Chapter Text
ABERRANT SYMMETRIES
1
CONSTRUCTED ALLIANCES
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The Emperor had been in the city of Waterdeep for less than ten minutes and he was already annoyed with himself.
You are being ridiculous, he internally grumbled as he approached the abandoned building the guild had directed him to. Absolutely ridiculous.
This was a professional engagement. Experiencing excitement over a potential alliance was such undignified behavior. Frankly, it was far too close to humanoid in the worst way possible. He despised it on principle; emotional compromise was unbecoming of an illithid.
And yet, he had caught himself rehearsing greetings all morning, scrubbing and rewriting them in his mind as though he could brute force the perfect wording with enough random combinations.
Nihiloor. It’s an honor.
No, too personal.
I appreciate the Xanathar Guild granting me this audience.
No. Too deferential.
At last, you and I meet face-to-face.
Absolutely not. Gods, that one sounded like he was addressing a long-distance paramour.
The Emperor adjusted the collar of his heavy black cloak for the third—no, fifth—time. The damned thing refused to sit correctly, even for one adept at disguises. His hands were steady, of course. If there was a faint tremor in the tips of his thin fingers, that was merely ambient stress from travel. Yes, travel. It was certainly not from anticipation.
Calm. He summoned the persona that had guided him through decades of diplomacy: the Gentleman Monster, self-contained and unbothered. Cold, precise calm. You are the Emperor. You do not get emotional.
That was what he liked to tell himself, anyway.
He rolled his shoulders back. Straightened his spine. Sleek composure slid over him like fresh lacquer and filled every crack of sentiment. Then he nudged the door with a pulse of telekinesis and floated into the dim lamplight of the abandoned building.
Two Xanathar Guild thugs, both human, were loitering by a door at the far end of the room, one that appeared to have once been concealed by a red-and-blue Sembian rug that now hung askew on the wall. Alarm flashed in their eyes, but then they bowed their heads in the kind of submissive gesture humanoids seemed to assume all foreign dignitaries expected.
“I’m guessing you’re the representative for the Knights of the Shield in Baldur’s Gate,” one said. “Think they call you The Emperor.”
It wasn’t a question. It didn’t even occur in the mind of the thug that The Emperor could be anyone else, even if he wasn’t currently presenting as illithid. He briefly entertained the thought of some random passerby stumbling into the room and saying, why, yes, of course I am, the Knights of the Shield, you know, that formerly devil-worshipping enclave that runs out of Baldur’s Gate, yes, formerly, before the Vanthampurs snagged the shield from the Hhunes and then somebody stole it from the Vanthampurs and chucked it into Avernus like an unwanted spear, and now nobody knows where the damned thing went, yes, those Knights.
“That is correct,” was all he said.
“This way, uh—”
—I heard it’s a mind flayer, do you call it a sir? Is that still considered polite or would that be an insult? What if you called it ma’am, like, would the thing even care, would it even notice—
One of the Emperor’s tentacles twitched beneath his disguise.
“—sir.”
The thug pulled the handle. The door groaned open.
A waft of stale air met him that carried faint spores and the sharp psionic undertone of aberrant activity. The beholder’s influence hung in the air like a cloud of mildew, and The Emperor had to force his tentacles not to curl inward from instinctive revulsion. He was only at the entranceway to stairs descending into the Xanathar Guild, and already it reeked of obsession and paranoia. A comforting start, that sure was.
The corridor curved in a gentle spiral downward. The Emperor descended a fraction faster than appropriate for the level of calm he wanted to exude and stopped to correct himself. One should not rush toward anything, but especially not another psionic creature capable of noticing every shift in your pulse and thought.
How long had it been since he’d felt the brush of another illithid mind, anyway? Months, at this point? He suspected so. He’d neglected counting the days since the last time the possibility of companionship had reared its ugly head in that mocking manner it always did then slipped through his fingers into oblivion. Sentiment was a disease, after all, one best left to humanoids to suffer.
