix of Cyran militia and King's Swords; the next day they'd returned with thirty-five orcs and dwarves, remnants of two warbands employed by the late Red Owl, captured without loss of life. Before that, Thomas intervened with a Brelish quartermaster tasked with killing horses injured in the combat. The grizzled fool with a wooden leg wanted to start a fight with Choraan over his dire wolf's need for fresh meat. He'd saved the fool's life, and saved Choraan from having to justify killing the fool to the King's Citadel. Warden Nina Moondown had been there, too, with her animal companion -- I wasn't seeing things, her wolf had grown dire-sized since I'd first met them in Zarantyr -- but had rebuffed attempts to recruit her for the mission.

After their return on the Sixth, another cloudy day with misting rain followed by a heavily-overcast night, Thomas had risen carefully to not disturb the Cyran woman Vonda, snoring softly in his bed, and on a hunch had used magic to fly above the heavy cloud cover. Only when he'd reached an altitude where he gasped for breath, cold winds cutting through his energy resistance spell, did he get a glimpse of the sky...and wished he hadn't. I wasn't prepared, he admitted ruefully. Then other things had come up, as always.

He'd even taken on an arcane task as a favor to Governor Oargev: Every evening at dusk the former prince decreed a bonfire be set in the town square, made up of broken wood and other debris work crews had gathered that day, largely from the wrecked hovels and shanties of the "New Eston" neighborhood. As it had rained every day since the battle, Thomas made sure the wood was dry enough to catch and placed alchemist's fire flasks amid the kindling, so he could ignite the bonfire each evening with pyrotechnic magic to entertain the crowd and get the revelry off to a good start. It was the only time of day he saw the other heroes who'd saved New Cyre: Choraan; the gnome warlock-rogue Jarvis Black, the elven twin sisters, Aiwyn and Ariel Elenwyd, separated for the entire Last War and still not talking; Golandar, a dwarf champion bonded with an impressive urgrosh called the Khazad-Spike; a khoravar archer from northwest Breland, Ivannio Thiembe; and Nina, bearing the Least Mark of Handling but not part of House Vadalis, who was horrified at PrairieHearth's destruction where so many animals had died...as had her lover, Brunt d'Vadalis, victim of his uncle Dover's treachery.

The thing he failed to do was board Dejarn. Aside from those he had told (who understood and practiced discretion), supposedly no one outside his Cannith West handler knew of his "excoriate" status and mission. Born into a Cannith-affiliated family, Thomas had never manifested the Mark of Making, yet his skill in wizardry and artifice were valued by the breakaway House branch based in Aundair. He'd been sent to capture or kill a true Cannith excoriate named Tyvan, provider of potions and other items to the goblinoids who'd raided in and around New Cyre early this year, but who'd been on Cannith's shit list for thirty years.

Being a fellow excoriate was supposed to lower Tyvan's justified paranoia, but so far all it had done was mess with Thomas' own standing. Somehow, though Dejarn was crewed and maintained exclusively by Cannith South members who should have been ignorant of Cannith West schemes, his attempts to see the wondrous floating fortress up close were "administratively denied" even as Governor Oargev and Ambassador Brunhild were given guided tours of the Citadel's "secret" base.

There’s a reason I’m awake, he thought. If I think it through, in order, I’ll figure it out.

Chapter Text

"I'm a wizard, not a diplomat! Take your petty complaint to the Governor!"

Truly, Thomas was no diplomat. And yet, when the fighting had ended, Governor Oargev ir'Wynarn's seneschal, Essyn Cadrel, had told the heroes from other nations they were welcome to stay in the houses on "Embassy Row" for as long as they needed. Thomas had quickly moved into "his" abandoned embassy, a tidy little bungalow with front and back verandas, still furnished though all personal belongings and important papers had been removed.

A thorough search turned up an Audairian banner in the back of a closet, and he raised it the next morning in a moment of whimsy, humming the first bars of Aundair's anthem. Sure enough, before midday he'd been accosted by two merchants from Passage trapped in town by the fighting, who demanded he file a claim for their lost merchandise, several dozen bolts of cloth. The ensuing argument got heated until he'd finally slapped his bald head, tugged his arcanist robes and told them where to go, loudly, accompanied by tiny puffs of flame and harmless electric sparks aimed at their feet. The merchants fled, and Thomas soon lowered the banner, wet from a passing shower, and returned it to the closet.

