edge of the blade

Pharaun’s absence is a festering wound in his chest. The scrapes and cuts—the one on his knee deeper than he realised, enough to scar—are fading, but Pharaun hasn’t touched him since that day. Ignores him, in class and otherwise. He loves me, Vizaeth reminds himself, night after night. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me. Somehow, the truth of that knowledge only makes everything hurt worse.

It’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have argued with him; the death was a gift, not a barb to throw in an instant of stupid jealousy. And to make matters worse, he’s lost the braid of Pharaun’s hair. He’s scoured the hidden corridor top to bottom, but it’s gone, and with its loss, the thread that binds them is fraying. If it breaks…

He strays to the hall leading to Pharaun’s quarters time and again. He could fool the wards. There’s enough of Pharaun left in him to do that. He could slip inside and get what he needs to replace what he’s so stupidly lost. But Pharaun asked him not to break in again, and though Vizaeth made no promise, going against his request feels like breaking one.

So he stays away, and gives Pharaun space, and his thoughts turn instead to Szass Tam. The lich lord hasn’t been far from his mind since Nalfein Do’Urden offered him Thayan knowledge; whispers of necromancy like slithering shadows in his reverie. In the absence of his lover, the craving for it grows.

It’s been a while, though. Long enough that he’s starting to think the offer was placation and nothing more. Why, after all, would Nalfein—self-professed favourite of the Archmage—offer him anything in sincerity? He’s nothing. No-one. Especially without Pharaun.

And then the summons arrives.

Vizaeth braids his hair with shaking fingers, has to redo it twice to get the cuffs to sit right, and goes through more prestidigitations than he likes to count changing his makeup, cursing every smudge and smear. He can’t look too much like he’s trying to impress, or, Lolth forbid, seduce. He’s beautiful, yes, but he rather suspects he’s not Gromph’s type. Still, he has to look good. Together. Not like he’s slept little and eaten less, once more on the edge of failing half his classes.

He hurries up through the dark halls of Sorcere, willing his heart to slow, his nerves to steady. The gilded raven’s skull hangs heavy around his neck, an affectation he thinks he likes but isn’t certain of yet. It’s not something Pharaun would ever choose. He toys with it, pressing the sharpened beak into his sternum over and over.

What if it’s a trick? What if this is some cruel joke on Nalfein’s part, the summons fake—is he about to try to walk into the Archmage’s office uninvited? That’s a fine way to end up dead, and maybe that’s what Nalfein wants, after what happened with Pharaun. Oh, he doesn’t want Pharaun for himself, that much was abundantly clear, but he didn’t enjoy being a prop in Pharaun’s game. He can’t kill Pharaun, not without causing too much of a stir, but Vizaeth? No-one would miss him.

He pauses at the door and wills his legs to be made of something stronger than glass. He wishes he’d skipped breakfast. If he throws up on Gromph’s rug, he’ll kill himself and save the Archmage the trouble.

He knocks twice, as politely as he can manage, and gnaws a fresh wound into the inside of his lip.

“You may enter, apprentice,” Archmage Baenre calls.

Lolth, I beg you, don’t let me make a fool of myself.

The room is darkly furnished, understated yet powerful, and more crowded than Vizaeth was expecting. Flickering candles illuminate a collection of figures scattered around the stone table in the centre of the room. The Archmage, of course, his ageless face unreadable, stands on the far side. Nalfein is nearer, his hair loose, dressed not like some teasing thing today but like…like the Archmage. Favoured apprentice indeed.

In one of the reading chairs sprawls a male, one boot up on the table, idly spinning a thin dagger between his fingers. The disrespect in his posture sets Vizaeth’s teeth on edge. He and the female leaning at the edge of the table are dressed to match, look alike too—twins, he surmises. Blue silk for both; a tunic over black armour for the male, a dress cut with high slits for the female, clinging to her figure like she was poured into it.