He pushed the thought away and continued.
At the base of the stairwell was a carved stone chamber. Three exit tunnels led away from it. It reflected typical beholder lair architecture: the ceilings a precise ten foot height, the walls ugly with self-aggrandizing decorations. With a pulse of arcana, he sensed five different trap mechanisms in the vicinity already, and he wondered, with a faint hint of amusement, whether Nihiloor had installed any of them himself or whether he had merely learned to live amongst their whimsical violence. He still couldn’t, for the life of him, fathom what it was like to live under a beholder. An elder brain was one thing, but a beholder?
Not that it mattered. He wasn’t here for the beholder, anyway.
The Emperor moved to the center of the room, slowly folded his hands behind his back, and tried very, very hard to emanate complete nonchalance.
Then the faintest hum of psionic static brushed his mind. Someone was assessing the chamber from a distance. It was a light, curious sweep, the equivalent of fingertips trailing across a silk sleeve. The Emperor’s heart stuttered, then thudded heavily in his chest. That was no trained goblin psion from Xanathar’s menagerie of disposable horrors. That was an illithid touch, and a skilled one at that.
Moments dripped by like viscous fluid.
His nerves hummed in tense synchrony. If Nihiloor didn’t enter soon, The Emperor feared he might begin rehearsing greetings again, and that would be unacceptable.
He occupied himself by re-examining every scrap of information he could recall about the lieutenant. A mystery, that’s what he was, an enigma, just like the Emperor himself. Illithids were not meant to be alone; a rogue was a paradox, a node severed from the whole and forced to synthesize their identity in isolation. And to be a rogue who had climbed to a high station within a syndicate run by an unstable beholder, of all things? That was unprecedented, to say nothing of the inherent danger of being in close proximity to a beholder at all. It meant Nihiloor was as brilliant as he was mysterious, a verifiable survivor who could stand in the eye of a storm and emerge untouched.
Just as the Emperor had.
And if the rumors were true, Nihiloor was hauntingly beautiful by mind flayer standards.
That was the bit of intel The Emperor tried to ignore, because it wasn’t relevant, not really, not to politicking and economic scheming, but trying to avoid thinking about it resulted in skimming the edges of the thought every few minutes anyways. Is it your appearance? he wondered. Or is it the shape of your psionic field, Nihiloor? What makes you so luminous that your beauty is spoken of in terrified whispers?
Hells, if he didn’t rein his thoughts in, Nihiloor would sense the blaring emotional noise inside him before they even exchanged formalities.
Compose yourself. You are The Emperor, not that starstruck wood elf from Sharess’s Caress who ranks illithids based on attractiveness, symmetry, the length and objective dexterity of their tentacles—
Wait.
Another mind slid into the same conceptual space as his, and a tall silhouette detached itself from the shadowy tunnel ahead.
The Emperor thought he was prepared. He had been catastrophically wrong. The rumors, it turned out, were insufficient.
Illithids were beautiful in the way deep-sea creatures were, with their alien appearance and unsettling grace, but Nihiloor was eerily so. His tentacles were slender and unmoving and arranged with this rigid symmetry that implied utterly ironclad levels of self-control. His eyes were concealed by a pair of dampsuit goggles mounted to a black leather headpiece, and his dusky purple robes hung in clean lines that emphasized the elegant, narrow curve of his frame.
The Emperor became acutely aware of his own psionic field at that moment. How expressive it was, how it breathed and flexed with curiosity and anticipation no matter how tightly he tried to leash it. His humanoid disguise fell away, and suddenly the chamber contained two illithids floating opposite one another, naked of falsehood in a way that felt far more intimate than physical exposure ever could. The faintest brush of Nihiloor’s mind slid across his psychic defenses. Of course, the Emperor returned the courtesy.
And, gods.