As he ate lunch at the Ghallanda-run inn facing the town square, left untouched by the fighting, Thomas sent a message to Ariel Elenwyd, Dark Lantern of Breland, requesting a tour of Dejarn, where she had chosen to stay for the time being. Across the common room he exchanged nods with Jarvis Black, a brown-skinned gnome gifted with innate magic, stealth and combat prowess who'd helped save New Cyre, talking quietly with the two halfling proprietors. Probably not his real name; might even be one of those Trust agents I heard about in whispers at Arcanix.

The day wore on with no reply from Ariel, as he set to work after lunch with his alchemy kit in the kitchen of the little house, brewing potions. It was only near evening, as he was about to leave for the festivities in the town square, that the answer came. Not a magical message, but a teenaged boy in a King's Citadel cadet's uniform, who stammered a greeting, handed him a wax-sealed roll of parchment from a small leather satchel and dashed off again.

Opening it, he was downcast. Thomas Lee Moore of House Cannith, Western Faction: We apologize for the inconvenience, but at this time we cannot approve your request to board Dejarn. They knew he was a Cannith affiliate, fair enough. But was this just Cannith South having a go at their western cousins, or did they know of his current "excoriate" status? Not like I can walk over and ask them to clarify.

Thus thwarted, Thomas decided he needed one more diversion. He pulled his spellbook and turned to a long-unused hidden page. It wasn't officially taught at Arcanix, but older students would pass the formula to promising underclassers in drunken late-night “study” sessions. A quick review added the spell to his repertoire, replacing a magic missile he doubted he'd need. Collecting the viscous material component took more time, as he was a bit stressed, but eventually he had a half-vial. True Arcanix spells were perfected, taught the same way for centuries; this was amateurish, its nearly one minute casting time a mashup of words in multiple languages, harsh gyrations and gestures...and smearing the material component on the target area. About halfway through his privates began to tingle, then itch, and finally burn, taking concentration to finish. This better work, I can't be responsible for a half-Cyran bastard. A simple cantrip to clean up, then Thomas dressed in ceremonial robes from Arcanix and touched the top of his peaked hat with continual flame before putting it on.

Running late, he chose to fly the short distance to the town square, landing just as Governor Oargev, standing at the small balcony leading to his office in front of the taller Cadrel, loudly asked where that Aundairian wizard was. At least three hundred people were gathered, giving the bonfire a wide berth as they laughed with Oargev, then cheered Thomas' arrival. Fortunately the rain had paused, and a trio of workers pulled an oiled tarp off the piled wooden debris and kindling. Bowing to the crowd and waving his heavy sleeves theatrically, he lit the bonfire with scorching rays aimed at the concealed flasks of alchemist's fire, followed by pyrotechnics to create illusions of fire and smoke that brought gasps and louder cheers from the crowd. He bowed again, cold flame leaving a bright trail as he waved his hat, and headed for the food tables as a trio of bards filled the square with music.

He clasped hands with well-wishers, did simple sleight of hand tricks for giggling children, and avoided eye contact with one of the Aundairian merchants. Suddenly Thomas was face to face with a woman about his age -- except her face was nearly a foot below his; when she looked up he saw kind brown eyes, wavy brunette hair, and a crooked smile that pulled on a cheek scar, showing a couple of missing teeth on her right side. Her dress was outdated but flattering in dark green with gold trim, pulling his attention straight to her modest cleavage, into which a spray of small white feathers had been placed. He smiled back and said, "Thomas."

"Shar. That was amazing, sir. But your hat...?"

"Right. The hat." Thomas took the peaked hat in his right hand, ostentatiously licked his left forefinger and thumb, then made a show of pinching the cold fire like snuffing a candle as he mentally dismissed the spell and put it back on. Shar laughed, then grabbed his right hand with her gold-gloved left and guided him around to a small cart, where the Ghallanda halfling couple were pouring ale from a tapped keg. A small crowd parted for them, with a couple of men clapping Thomas on the back and another calling out, "Good on ya, Shar!," causing her to blush. The ale was good and cold, but when Thomas moved to pay the halfling woman glared at him and said, "Yer coin's no good here, wizard. Drink with our thanks." Which caused the small crowd to cheer, raising their mugs and tankards until Thomas and Shar returned the salute and they all drank.