She looks like Xunhrae in one of Jhinlara’s dresses, every curve designed to distract, to manipulate. She’s poison with breasts, a lie with skin. Vizaeth’s flesh crawls, and the scar down his midsection itches. What is she, a priestess? One of the rare bitch-wizards who sometimes walk the halls?

His eyes flick from her to her twin, then to Nalfein. They all share features in common, he realises. It’s subtle but it’s there, in the angle of a jaw, the line of a nose, the sweep of a brow.

It seems the fall of House Do’Urden has been greatly exaggerated.

And then he registers the final figure, stood behind the male’s chair, and all the loathsome dysphoria the female conjured evaporates.

“His name’s Entreri,” Nalfein says. Human. He’s human. Iblith, here in the heart of Sorcere. “Artemis Entreri. The other two are my younger siblings, Maya and Dinin.”

“I…see.” Vizaeth remembers where he is, who he’s with, and bows to Nalfein and the Archmage. Deep enough for respect, shallow enough not to take his eyes off the rivvil standing unchained amongst drow as if he has a right to be there. “Why did you invite him?”

Is this the price for his tomes? To make a sacrifice? It would make sense, life for death, and he’ll gladly do it, gladly rip into this Entreri’s chest and tear out his still beating heart. He’d do it even without the promise of Thayan magic. His fingers twitch in anticipation.

“I wanted to show you something,” is Nalfein’s answer. “He wouldn’t let me just take what I needed without coming along.”

Let? He’s human, there is no let. Nalfein clicks his tongue, drawing Vizaeth’s attention from the human and motioning him over to the table. The Archmage remains impassive, makes no comment. That he tolerates any of this is a testament to how much he values Nalfein, and an acidic swirl of jealousy roils in Vizaeth’s stomach.

“How are your identification skills?” Nalfein asks. “With and without magic?”

“They’re good enough. I can identify most items with—”

Language shrivels on his tongue as he sees what’s laid out before him. A crimson longsword, singing with the sweetest, headiest dark magic he’s ever heard. Vizaeth’s heart thuds heavy against his ribcage, and the arterial blade pulses in concert.

“What are you looking at?” Nalfein prompts quietly.

Vizaeth steps closer, not touching the blade, not daring, but he needs to be closer. It’s so beautiful his soul aches. Nothing since laying eyes on Pharaun has set his blood racing like this.

“A chthonic steel longsword,” he whispers. “I don’t recognise the design.”

“Shadovar,” Nalfein provides. “This is Charon’s Claw.”

“Shadovar…” Vizaeth no longer cares about the human, or Nalfein’s siblings, or the Archmage. “The descendants of Ancient Netheril that fled to the Shadowfell.”

“Good. You know the history of your favoured school. The Netherese were adept at necromancy, same as the Thayans.”

“Is this a necromantic sword?” He tears his eyes from the perfection writ in steel, unable to wholly keep back the smile that tugs at his lips. Nalfein nods, though Vizaeth hardly needs the confirmation. This is his magic. Body and soul, this is him.

But Nalfein wants more than a simple physical identification. That alone won’t satisfy, nor impress, and the Archmage is watching. Vizaeth returns his attention to the blade. He hates the divinations needed to find arcane answers; that school is slippery, refuses to take hold in his mind. When he has to, he brute forces it, his own blood twisting the spells just enough towards necromancy to work for him. The scars of such attempts hide beneath the long, fingerless gloves that cover him wrist to bicep.

He can’t show such weakness here, so he’ll just make it work without.

“Wounds it inflicts fester and rot.” He draws the information from the Weave piece by piece, listening closely to the blade’s song. “And it’s magically keen.”

“Good,” Nalfein praises again. Something inside him swells, warm. He distrusts it. “Anything else?”

“There’s a dweomer I don’t recognise along the blood groove. I only recognise one rune. Ash.”

“It’s a modified smoking dweomer.”

Nalfein passes a hand over the blade, and in the wake of his magic, a small cloud of black ash follows. Vizaeth gasps under his breath as the power of the sword stirs. It’s so strong. A human is allowed to wield this?

“You’ve almost got everything,” Nalfein says.