Nihiloor’s inner landscape was this lattice of logic and suppression, trauma compacted into clean lines, emotion routed into controlled channels so narrow they barely registered as perceivable. There was no ambient hunger, no idle curiosity, no thoughtforms leaking from cracks in the psyche. It was obscene how elegant and clean this mind was. The Emperor realized, with a jolt of heat forming low in his core, that he had never encountered a mind so aggressively unreadable.
“You are The Emperor,” Nihiloor said. “The leader of the Baldur’s Gate chapter of the Knights of the Shield.”
“That is the title I operate under,” The Emperor answered. “And you must be Nihiloor.”
“Yes.” One word. Perfectly enunciated. “You have arrived ahead of schedule.”
“Punctuality is as much a virtue as a courtesy. Particularly when one is a guest.”
“Mm,” Nihiloor said. Noncommittal. “Courtesy is rarely the primary motive.”
Ah. Straight to it, then. The Emperor’s tentacles curled in a slight smile. “Rarely, yes, but still probable.”
“Be that as it may, we are interested in your offer of allegiance,” Nihiloor said. “Do elaborate on the specifics.”
We, The Emperor noted. Not The Xanathar. Not the Guild. We. Nihiloor placed himself carefully within the guild’s leadership structure without appearing subordinate to it.
Interesting.
“I have approached you because I believe we are… uniquely positioned to benefit one another,” The Emperor said.
Nihiloor’s tentacles stirred, just barely.
“Economically,” The Emperor added quickly, because if he didn’t say it, the tension in his stomach would crawl somewhere far less appropriate. “Of course.”
Nihiloor regarded him in silence. Then, softly, he repeated, “Of course.”
“Perhaps you know of somewhere we could sit,” The Emperor said before his thoughts betrayed him further. “I find a comfortable chair aids in negotiations.”
Nihiloor turned. “Very well. Come.”
As they moved, the Emperor watched Nihiloor from the corner of his eye. He filed away every subtle detail he could intuit to pour over later: the controlled glide of Nihiloor’s movement, the way his tentacles didn’t undulate the way an illithid’s should, the low vibration of Nihiloor’s field against his skin, and the nagging suspicion that the other illithid, despite the goggles concealing his gaze, was analyzing him with the same sharp, heated sense of curiosity.
Beautiful, The Emperor thought only to himself.
They passed under an archway and reached a smaller chamber off the main corridor. A long table of dark stone occupied the center, flanked by eight plush seats. The two illithids seated themselves opposite to each other. Some traitorous part of the Emperor registered the aesthetic symmetry and found it deeply, unhelpfully pleasing.
“If this fits your requirements, then I repeat: state your goals for this alliance,” Nihiloor said once they were settled. “Succinctly.”
The Emperor nodded. “I offer infrastructure. Information channels. Trade leverage. Political insulation within Baldur’s Gate and—in accordance with my plans—beyond it. The Knights of the Shield possess reach without spectacle. The Xanathar Guild possesses spectacle without reach. Together, we can correct each other’s inefficiencies.”
Nihiloor’s tentacles remained perfectly still, a detail that the Emperor now found profoundly distracting. Illithid tentacles were appendages of motion. To deny that instinct so completely felt purposeful, like watching someone deliberately hold their breath, and he burned with the desire to ask why.
“You are describing mutual utility,” Nihiloor said. “A benefit any number of organizations could offer us. I am curious what makes yours desirable.”
“Utility is the most stable foundation for an alliance. And I need not point out, other trade organizations are not run by an illithid, and thus suffer from the disadvantages thereof. Mine is.”
“Yes,” Nihiloor said. “Thus far.”
“You doubt my longevity?”
“I question your exposure tolerance. You have not yet met Xanathar. You will be required to, if you wish to solidify any alliance.”
There was the shadow looming behind every calculation in this place. The beholder was a gravitational constant here, bending all trajectories toward itself whether acknowledged or not.
“I am prepared to do so,” The Emperor said.
“Are you?” Nihiloor asked. “What have you prepared yourself with? Secondhand accounts filtered through survivors who believe proximity is sufficient for understanding?”