Moments later, finding themselves back by the roaring fire, Shar took a long drink from her mug and asked, "do you tago, Thomas?" The tago was Cyre's national dance; the unseen bards had upped the tempo, and nearby several couples and a couple of individuals were already dancing, twirling and posing, stepping and clapping. Raising his voice to be heard over the music, he answered, "No, but I'm keen to learn. Allow me." Taking her mug, he drained his and held both from below with the handles touching, then gestured with his free hand, calling into existence a third, ghostly hand. Directing the mage hand to grasp both handles, he let go and guided it back towards the Ghallanda cart, dodging onlookers...and passing right over Jarvis Black, spilling a few drops on the gnome's head.

Jarvis looked at Thomas, then nodded towards the mugs. The wizard raised a bushy eyebrow, then smiled and directed the ghostly hand to rise as fast as it could go, jinking left and right, still clutching the mugs. Jarvis paused, then turned, pointed one finger without looking and fired a line of bright purple eldritch power that shredded the mage hand and turned both mugs to splinters and dust. Cries of alarm mixed with cheers at this latest arcane display; the musicians skipped a beat, then resumed. Thomas bowed deep and gestured towards the gnome, but when he looked Jarvis was gone. Beyond where the gnome had been, he saw a male human who also seemed surprised by the vanishing act; pale, dark haired, sharp features, wearing drab clothes. Aside from Ullracht the Blademarks liaison, Thomas couldn't recall any other Karrns among New Cyre's defenders.

Shar stepped out from behind the wizard and asked, "Who was that?" He looked at her and forgot about the Karrn, whoever he was.

"Tell you later. Let's dance." Shar's tago was excellent, showing off toned legs; his was awkward, all elbows and knees, and he resolved to switch a spell slot tomorrow to cat's grace as she guided him into an embrace, then a separation and a twirl into another embrace. Her face had a light sheen of sweat, and a lock of hair was plastered to her forehead.

The music paused, and they grabbed two plates of home cooking and more ale before taking the short walk back to his "embassy," chatting and flirting. On the front veranda she even thanked him for saving her town and people. As soon as they were inside and the door closed, they put plates and mugs on the nearest table and were in each other's arms, kissing and touching and undressing and moving towards a padded sofa in the dimly-lit main room, where the departed ambassador entertained guests. Thomas suddenly had a mouthful of white feathers, and they laughed as they settled on the sofa. Shar's left breast was slightly fuller than her right, but both responded to his lips and tongue. She had his robe and tunic off; he briefly wondered what she thought of his thin build and hairless chest, until she covered his chest and torso in kisses and he relaxed.

Together they removed his breeches, and he was ready. She straddled him, wearing only soft leather ankle boots and elbow-length gold linen gloves. There was a soft roundness to her belly and hips, which mattered not a bit in the moment. Shar's lovemaking was enthusiastic, eager, giving Thomas all he needed to keep up the tempo of their private tago, until his convulsive climax made her moan with a hint of longing. She smiled and leaned way over to kiss him and whisper, "do Aundairian men pleasure their women the way Cyran men do?"

"Aundair dares, my dear." They moved to the bedroom where she flounced on the feather bed and laid back. Thomas didn't just go down on her like a Cyran, he summoned another mage hand to caress and fondle the rest of her as he worked Shar into a shuddering orgasm.

Inquisitive as ever, he talked with her. Before the Mourning, Shar had owned a tiny farm with her sister and brother-in-law, less than a half-mile from the Brelish border. The advance of the murderous dead-gray mist was so slow they had time to throw tools and belongings into a wagon and ride across the border to safety. Years later, she'd been in that same wagon traveling with her sister to a new homestead farm south of New Cyre to join her sister's husband when the Swords of Liberty army was spotted marching north. They'd turned and fled back with their treasure: Two sacks of Cyran belwheat seed bulbs recovered from the Mournland.