They’re not done. Back in the Weave, he opens his senses dangerously wide as he searches, praying he can find all he needs without being forced to demonstrate his lack of divination prowess in front of the Archmage. The relief when he finds the thread almost chokes him.

“It’s also linked to something.”

Nalfein nods to Entreri, who steps out from behind Dinin’s chair. He holds out a hand, clad in a red and black clawed gauntlet. Vizaeth would rather not go near him, but his revulsion of the rivvil is less than his desire to know everything about Charon’s Claw. He approaches cautiously—Entreri seems the type of human to bite, a hint of the animal in his cold, grey eyes.

Vizaeth snatches the gauntlet and yanks it closer, trying not to think about the hand inside it. He stops caring as the threads of magic unfold around him, strong enough even without divination that he can almost see them tangling in the air.

“It absorbs magic,” he says. “Stores it, and reflects it; sometimes through the blade. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d assume the gauntlet and the blade were made to combat spellcasters.”

“An excellent analysis, apprentice Thaezyr.”

It’s not Nalfein who speaks this time, it’s the Archmage. Vizaeth’s eyes widen and he drops the gauntlet, face heating. He hides it in a low bow, stammering his thanks as he returns to the table, unable to look anyone in the face.

“Not a complimenter, that one,” Nalfein murmurs, leaning close. “That’s a high honour, receiving praise from Gromph Baenre.”

As if I don’t know that! Giddy warmth surges behind his ribs, almost the way he feels when Pharaun smiles at him. He wants to keep the grin from his face, to behave like a proper Sorcere student, but he can’t. And he gets the sense, strangely, that Nalfein doesn’t want him to.

“Relax,” Nalfein says, as if to confirm his assumptions. “When he was your age, Pharaun could barely identify a drow weapon of a much lower calibre. You’re doing very well.”

That’s almost certainly not true.

“Pharaun’s a far better diviner than I am.”

“Is that a fact?” Maya Do’Urden finally deigns to join the conversation, her tone and raised eyebrow as arrogant and sarcastic as Vizaeth expects of a female like her. He glares at her.

“Of course it is.”

“Then be better,” Dinin says. Vizaeth blinks.

“What?”

“Be better than Pharaun,” Maya says. Their cadence is eerily similar. It’s unnerving. “Surpass him. Make him feel daft for underestimating you.”

“Why would I ever upset Pha—Master Mizzrym?” Vizaeth snaps. If the Do’Urden bitch won’t show Pharaun proper respect, he’ll have to do it. Why are she and her twin here, anyway? Entertainment for Nalfein? Minders for the iblith? Owners, more like, judging from the way they seem to have dressed him in their colours.

“Revenge,” she says simply.

“To make him a stuttering mess for once,” Dinin adds.

Vizaeth slides his tongue over his teeth, presses it against one incisor almost hard enough to draw blood. They have no conception of Pharaun at all. No-one here does; they all dismiss him, mock him, ignore his power. Not him, he knows Pharaun, better than anyone, and maybe things are strained between them right now but that’s his fault, not Pharaun’s, and it doesn’t give anyone the right to tell him to hurt the only person in this place who loves him.

But their words conjure an image of Pharaun on his knees, staring up at him, not just impressed but afraid. The thought is intrusive, unwanted, hateful—but not without appeal.

“Pharaun has experience on his side, but you can’t tell what colour a moth is when it’s inside a chrysalis,” Nalfein says, low. He nods at the sword. “You’re close. One more thing.”

Vizaeth shoves the sacrilegious thought from his mind and returns one last time to Charon’s Claw. He holds nothing back now, reaches for the blade with all he is, all the necromancy that formed him, in the hope that like will call to like and share its secrets.

It does.

“It’s sentient,” he says. The mind of the blade lunges at his consciousness, red and vicious. He clamps down all his connection to the Weave at once. “And it’s angry.”

“I wouldn’t recommend touching it.” Nalfein traces the air above the metal. “The Claw is a malicious blade, and only accepts wielders with strong wills.”

