This occurs on the night after the raid of the tomb of Imbriel the Stargazer beneath Castle Rend.

Corliss heads back to his room in the castle and draws a ritual circle, sits in the middle of it and casts hexblade's curse on himself.

I'm pretty sure you can hear me. At least this worked last time.

Shrug.

Is that the Corliss's own shrug? Or does he feel the shrug of his benefactor?

Castle Rend, I have a fucking castle! Seriously, no shit a castle! Some elves came to help us .. and get this, they gave me a way to visit them in Erenlune. I think I even found the doorway there, but I'm truly torn up here. I still have so much to learn from you. My magic grows more powerful by the day, I think I've even earned a bit of respect from Yornan Hawklight. My fear is that I am losing the piece of me that connects me to my mother. The music. I think the Elves can teach me more about it and my about past, but I have to commit to returning to the music before I even attempt a trip there. It's all my mother ever used to talk about, Erenlune. We were even singing about it the night she died. I don't want to seem ungrateful, you have drawn the string and connected me back to those roots, but there is more I want to learn about the magic in her music. I don't want to lose that part of me.

Corliss is very cocky now, realizing he has been spewing emotions. As he speaks about the music it seems as if the words are being drawn out of him. Is his patron listening? Why is he talking so urgently about his innermost thoughts? Why is there so much nervous energy infecting his body? Why can't he stop talking? Corliss blazes forward.

Here's what I think, for the next bit of time I devote myself to doing your work here and being your instrument in this place. In return, you give me a release to follow my mother's magic. I will still keep my word and do your work, but I want to follow her as well. I need to root myself again in the music. I haven't even played for a crowd since before you visited me.

This time there is a bit of a harrumph. Displeasure at the hubris of Corliss to think that he is in a position to bargain; that he has the standing to bargain. But the energy is still cascading through Corliss and he keeps talking, desperately trying to avoid impertinence.

You like to work in threes, so here's 1 statement and 2 questions: (1) Soon, I have to go back to tracing my mother's song through this plane, I want you still to be my guide, but if you strip me of my powers, I will understand. (2) This whole elemental thing still has me baffled, what is my place and specifically how can I be your instrument? (3) What should I know about the Elves before I go?

And the energy fades. Silence.

One minute passes.

Then two.

And three.

And then a clear voice. As a raspy whisper. Sibilant and liquid but clipped.

One plus two need not equal three.

To know a little but grasp none of it. That is the curse of the short lived.

If a man were to gain total clarity as he passed from this world, would that be a gift? Or a curse? A moment of ecstasy as he finally understands? Or a moment of shame to learn that he was an ignorant brute his entire life. A bug trudging through weeds.

Silence. And the nervous energy that has conspired to make Corliss reveal his thoughts and plans is gone; replaced by a quiet dread.

More silence.

You think that you will bargain with me? You cannot. For you act as I wish whether you can understand or not. I see the inky tendrils of the future. I can hear the sinuous music as the strands of fate rub against one another while the winds of time pass through them.

Your place? With me. Whether you know it or not. Whether you like it or not. You are mine.

And music beings to fill the air, discordant but tuneful, the rasp of a thousand strings.

The elves, the elves. They will fail. Your Yornan will fall. Know that they are the remnants of an earlier age. There are earlier caretakers; there are later ones. Why do these beguile you so? Their music? Learn it if you would, master it if you must. But you will transcend them if you are to be my instrument.

Suddenly a blade appears in Corliss's hand, Long, thin and graceful.

You are a child of Earth. The elves lost themselves when they focused on what they were not. Blades like this. Let it be a gift. And a lesson. If you would learn it.

The blade disappears, but stays with him.

And finally a sigh fills the darkness. Disappointment. A master realizes that the lesson is beyond his pupil.

Have you found the beacons? Have you learned your song? You are not a jester. Nor a buffoon. Do you exist just to strut upon the stage? Why do you play?

Perhaps that is it. Learn why you play. And speak no more to me until you do.

Corliss dismisses the curse and erases the ritual circle.

Ok I'm off, I need a drink.

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