Thomas knew Oargev had sent expeditions into the Mournland hoping to find clues to the Mourning itself, and was paying bounties to anyone with new information. Thomas had earned a reward when he personally handed Oargev, still Prince at the time, a schema, taken from Tyvan's stash after the true Cannith excoriate escaped justice, that enabled any skilled artificer to create so-called Mourning Stones -- rounded Eberron shards infused with triggered spells that replicated the dead-gray mist. In the battle he'd seen six halflings sling Mourning Stones in the path of a Swords of Liberty charge. Dozens of attackers ran into the line of thick fog clouds and magical silence...and fewer than half stumbled out, shrieking in pain. The wizard grimaced at the memory of seeing the fog disperse to reveal corpses with no visible injuries. The schema had looked old, and far beyond Tyvan's creative talent. Thomas spoke nine languages and could read a dozen obscure dialects from the Arcanix libraries, yet the schema's runes defied him. Read magic allowed comprehension, but did nothing to solve their origin.

Anyway, another team of explorers had come back from the Mournland a year ago with a dozen sacks of Cyre's signature grain: Hearty and nutritious, with a nutty flavor, belwheat made for distinctive breads and pastries. He remembered a bakery in Fairhaven when he was young, and how the Cyran bakers' fortunes had gone up or down depending on Aundair's relations with their homeland. Upon Cyre's death the only source of belwheat was northern Darguun -- farmed by Cyran slaves, making it next to impossible to import under Treaty of Thronehold restrictions. Oargev had been excited by the find, more so when no strange magical auras were detected and a small test had produced normal-looking stalks. This season he had asked for volunteers among the dozens of homesteader families heading out for spring planting, hoping that if the grain could grow and wasn't warped from four years in that awful place, they could reclaim a piece of Cyre's heritage -- and give New Cyre a fresh source of revenue. Shar's brother-in-law had raised his hand, but Shar had said there was no word from him, and a Brelish-Cyran patrol to the south had come back with no survivors and reports of burned farmhouses.

"Magical crops fascinated me," Thomas told Shar as they lay naked together in the narrow bed. "At Arcanix, we had an old professor, Galyn d'Vadalis, who taught Introduction to Magebreeding, one of the only courses at ground level. There was a running joke that he practiced 'animal husbandry' until his House elders caught him at it one day." He waited a beat until Shar finally smiled, then continued, "So I asked him about magebred plants, and he mentioned belwheat, a pre-Galifar collaboration between Vadalis and the priests of Arawai: A drought- and insect-resistant perennial whose root bulb, once established, sprouted luxurious grain stalks twice a year, but which required a very specific soil composition and temperate weather, only found in and around central Metrol, the kingdom that later became Cyre. Galyn said that once belwheat was planted in all the available plots, sales dropped to nothing and the House returned full-time to animal breeding."

He looked down; Shar was snoring softly, with a slight whistle through her missing teeth.

I wonder if the Murnies had also volunteered, Thomas had thought. The remains of their homestead to the northeast was untouched by the fighting. Perhaps sacks of these precious seed bulbs are still there. He shook his head at the irrelevance of it, and drifted to sleep, where he dreamed he was fighting the battle all over again, only this time in the skin of the Red Owl herself, holding a dark-bladed scimitar that radiated evil and necrotic energy. She laughed as she fought, dismissing the glamer to reveal her true tiefling heritage.

With a start, he awoke a second before he-Red Owl died. Shar murmured and shifted, freeing him to get up. It was just before dawn, the usual time Thomas studied his books for the new day's spells. He quietly crossed the room to a roll-top desk of Aundairian wood, where he'd placed his spellbooks. He tapped an everbright lantern in a wall sconce, then quickly turned the knob to close opaque louvers that blocked almost all the light. Shar sleepily turned on her side, rounded ass barely covered by the bedclothes. Maybe I don't have to study just this minute, he thought with an appreciative grin. I didn't cast that many spells yesterday....

There was a heavy knock at the front door, and Shar awoke with a start. They both stared at the door, then at each other, gesturing. Shar's said Go answer that, it's your house! while Thomas's meant, By the Twelve, put some clothes on! The wizard threw on a dressing robe and was at the door when the knock came again. If it's those clothmongers, I'll do more than scare them, he thought as he threw open the door.

