The Sorcerer by Troy Denning

this condition,” he said.
    “As well you should,” Hadrhune said. “It is an insult”
    “Indeed,” Malik agreed, standing in his customary place just above Hadrhune. Having grown tired of the seneschal’s jealousy over his position as Telamont’s most trusted advisor— and weary of the constant assassination attempts—Malik had decided to try a strategy of alliance to placate the man. “If the Most High wanted us to see his face, he would show it to us himself… though I must admit I am curious to see it myself.”
    He did not even cringe at this last part of his statement Much of the reason the Most High valued Malik’s advice so highly was the curse placed on him by the harlot Mystra, which always compelled him to tell the truth when he spoke. Telamont Tanthul rarely chastised him for the embarrassing slips that this caused him—and sometimes even seemed to find them amusing.
    But not today. A set of icy talons sank into his shoulder, and a cold voice whispered into his ear.
    “Your curiosity on that count would kill you, my behorned friend, and slight a prince of mine again and you shall have it satisfied.”
    Malik’s mouth grew as dry as dust “I meant no offense, Most High …” He struggled to end there, but the truth welled up inside him and spilled from his mouth of its own accord. “At least to you, for I have always felt secure in your protection and completely free to insult whomever else I desired.”
    The Most High removed his icy talons, patted Malik’s shoulder, and said, “And now you don’t”
    Telamont slipped past and descended the stairs toward his
    son. Knowing it would be suicide to stand higher than the Most High, Malik followed him down the stairs. The Most High stopped on the bottom step, leaving Malik, Hadrhune, and the rest of the throne room attendants to scramble for places on the floor. In the glow of Escanor’s wounds, the sycophants looked ghoulish and wrinkled, with hollow cheeks and sunken red eyes. Only Telamont himself seemed immune to the light and remained hidden in the shadows beneath his cowl.
    Taking advantage of the light—he always tried to make the best of every situation—Malik risked a surreptitious glance at his wounds. Though cold spears of anguish still pierced his shoulder where the Most High had grasped him, there were no holes in his flesh, nor any blood on his robe.
    Telamont asked, “You engaged the Chosen, my son? They did this to you?”
    Keeping his head bowed, Escanor nodded and said, “That is so, Most High.”
    Telamont’s platinum eyes shone brighter in the darkness that was his face.
    “Good.” He lifted a murky sleeve, motioning Escanor to his feet, and continued, “Rise and tell me how many you killed.”
    Escanor’s shadows seemed to grow even thinner as he stood.
    “I fear the answer is none, Most High,” he said, his coppery gaze remaining fixed on the floor. “We were defeated.”
    “Defeated?” It was Hadrhune who asked this. “Seven princes of Shade?”
    Escanor’s eyes swung toward the seneschal. “The Chosen are formidable enemies.”
    “Which is why I advised the Most High to send seven of you,” Hadrhune countered, “and an entire company of the Gate Guard.”
    Though the effort of defending himself drained Escanor, none of his brothers seemed eager to leap to his defense.
    “Your plan did not take into account… the quickness of the Chosen. They fling magic as easily as you do aspersions.”
    Hadrhune responded with a smile—the predatory smile of a hunter in pursuit of crippled prey.
    They are only human,” he said. “How could their spell-craft be quicker than that of a shadow lord?”
    “That is a mystery to me,” Escanor replied, sounding more sincere than sarcastic. “Next time, perhaps you should lead the assault and tell us.”
    “There will not be a next time,” Telamont said in that low even tone that Malik had learned to associate with cold rage. “We cannot afford one.”
    “Unfortunately, I