“Like Entreri.”

“Indeed. The blade obeys him well.”

Entreri doesn’t react to the clear compliment. There’s not the slightest flicker of emotion on his face. Human, but he controls himself better than many drow. And the blade accepts him. Vizaeth decides his heart can stay inside his chest.

“Now,” Nalfein continues, “you came for Thayan magic.”

Excitement flares, bright and hot, as Nalfein sets a stack of books on the table. He briefly summarises each volume before setting them into an enchanted haversack. Vizaeth burns the words into his memory, determined to do the same with the contents of every single book. Already they’re calling to him, in the tongue of blood and bone and darkness. The tongue of Szass Tam.

Nalfein sets the last book in the bag, pulls the drawstring tight, and passes it to him.

“Keep these secret, understand?”

“No-one will know.” Vizaeth hugs the precious gift tight to his chest as he bows low. “Thank you again for your faith in me, and the chance to examine Charon’s Claw.”

Then, surprising himself, he turns to Entreri and inclines his head. His Common is terrible, but he shapes the unnatural words as best he can.

“Thank you for allowing me to examine your blade.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He’s dismissed, he’s done here, he even thanked the human—he hurries out of the Archmage’s office, breathing too hard as the door thuds behind him. Vizaeth smiles down at the secrets of Thay cradled in his arms. The gaping wound Pharaun left inside him is gone. In its place is a strange, giddy, glowing feeling that refuses to settle, and he craves more. He turns back to the door. Perhaps there’s something else he can—

“—giving Pharaun exactly the out he wants.”

At the sound of the Archmage’s voice, Vizaeth freezes. His teeth sink into the inside of his cheek. If Gromph has something to say about Pharaun, he’ll hear it, and make sure Pharaun hears it too.

“Maybe,” Nalfein says. “But redirecting apprentice Thaezyr could improve his grades, his engagement with his studies, even his relationships with the other students. I’ve been here a tenday, sitting in on classes and study sessions—this boy has no allies, just one girl he hates that Pharaun gets a kick out of partnering him with. He pays attention, but he clearly isn’t fully understanding the material unless it’s an area he’s familiar with. He’s a good wizard, by no means the bottom of his class, but he could be great.”

The glow evaporates. Nalfein’s talking like there’s something wrong with him and there isn’t. Not anymore. No, he’s not a perfect wizard, but there are worse here, and Pharaun only pairs him with Viconia to give him an excusable chance to retaliate for all the things she’s done. He hasn’t yet, but he will, and he’s grateful to Pharaun for providing him that opportunity.

Vizaeth rubs at the crooked bridge of his nose. One tenday. One tenday and you think you know me? You don’t know a fucking thing about me, you treacherous whor—

“Why do you care if he’s not at his full potential?” the Archmage asks. “Why put blind faith in someone you barely know?”

There’s a pause, and then Nalfein replies, almost too quiet to hear; “You did the same for me.”

Vizaeth stares at the door. Before he can even try to parse what that means, he hears footsteps approaching, and there’s no time or space to hide out here.

He drives the raven’s beak into his palm and spits out the spell in a rush, motioning the somatic with his bloodied hand. He slams himself flush to the wall, only just managing to pull the invisibility over him as the door opens and the Do’Urden twins, accompanied by Entreri, step into view.

Maya glances from side to side, her perfect brows furrowing. Vizaeth holds his breath and doesn’t move. Her eyes pass over him, unseeing, and he sends out a silent prayer of thanks. The three of them move off without a word, and he sags against the wall, letting out all his breath in a rush.

“—does not an Archmage make,” he hears Gromph say. “Pharaun is a fine mage, and a decent teacher, but he is brash, vain, and self-absorbed.”

The invisibility collapses under a tide of fury. Pharaun is bold, beautiful, driven; this entire tower could burn to the ground and he’d be the only thing in it worth saving. But then, the Archmage has always been biased, hasn’t he? Always looking for some way to punish Pharaun, drag him down. And Nalfein would be only too happy to help him do it.

