Dawn of Night

CHAPTER 20 REAPING THE HARVEST

Levitating in midair in the nursery, Vhostym pressed his ear to the trunk of the Weave Tap and blinked against the increasingly bright pulses of power that ran the length of the artifact. Most creatures wouldn't have been able to see much beyond their own hands in the light of those pulses, but even that dim luminescence stung Vhostym's eyes.

From the burgeoning upper limbs and thick, twisted roots of the Weave Tap hung the desiccated, blackened corpses of the captive devas and demons whose life-force had fed the Tap's early growth. Their mouths were thrown open with the pain of their slow, agonizing deaths. The impaled corpses looked like some macabre fruit, as wrinkled, dry and twisted as prunes. Had he touched one of the corpses, it probably would have crumbled to dust.

Vhostym looked upon the dead celestials and fiends without emotion. The weak, he knew, must always suffer the will of the strong. And Vhostym was strong. The creatures died to serve Vhostym's purpose, speeding the growth of the Weave Tap's first seed.

His slaadi had planted that seed at the provenience of Skullport's mantle. Already the seed's tendrils had spread throughout the city, harvesting its power, pooling it. On the other side of Faerun, a wave of arcane energy was gathering and would soon course along the Weave from the blossoming seed back to the Tap, where it would be stored. Vhostym could feel the power rising through the fabric of magic like a gathering tide, could feel it preparing to race toward him like a gale-driven storm.

Vhostym's heart beat faster than it had in centuries. He braced himself for the rush and attuned his vision to see magical power.

The sentience in the Weave Tap also seemed to feel the pooling power. Its roots began to squirm, its limbs to writhe. The movement was so slow as to be almost imperceptible, except that the dried corpses of the demons and devils broke apart in that movement, crumbling into a million black snowflakes.

The silver beat of the Weave Tap's pulse accelerated, faster and faster, gaining intensity. The slight increase in light caused daggers of pain to stab behind Vhostym's eyes, but he endured. He would witness the success of the first step in his plan.

The power was coming.. .

And there it was.

Without a sound, the spirals of diamond embedded in the circular cyst of the nursery began to glow with magical luminescence. The light-not real light, but a perception funneled through the lens of his magic-detecting vision-caused Vhostym no harm. The diamonds flared with the brilliance of a sun as more and more magical energy flooded them. The entire nursery began to thrum with power. The flakes of the demons and devas swirled around the nursery like dust devils. The limbs of the Weave Tap stretched slowly for the diamonds. Its roots squirmed toward the floor, as though attempting to brace itself more fully in the Shadow Weave, against the expected influx of magic from the Weave.

Vhostym waited, savoring the moment. His eyes boiled from the silver pulse of the Weave Tap, and his soul burned with the knowledge that he had succeeded.

With a suddenness that took even Vhostym aback, three thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine diamonds emitted finger-thick rays of magical energy into the Weave Tap. The living artifact was suspended in a grid of arcane power as fine as a fisherman's net. The tree throbbed with power, faster and faster. It's limbs squirmed as though in ecstasy, until its formerly bare stalks exploded amber leaves, each of them throbbing along their black veins with the arcane power contained within.

Abruptly, the connection between seed and mother tree ended. The nursery went quiet. The seed had exhausted itself, had been born, thrived, and died all within a span of heartbeats. In its death throes it had sent the energy from its "soil" exploding along the lines of the Weave, all to be harvested by the Weave Tap, used to grow more seeds, and stored.

Vhostym looked upon the Weave Tap and thought that even partially-powered it was among the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Within the glowing, amber leaves lay encapsulated the power of an archmage-several archmages-and Vhostym could draw upon that stored power at any time.

But he would not yet do so. He had two more steps to complete before he could complete his plan, and for those steps, his own power would have to serve.

His thoughts turned to his children, his beloved slaadi. They had served him well. He would reward them with transformation to gray, but he would not yet give them their freedom, for he still would need their assistance.

He thought of Skullport, and wondered in passing what destruction had resulted from the Weave Tap's draining of the mantle. Perhaps the Skulls had been able to save the city; perhaps not. Vhostym didn't care. He would do what he willed.

He sent his consciousness searching for his sons. He quickly located Azriim and Dolgan. The largest of his sons was alive but sorely wounded. Serrin he could not locate. He wondered without sentiment if his third son had died.

Azriim and Dolgan were on Faerun's surface, no doubt having used their teleportation rods to escape the destruction of Skullport.

Well done, my sons, he projected, and caressed the pleasure receptors of each of his brood. Well done, indeed.

To Azriim alone, he projected, Where is Serrin? And the priest and his comrades? Did you kill him, as you had so hoped?

He sensed hesitation.

Serrin is dead. And I did not kill the priest, Azriim returned, with some disappointment. But we believe he is dead, he and two of his comrades. The other. . .

The other? Vhostym pressed.

Azriim's confusion carried through the connection.

The other saved me and offers alliance. We're bringing him to you. He wishes to join the brood.

Vhostym frowned, unsure of Azriim's meaning. No matter. He would deal with the priest's ally when he arrived back on the pocket plane.

Bring him, he projected to his slaadi. I would reward you both.

He sensed the excitement of his sons through the mental connection. Azriim and Dolgan were imagining their transformation into gray slaadi.

Azriim's mental voice answered, We are coming now.