“Do you believe that I would seek this alliance if I thought the beholder would reject me?” The Emperor asked. “If you have no faith in what I stand to offer, why entertain my request at all with this meeting?”
“Because,” Nihiloor said, “you are an anomaly.”
The Emperor’s tentacles froze.
“You have survived without a hive,” Nihiloor continued. “And without submitting yourself to another structure of control. Indeed, you collapsed one that threatened the city you operate out of. That suggests adaptability, which is a skill we value.” Nihiloor’s gaze lingered on him. “But you are unusually composed for someone contemplating their first audience with a beholder. I cannot decide if that implies arrogance or stupidity.”
“Neither,” The Emperor said. “As I said before, it implies preparation.”
Nihiloor regarded him, and The Emperor could feel the pressure of Nihiloor’s field probing his own for fault lines or stress fractures, anything that suggested bravado where caution should live. The sensation was exquisite. Exhilarating, in a way. His field had not been touched like this in decades, not by someone who could actually feel past the layers of constructed indifference.
“You are fascinated,” Nihiloor said. “By me. You feel the beholder is a tolerable roadblock in the way of what you truly want—an alliance with me.”
“Yes,” The Emperor said. No sense in lying. “We are creatures that breathe logic and strategy. We stand to achieve much if we work together. I want that structure and symmetry.”
Nihiloor’s field spiked with a whisper of sensation, albeit quickly suppressed. If The Emperor hadn’t been watching it, if he hadn’t been waiting, he might have missed it entirely. The truth of that sent a thrill through him.
“Be advised,” Nihiloor said, “a beholder’s lair is an environment that amplifies obsession. Many who enter attribute more meaning to the heightened psionic feedback than it deserves.”
“I am not part of the many,” The Emperor said. “Nor am I unfamiliar with distorted environments. Baldur’s Gate is virtually a case study.”
“If you are certain.” Nihiloor rose smoothly from his seat. “I will inform Xanathar that you request an audience. That will determine the fate of our potential alliance.”
The Emperor nodded. “I appreciate your—”
A voice boomed from the empty air above the table: “WHY WAIT? LET’S DISCUSS IT NOW.”
Every one of The Emperor’s tentacles flared on reflex. His mind reached outward in frantic waves of assessment and found nothing, no presence, no thoughts, no warning pressure, and absolutely no beholder. He twisted in place, scanning the chamber, every sense screaming where’s the predator, where’s the predator, where’s the predator—
A massive golden eye snapped open barely ten feet from him. Xanathar—his real name is Zushaxx, before he attained the title, some distant, academic part of him corrected numbly—filled his entire field of vision. The beholder’s hide was a venomous blue and yellow, and his crown of eyestalks slowly unfurled around him, pupils dilated and fixing on The Emperor. Metal bands glinted on three of the stalks. Rings, unmistakably enchanted.
The Emperor’s mind reeled. Impossible. He could recall sensing none of the psychic residue of a beholder. How could he miss it? That ring—was that a Ring of Mind Shielding? Gods. Of course. A paranoid beholder with an illithid lieutenant would seek to counter mind reading and thought detection with an item like that.
“Good evening, my lord,” Nihiloor said. His posture was as composed as ever, hands folded neatly before him on the stone table.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Xanathar said, gaze focused on The Emperor. “You wanted an audience with me, didn’t you?”
“Xanathar,” The Emperor said, voice steady by sheer force of will. “I did not realize—”
“I already have one arrogant brain-eater who thinks he’s clever, so I don’t see why I’d want a second one,” Xanathar said. The anti-magic cone flickered on and reminded The Emperor of what it felt like to be stripped of every contingency. “But you are very calm. You know, most visitors scream when they realize I’ve been floating right in front of them the whole time. You didn’t even try to stab me with your brain. That already puts you above average.”
“I—” The Emperor forced his breathing to slow. “I am honored by your attention.”
