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[I]I wonder how many heirs there are to the Veldaine-name?[/I] Gerald idly mused to himself, seemingly looking at Jillian attentively as she spoke but only listening to her words with half an ear, since he had already arrived at a similar conclusion, and since going with Renold would not offer an immediately applicable solution to the Withering anyway then the urgency in getting there suddenly fell short of that to strike at Kevalorn... or whichever vessel Hazzergash had replaced him with, if the human had indeed expired. [I]I know they are wealthy and possess notable influence in Zerul City, and probably some in Relimon as well, but I don't think I ever actually met a member of the family before, and if I did I'm sure they failed to introduce themselves as such. And I wonder if Jillian would be among the oldest of those heirs? She certainly does not seem to have the patience of one who was nursed as a future head of a major business, yet she is showing a surprising amount of common sense when it comes to chasing different ventures in terms of risk versus gain.[/I]
Personally he was starting to lose interest in the discussion of whether to seek out this malicious dragon, though... and though he was deeply ashamed to admit it recent events had greatly dampened his own enthusiasm about most things. Ever since he had contracted the Withering - no, even before that; when his wife had contracted the plague had been when the obsession had first taken hold in him - he had always felt a sense of urgency and importance when it came to his research into the plague, knowing that every minute that went by while the Withering still raged was liable to cost another life, and knowing that every day brought himself closer to incapacitation from the darkness that fed on his very life force.
But now, having learned all that he had learned and feeling as though he lacked just one more clue to be able to purge the Withering from Reniam forever, he could not help but to let realism give way to pessimism as it seemed more and more unlikely that this final clue could be uncovered in time to save himself... and even if it could, how likely was it that the Withering could be ended before it finally overpowered him and his efforts to contain it?
He always had a plan, always knew his next goal and usually the one after that, too. Knowledge, immortality, power, the ability to resurrect the dead and restore his wife to life; none of these objectives meant anything if the Withering ended him before he could end it.
So they had to visit a dragon that might kill them, or hunt down demon-worshippers, either of which might and might not have the answers they sought. Statistically he would estimate that their chances of success, especially if they ultimately explored both possibilities rather than limiting themselves to one of them, were good. The chance of them succeeding before his soul was swallowed by whatever demon had inflicted this vile illness upon the world was significantly less so.

"Considering how aimless their efforts have been," he muttered once the witch finished, sounding perhaps a little more dispassionate than he had up until now but still intent on investing himself fully in this endeavor of theirs - at least for as long as he had left, "I doubt that the crusaders or Hazzergash know more than we do, or even as much. Still, considering that wherever we find this information will probably send us on another chase, this time probably after Himyth - who has been hiding in Reniam successfully for millennia - it seems as though hunting down Hazzergash is the most urgent task at hand. We might as well ask him before we seal him away, but I doubt he knows anything." He shrugged before letting his shoulders sag, feeling suddenly even weaker than he did before.
"But Aliostar may actually have the answers you seek," Renold insisted, but the warlock silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"We were going to visit this expert of yours because of me in the first place," he pointed out grimly, scowling slightly at the dragon's persistence. "I'm saying that there's no point to wasting two days on that trip before we hunt down Hazzergash when all we'll really be doing is giving the Lord of Fire a head start and more time to recover." A sarcastic smile found its way to his lips. "That's what you wanted to begin with, wasn't it? You should be happy. I'll help sealing Hazzergash. The cure... can wait."

But just when Gerald figured the debate would be over, Crone surprised him by abruptly snapping. "You think beseeching a dragon for aid is perilous?" she spat tartly, abruptly sending her right hand shooting inside her shawl to rummage through her clothes for something. "You desire to waste no time but to face the greater risks this poses, both as the sun turn its cycles and you seek out even viler sources of information?" She withdrew her hand from her clothes, now holding what appeared to be a perfectly spherical piece of basalt, slightly larger than the woman's fist. "Very well, then I shall certainly spare the waste of time and offer an alternative."
Gerald opened his mouth, about to sneer at the woman for her impertinence toward his sacrifice and the irrationality of her prioritization, when something made him forget what he was about to say, making his open mouth instead simply hanging agape in shock of what he was witnessing. Visually what happened was less than imposing, with what appeared to be five randomly doodled little glowing golden lines seeming to spread up the stone, originating from about where the necromancer would estimate the center of Crone's palm would be, and combining at the opposite side in what appeared to be a five-pointed star. A scholar like Gerald or a witch like Jillian, however, would recognize that the doodles were far from random, but rather were sequences of words written in the Devil's Tongue. Realizing this made what was happening unsettling in and by itself, but it was not what had astounded Gerald so.
At the same time as the golden inscription appeared on the sphere Gerald had sensed magical energy - a neatly ordered flow of it, too, demonstrating that Crone definitely had not just been boasting when she claimed to be a necromancer - move from the old woman and into the artifact, which seemed to make the artifact itself start to emanate energy on its own. It was only a little at first, but the farther the golden etchings spread across the sphere, the greater this aura seemed to grow until it seemed absolutely overpoweringly huge. The sheer enormity of raw power radiating from that little piece of rock was very intimidating, even without considering the sense of foreboding that came with it and the primal dread it seemed to cause. Even Renold recoiled from its presence, Gerald noticed, and Crone's own ancient features were contorted in fear. There was just something about the atmosphere coming off this rock... something [I]wrong[/I].
It was not until the golden markings had fully formed after a period of maybe three seconds or so, when the dark rock turned crimson, that he could put a word on just what was so wrong about the feeling: it felt evil. Absolutely horrendously, unambiguously evil.
Then, as the crimson orb in her hand started to glow in addition to its markings and actually seemed to start shaking violently, Crone turned her wrist and threw it into the waters of the secluded lake next to them. There was an instant hiss and an explosion of steam the second the stone touched the water, as though it had been extremely hot despite of the fact that Crone's hand seemed unharmed, and then all that could be seen of the orb was the red and golden glow that lit up a small portion of the water.

The atmosphere did not fade, however, but only seemed to grow in intensity. It was hard to breathe through the sheer presence of this power, and Gerald felt his heart start beating irregularly, threatening to give up. Then the steam, which had hung over the area as a shapeless mist until then, seemed to whirl around a common center and gravitate towards the middle of where the light was coming from, and was dyed by the infernal glow of the stone.
The necromancer actually gasped once he realized what was happening; before their eyes the mist was forming a tall crimson figure, clad from head to toe in ominous robes. The figure's hands were long and slender, its head clad in a hood that put its face in shadow, but which bulged on top as though poked from the inside by horns. From the shadow within the hood nothing could be seen but blackness... that, and a pair of blazing red eyes that glared at them with displeasure.
Apparently standing on the water's surface as though it was solid ground, its form slightly translucent and seeming unaffected of the wind, this ethereal figure did not move from the spot.
"So you still possess one of my remaining sigil stones?" came a calm, smooth, almost suave voice from the entity, sounding disdainful and decidedly male. "I thought you would have destroyed that a long time ago, Eliza. A very long time ago."
"Grand Master of Evil," Crone said, apparently to no one in particular, completely ignoring the visage's question, "this is Gerald Glass and Jillian Veldaine. They have something they would like to ask you."