Why? It burns in the back of his throat, limbs trembling with a desire to march back in there and scream it. Why act like he was worthy of praise, if all they’re doing now is talking about how pathetic he is, and how much they hate Pharaun?

Because that’s the game, isn’t it? Friends far, enemies close, and those you can use closest of all.

Vizaeth clutches the raven’s skull tight, gouging the beak into the still-bleeding wound in his palm. There’s a lot more than invisibility he can cast as necromancy.

“You look like you’re about to do something exceptionally foolish.”

Vizaeth starts, turning with a snarl. Entreri’s Drow is better than his own Common, which only makes his lip curl further.

“Slipped your leash, iblith?”

“Believe me, I’m not here for the fun of it.” Entreri eyes him coolly. “But Claw wants something of you that isn’t your death, which is rare enough to intrigue me. Come here.”

I don’t take orders from filth. Vizaeth starts to sneer his refusal, then stops. Something is singing in the back of his head. The whispering razor of the chthonic blade, rousing his blood to a rush that’s almost erotic. His face grows hot. His skin aches.

He steps closer.

Entreri unsheathes the blade and lays it flat across his palms. The whispering grows louder. Don’t touch it, Nalfein warned, but it wants him to touch it. He can feel it. Vizaeth’s fingers brush the metal, and for a moment it’s just cold steel.

Then the mind of Charon’s Claw forces its way up through his veins like racing black rot, a snarling presence of fury and necromantic power. All his organs shudder in their casings, all his bones crack and creak, straining against one another. A spasm snaps his spine straight, then back in an orgasmic arch. It’s awful. It’s ecstasy. It’s like Pharaun’s hands inside him, only better.

Some sound escapes him, scream or moan he doesn’t know. Charon’s Claw doesn’t speak, not in words, but it has questions about who he is, what he is, and it rips the answers from the fragile lattice of his mind without concern or care for the ruptures it leaves in its wake.

Body thief, it hisses. The sound of the not-words is a heartbeat, it’s metal slicing through flesh, it’s the thud of gravedirt on a fresh corpse.

Vizaeth snatches his hand back, and staggers away from Entreri, head reeling, clutching his wrist. It’s the hand he stabbed with the raven’s skull, the wound throbbing. His fingers have gone black, and the veins on the back of his hand pulse, glowing through the skin. Ash coats his palm.

“Satisfied?” Entreri asks, and it takes Vizaeth a second to realise he’s talking to the sword. He glances at Vizaeth as he sheathes it, frowning. “What’s wrong with you?”

Vizaeth’s mouth works over nothing. He wants to run. Scream. Fight, fuck, vomit himself inside out. He grabs at the wall for balance, finds the Archmage’s door instead, and almost falls into Nalfein when it opens.

“Entreri, what in the Nine Hells are you doing?”

“Your boy never got the chance to look at my dagger, like you also wanted.” Entreri lies as smoothly as any drow. “I am not wasting time coming back here again when you remember you asked for that as well.”

Vizaeth can’t read what passes in the look they share. He’s too busy trying not to launch himself at Nalfein to rip out his throat, or maybe kiss him, or maybe take a knife and some words and get himself another new body. The scars on his chest ache. He presses a hand to his stomach, certain all his seams are about to burst open, and not at all sure what will come spilling out of them.

“Archmage Baenre is busy for the rest of the day, but my office will suffice,” Nalfein says. “Apprentice Thaezyr—are you injured? Entreri, what did you do?”

Vizaeth snatches up the bag full of necromancy from where he’s dropped it and flees. Nalfein calls after him, but he doesn’t turn or slow. A razorblade hiss of laughter follows him all the way back to his room, silenced only when he takes Pharaun’s hair-clip, and jams it into the wound in his hand.

Ash drifts to the floor. The blackness fades until it stains only his nails. It takes long minutes before he dares to meet his wide-eyed reflection. Vizaeth stares back at him. Not Xunhrae, not Pharaun—just Vizaeth Thaezyr, alone in the dark.

He watches the glass for a long, long time.