Golandar Kolkarun stood on the veranda, fully armored and clutching his unique dwarven urgrosh, the Khazad-Spike. He hastily pulled back his right arm before the silver axehead hit Thomas's chin. "Come, friend Thomas, we found them!" the dwarf said, grinning over his dark brown beard, braided into three forks held in place by heavy copper rings.

"Do you know what time it is? Who did you find?" In the gloom Thomas glimpsed the long handle of another weapon over Golandar's left shoulder, and part of an triangular axeblade behind his right hip. Is that Rock's greataxe?

"The last of the sellswords, of course. Fifty in all, dwarves and orcs both, in the foothills. Glory awaits!" Golandar pointed the urgrosh roughly northeast. Four more copper rings adorned the fingers of his right hand. Thomas knew the eighth ring, one of two that were enchanted, adorned his left pinkie. Really should ask how he managed to join The Aurum without us knowing. That, and why he has an axe he disliked so much he arranged an elaborate trade to free Kolkarun's legacy weapon from Clan Droranath's vaults, giving the greataxe -- another legacy weapon named Beardcutter, of all things -- to his Droranath friend Rock Silverbreath. A "friend" Golandar killed in single combat when we failed to parley with the Swords of Liberty. When I slew the traitor Dover d'Vadalis.

Thomas stood at the door, hand on chin, as Golandar hopped from foot to foot. Behind him he heard Shar moving around. "These mercenaries are tougher than the other Swords of Liberty fugitives," he said at last. "It's unfinished business; we need to bring these..." he paused until he remembered a word his goblin ally Choraan had taught him "...cha'toor to justice."

Shar appeared at the door, dressed only in her thin linen shift and sandals, holding the rest of her clothes in a borrowed sack and smiling crookedly. He wasn't certain how darkvision worked, but he was pretty sure Golandar got an eyeful as he bowed low and said "m'lady" with greater courtesy than Thomas expected. The Cyran woman giggled and slipped past them both into the darkened street. With a gesture and whispered word, Thomas summoned four floating torchlights, sending two to follow Shar while the other two hovered over his head.

"All right, Golandar, I'll meet you in the town square, by last night's bonfire."

The dwarf snorted a laugh. "Good choice, as that's where our forces are gathering. We leave mid-morning, rain or...more rain."

With that he hopped off the small porch and strode in the opposite direction as Shar, towards the Darguun embassy, presumably to fetch the Silent Wolf and his silent wolf.

Chapter Text

Enough stalling! You need to know!!

Thomas threw on a robe over his silk sleep shirt, checked his wearable magic items, grabbed a couple wands and vials to stuff in the robe's pockets, and stormed out of the house. He'd barely used any spells the previous day, so he still had an overland flight memorized, and others he'd added to his usual repertoire. Even as he walked Thomas was casting, and without breaking stride he was airborne. The clouds were dark gray, with a few patches of lighter gray where they were lit from above by Eberron's moons. He flew upward in a tight spiral, keeping an eye on the brightest glow, presumably made by Zarantyr, the closest of the twelve moons and the one most responsible for coastal tides. The air was cold and wet, a sign that the day to come would bring still more rain, perhaps even the thunderstorm that kept threatening but never actually hit. He paused in a hover, took a vial from a pocket and carefully put one drop in each eye. His vision grew sharp, and details his unaided eyes missed were now clear. To the east the Seawall mountains were black edged with barest gray heralding the coming sunrise behind clouds.

After about ten minutes of climbing he was in the clouds. His robe was soon soaked, and he blinked as water dripped down his scalp into his bushy eyebrows, the only hair on his head. An endure elements took care of the discomfort and he continued to climb in a soothing silence, broken only when his spiraling path took him against the prevailing wind. After another five minutes he began gasping for air, just as had happened before. This time he countered with a simple air bubble, cast around his head. Good thing I have two more ready, Thomas thought as he took a few deep breaths.

Finally he broke through the cloud layer and was in the open sky. The stars were a welcome sight, as was the Ring of Siberys, a golden band arcing to the west from horizon to horizon. Thomas set to work, looking carefully at the visible moons....