“You should be,” Xanathar said, drifting close enough that The Emperor could see the faint reflection of himself warped across the surface of the beholder’s great central eye. “You want to work with my guild. I can only assume you want my protection, my resources, and my tangled nest of trade networks. And you speak beautifully, little mind flayer. Very smooth. Very clever. You almost make alliances sound romantic.”
“I prefer to speak clearly,” the Emperor said, choosing every word as though it could detonate in his skull, “because obfuscation wastes time.”
“Nihiloor likes that about you. I can tell.” There was a pause. “So here’s how this is going to work, little Emperor of Baldur’s Gate.”
The room felt like it was shrinking.
“You don’t get to decide if there’s an alliance,” Xanathar said. “You don’t even get to decide if you leave Waterdeep.”
The Emperor held himself rigid, every ounce of will focused on not showing fear.
“I make all the decisions in this city,” Xanathar said cheerfully. “Including who lives and dies. A fact very relevant to you, right now. Why don’t you start by convincing me why I’d ever want your foul little organization near my guild? Do you think I’m not aware of the hidden fiend behind the Knights of the Shield? We have enough of that devil-worshipping filth in Waterdeep with the Cassalanters scurrying about.”
“The Knights of the Shield are no longer associated with Gargauth,” The Emperor said. “I assure you, there is no devil influence—”
“I hate liars,” Xanathar said. “They always seem to think I’m stupid. Do you think I’m stupid, little illithid from Baldur’s Gate?”
The Emperor’s tentacles curled in with a wince. “I would never—”
“It’s even more infuriating when they backpedal,” Xanathar said. “It makes me want to crack something between my teeth for the inconvenience of annoying me. Or someone. You, namely.”
For the briefest heartbeat, the Emperor looked up at the enormous beholder, awash in the energy of the anti-magic cone, and felt that hollow sensation of standing alone at the edge of annihilation with no allies behind him, no structure to absorb the blow. He was nothing more than a single illithid exposed beneath the scrutiny of a capricious eldritch horror that could erase him on a whim. Elder brains, at least, could be trusted to enslave their toys. A beholder would eat them.
“My lord,” Nihiloor said, “the Knights of the Shield no longer possess the artifact you were referencing.”
Xanathar’s gaze slid toward him. “Oh?”
“According to our intelligence networks, the Shield of the Hidden Lord was removed from Baldur’s Gate. It was taken from the Hhunes, passed briefly through the Vanthampurs, and was ultimately lost during the Elturel incident.”
“He is correct. I have not sensed the pit fiend in Baldur’s Gate for over a year,” The Emperor said quickly, seizing the opening Nihiloor had created. “Not since the Shield vanished. If I had, I would not be so rude nor foolish as to bring a devil’s influence into your lair.”
Xanathar let out a low, displeased sound. “I hate when my information is out of date.”
The Emperor felt Nihiloor’s field nudge his. A quiet signal saying continue.
“You asked why you would want my organization near your guild,” The Emperor said. “Permit me to make my case.”
Xanathar’s eyestalks stilled. Attention locked.
“You have heard of the Absolute crisis,” The Emperor said. “The cult spanned Baldur’s Gate, Moonrise, the Underdark, and beyond. It united goblins, duergar, drow, and illithids under psionic compulsion masquerading as faith. It threatened trade routes and civic order, and it would have eventually undermined the autonomy of every criminal enterprise on the Sword Coast.”
One eyestalk gestured lazily like go on.
“I destroyed the cult’s command network,” The Emperor said. “I wielded the Netherstones and vanquished the elder brain. I devastated its senior leadership. Baldur’s Gate still stands because I decided it would.”
“That wasn’t you,” Xanathar said boredly. “An adventuring party did that. Loud ones.”
“Yes,” The Emperor said. “Under my aegis.”
That earned him a sharp, amused snort.
“The leader was my champion on the Material Plane while I supervised from the Astral,” The Emperor went on. “My ally was Tav, as they called themself. With their assistance, I dismantled the cult. But after that... as we had little in common, what connection we had dissipated. I had anticipated that end.” A slight, disdainful curl of tentacles. “Our interests diverged, so thus I returned to my past affiliations.”