"Lovely night, doncha think?"

Startled, Thomas bit back a scream and looked frantically around. Not five feet away a tiny red form hovered, wings beating rapidly, long, thin tail lashing back and forth to help hold its position: Druziel, Jarvis Black’s companion. Thomas drew a wand and aimed as he growled, "Sneaking up on me, Imp?"

Druziel backed up a couple of feet. "Sneaking is how I move," he said, a hint of affront in his whiny voice. He did a quick loop, silently, as if to demonstrate the point. Also to show he's more at home in the sky than I am, Thomas thought.

"You followed me," Thomas said, following the Imp's movements with the tip of the wand. In the air bubble his voice had a slight echo, but Druziel seemed to have no trouble breathing or speaking. He touched the flight spell with his mind, moving just fast enough to offset the wind and stay roughly level. This close, Thomas could clearly see the rings on the longest claw-tipped fingers of the Imp's hands, the amulet dangling from its scrawny neck, the bracers and belt that had resized to fit the tiny creature's wrists and waist, and the weapons -- sheathed blade, tiny crossbow -- securely hooked to the belt. Jarvis gave him magic items?

"Of course," replied Druziel, breaking his brief reverie. "But please, don't let me interrupt you. Don't wanna waste the time you have left on your spells, Wizard." He crossed his spindly arms and waited, wings beating in a near-hover to keep him the same distance from Thomas. Just out of reach.

After a moment, Thomas grunted and lowered the wand. He looked at white Zarantyr, a waxing half-moon to the west; "King" Nymm, a golden orb in waning gibbous to the northeast; and silver-gray Eyre, full and nearly overhead. He concentrated, and soon was able to pick out on its surface the shadowy anvil shape that gave Eyre its nickname. Somewhere, a House Cannith enclave is celebrating, he thought, and superstitious blacksmiths have begun work on particularly difficult projects...except Eyre shouldn't be full tonight. It was full on the Third, and this morning is Sol the Eighth.

He looked again at Zarantyr and Nymm. They were wrong too. Zarantyr should have set by now, and Nymm's small but bright disk should be showing a half face. He glanced at the other moons he could see: Bright Barrakas rising just as gray Therendor was setting, the waxing crescent of Olarune, dim Sypheros, pale blue Rhaan rising just beyond Barrakas' glow, a point of light among the stars around it, and orange-red Aryth, a full moon partially hidden by the Ring of Siberys.

A perfectly normal night sky...five nights ago. This confirmed what he'd glimpsed two nights earlier, before the thin air had forced him back down. The itching sensation returned, and he scratched his left arm and shoulder as his thoughts churned with the enormity of it all. He rotated until he faced Druziel, his back to the wind. The hem of his robe, still wet from passing through the cloud layer, flapped slightly.

"What do you know of this, Imp?"

"I know nothing," Druziel replied with a toothy smile. Thomas glared and the Imp raised his arms in a placating gesture before quickly adding, "'Tis true...but it is possible for me to...consult with greater powers, see what they know." Thomas noticed the Imp's eyebrows, black against his brick-red skin, extended several inches beyond his face; so when Druziel raised his right eyebrow he almost laughed.

"Only a familiar can make that offer," Thomas said slowly, "and then only to his master. For you, that means Jarvis-"

Druziel interrupted with a laugh, a high-pitched staccato cackle. "The gnome is not my master. He wanted to make the traditional deal, but I didn't offer it. Just swore to serve him is all...to be fully honest, he did need me, and I needed protection. Remember, I was beaten twice by you lot -- you destroyed my Imp-ire in Sharn, then killed that aberrant dragonling I partnered with. Figured it was better to join your epic quest than get sent back."

Thomas recalled the "Imp-ire" as a web-choked stairwell in a little-used tower where Druziel waylaid the unwary with spiders, rats and blood-sucking stirges. The less said about the dragonling -- housecat-sized and black-scaled, with pink pustulent boils and tentacles for legs -- the better. Killing it had been a mercy.

"Back to Baator?"

"The Prison Plane?" Druziel scoffed. "I was formed from the energies of Shavarath. Created for war, I was...." The Imp puffed up his narrow chest and saluted; this time, Thomas couldn't stop himself from chuckling. "...'Cos there's more to war than just combat," he continued, "though I've done my share of fighting. Ask Jarvis if you doubt me. Gone above and beyond the call, I have. Didja know the Red Owl had her own familiar? Nasty little bugger -- you'd call it a Quasit. We fought, I won...you're welcome."

"Interesting tale, but not the point. Why didn't you become his familiar?"

Druziel shook his head. "Eventually Jarvis would return to Zilargo. As his familiar, I'd haveta go with him, only I wouldn't last a day there. Gnomes are scary, especially for my kind."

Now it was Thomas who scoffed. "The Zil are the friendliest people in all Khorvaire -- polite, cultured, hardworking. There's almost no crime in Zilargo-"

The Imp's laugh cut him off again. "From where I hover, gnomes are good at two things: Secrecy, and binding. Elemental or outsider, matters not to them. I have no desire to spend eternity trapped in a Khyber shard, thank you. I explained it to Jarvis, and he understood...all too well. If there's no crime in Zilargo, it's 'cos of gnomes like Jarvis. If they're hardworking, it's 'cos they're terrified that if they relax, some other Zil will turn them in...and a gnome like Jarvis will come. Truuuust me." Druziel stretched out the word, and even winked, in case his word play had been too subtle.

"Enough about Jarvis," Thomas said sharply. "I can't make you my familiar either. I chose years ago to bond with items, not creatures. Certainly not with an annoying devilspawn like you. If you can't help me, begone!" With a flourish, the wand was in his hand again, and Druziel flinched.

"You're wrong about my having to be your familiar," the Imp said. "I'm free to make my own decisions. I chose to serve Jarvis, and now I choose to help you, Wizard. Ask your question: I'll see what I can do. No tricks, no soul-stealing...by the powers, I'm curious too."

Thomas paused. A wind gust moved him past Druziel; now downwind, he caught a whiff of brimstone as the two turned to face each other again. A moment passed, then the wizard cleared his throat. The Imp cocked his head and held a clawed hand up to a pointed ear, nodding once.

Thomas spoke in the voice he normally used for his most powerful spells: Resonant, each syllable precisely pronounced. "Exactly what magics were used to create this effect in Eberron's sky?"

Druziel nodded again, and clapped his hands. "Well spoken! Direct, to the point, yet demanding an explicit answer...which, with any luck, I'll have for you in a couple of days." The Imp looked about to leave, but then he darted closer to Thomas and said in a high whisper, "Don't tell Jarvis I offered to help you. You're not his favorite." Then he truly was gone, leaving only a stronger brimstone smell, quickly dissipated by the wind. Imps don't teleport, he thought, but then, most Imps don't have that many magic items. He could become a problem, and soon.

Thomas lingered, taking a longer look at each moon, memorizing its position and phase, before starting his long descent -- scratching at his arms, shoulders and neck almost the entire time as he continued analyzing what he'd seen and heard. The moons couldn't actually stop like that...could they? Impossible. Has to be magic. If not for the endless cloud cover -- pure coincidence, I hope -- others would have noticed. When the Imp tells me how it was done, determining why should be easy. But now there's Jarvis Black, agent of the Trust, as I suspected. He's been on our side again and again, but that could change. A gnome warlock and rogue with uncanny stealth would be a tough challenge. And there's this Shavarath angle I'm not yet seeing. Had outsiders from the Plane of Battle instigated the Swords of Liberty? That's a strong hypothesis; fiends like Druziel would revel in the carnage at New Cyre, regardless of who won. Everyone thought the Red Owl was a half-elf...until she died and was revealed as a tiefling. Come to think of it, that Barghest we tangled with who led the Dark Hands raiders...the one who ate that shifter -- Drako, that was it -- in the illegal Daask-run fighting pit in Lower Sharn, transforming into a Greater Barghest in front of hundreds of screaming fans...where was it from?

Only when he was hovering over New Cyre, dark and quiet but for a light drizzle portending yet another rainy spring day, did he finally look at where he'd been scratching. Maybe it was the darkness, or a trick of his enhanced sight, but were those...lines starting to appear on both arms?