Xanathar drifted, his central eye never leaving The Emperor.
“Since the fall of the Absolute,” The Emperor continued, “I have reclaimed my influence over Baldur’s Gate. Its smuggling routes are mine. Its information brokerage passes solely through me. I continue to leverage control over several merchant houses and noble families who prefer stability to virtue.”
“And the Knights of the Shield?”
“That organization is a shell for my ambitions,” the Emperor said. “A useful one. Infrastructure doesn’t require ideology. I purged its infernal dependence, and what remains is an intelligence network accustomed to secrecy and efficiency.”
“Mm,” Xanathar cooed. “That’s Nihiloor’s favorite word.”
“I do not approach you out of a desire for protection,” The Emperor said. “I seek alliance because our interests converge. Together, we could extend our influence up and down the Sword Coast, across the Sea of Fallen Stars, and as far inland as Kara-Tur and Zakhara.”
“Oh, how ambitious,” Xanathar crowed. “What I’m hearing is you lost your champion and didn’t even blink before shuffling onward to the next pursuit. Illithids truly are heartless.”
The word struck harder than the Emperor preferred. He forced himself not to react, but he knew Nihiloor must have sensed the spike in his field. “I am a survivor,” he said, “and I will chase my goals until such a day as I can no longer outrun death.”
“That day might come sooner than you think.” Xanathar’s gaze flicked to Nihiloor. “And you vouched for him? Was it because he’s another slimy little squid like you? I think he’s an idiot. A fun idiot, I admit. Like that gnome clown I petrified the other day. Maybe he could replace him.”
The Emperor’s tentacles twitched sharply. Xanathar’s toothy grin widened.
“His reputation speaks for itself. Elder brains are not easy foes,” Nihiloor said.
“If it were a real threat, it would have drawn Laerel Silverhand and the Blackstaff out to confront it,” Xanathar said flatly. “I’d hate to skewer your delicate self-esteem, but so-called world-ending threats occur on a regular basis, and rarely does anyone remember the heroes involved.” The beholder paused, thinking. “You just want another mind flayer around, don’t you, Nihiloor? Something new to stick your tentacles into, something warm and intelligent and full of screaming life? I know you. Don’t you lie to me.”
The Emperor straightened.
“Another illithid contact is useful to our interests,” Nihiloor retorted. “Your ambitions consistently remain my priority.”
“Do you have to be such a cold little void, Nihiloor? Fine, whatever. You can keep this one around for now.” Xanathar angled an eyestalk at The Emperor. “Serve my interests well, and maybe I won’t feel compelled to eat you.”
The Emperor nodded. “Together, I will ensure we prosper.”
“But I warn you, if you betray me—”
“I will not.”
Xanathar grinned. “Well. We’ll see.”
The beholder drifted backward, his invisibility snapping back into place. Soon, silence returned to the chamber. The Emperor took the moment to compose himself and realized, distantly, that his hands were clenched so tightly his nails had dug into his palms.
Nihiloor faced him. “It appears you survived.”
“Yes,” The Emperor said. “As I expected.”
“It is arrogance then,” Nihiloor sighed. “You should leave before Xanathar’s interest curdles into suspicion. But I ask that you remain in the city for a tenday, at least. I will call upon you when we are ready to discuss the next step in our allegiance.”
“Very well,” The Emperor replied. He hesitated, just a moment. “Thank you for intervening.”
“I did not.”
“Right. Of course. But thank you, nonetheless.”
Nihiloor said nothing in response.
The Emperor offered him a polite dip of the head then recasted his disguise and departed the meeting in silence. As he disappeared into the misty streets of Waterdeep, Nihiloor’s psionic field faded from his awareness like a warm cloak stripped from his shoulders, and much to his annoyance, he found himself far, far more cognizant of the ache of loneliness he felt in its absence than he had when he’d arrived.