The Twice-Dying King of Akhdar-Mina
Or, Why Diamonds Can Bring Back the Dead
It started, as it often does, with a party-crashing. Although, Beshaba would certainly take offense to hearing it described as such. After all—she was invited.
The saints were celebrating, as they were wont to do in those days, and as no mortal has seen them celebrate since. After all, there was cause to celebrate: the demon prince Orcus, Prince of Blood and Tyrant Lord Over the Dead, had been slain. The one responsible for his demise was a mysterious entity, one who hid her face and had no name, it seemed, except for Raven Queen. The saints, who had long been tired of Orcus and his wicked scheming, were so grateful to the Raven Queen for putting an end to the demon prince that they not only happily agreed to let her have dominion over the Shadowfell, but also put together a grand festivity to celebrate her victory.
Tymora, Lady Luck and Saint of Good Fortune, had a quarrel with the other saints about this party. Her complaint was that she had been forbidden from inviting her sister, Beshaba, to the celebration. Beshaba—Lady Doom and Demon Prince of Misfortune, was notorious for ruining such events with her penchant for cruel tricks, and anyway, it seemed a little awkward to invite a demon prince to a party celebrating the slaughter of… Another demon prince.
Yet Tymora was insistent. Beshaba may be a demon prince, but she was still Tymora’s sister, and as a demon prince she was a fellow immortal and omnipotent entity just like the saints. Why should Beshaba be banned from the festivities, when Sehanine Moonweaver and Corellon Starsinger were allowed to bring their mortal consort to the event? That hardly seemed fair. The rest of the saints had to admit she had a point—if Sehanine and Corellon could bring along their mortal lover, a youthful tiefling prince, wherever they pleased, why was Tymora’s sister not permitted? The other saints acquiesced to Tymora’s request, and Beshaba was invited to the party.
The day of the festivities arrived, and the saints gathered in the dominion of Sehanine Moonweaver. Corellon Starsinger had offered to host the event in the glades of the Feywild, but the Raven Queen was incapable of setting foot in a place so diametrically opposed to her own realm of gloom and shadow.
Despite receiving the benefit of the doubt, it was not long before Beshaba’s cruel, capricious nature began to cause problems. Right away, she set her sights on the mortal boy: Prince Khavat of Akhdar-Mina. She sidled up to him slyly and told him that she admired his ability to dance, but that she wagered he could not dance as long as she could. The mortal prince did not truly believe he could outdance Beshaba, but indulged her in her wager, as saying “no” to a mischievous immortal is often just as dangerous as saying “yes.”
Beshaba and Khavat danced for hours, amusing the saints to no end. After the pair danced for what felt to Khavat like an eternity, Beshaba turned to him and said, “it is clear we are evenly matched in dancing. Your stamina is most impressive. But I wager that your appetite is no match for mine.” Prince Khavat, high on the accomplishment of having kept pace dancing with an immortal, agreed once again to her challenge.
Beshaba snapped her fingers and had brought forth two entire smoked deer. “Whichever of us has the appetite to finish their roast, they shall be the victor, and we will no longer be trapped in an abysmal tie.”
Khavat balked at the sight of the deer, at the sheer amount of venison before him, but dancing the whole night long had made him so hungry it felt like an achievable task. He had just finished tucking away the last of his roast, trying not to focus on the saints watching the contest with rapt attention, when he looked up to see that Beshaba had done just the same. She giggled, holding a napkin to her perfect, rosy lips. “It seems we are once again evenly matched. If we wish to settle who between us is truly the greater at revelry, we must have another friendly contest. You dance well, you eat well, but how do you hold your drink?”
The prince became flushed, but hid a confident smile as best he could. While he had already knocked back a few goblets of wine, he was certain he could outdrink the small, dainty, delicate woman across the table from him. He accepted her challenge, and once again the saints gathered round to see if a victor would finally emerge. Beshaba snapped and had brought forth a jug of wine and two goblets. “These goblets may seem small, but they are larger within than they appear—they contain as much wine as three barrels. Finish your drink before I finish mine, and you will have won.”
An impossible task, to be certain, thought Khavat, and yet he had held his own thus far. What had he to lose? He was having the time of his life. And so Beshaba filled the goblets, and so Khavat lifted his to his lips, and having taken his first sip, he dropped down dead. The wine had been laced with the most potent purple worm venom.
The saints stared, mouths agape, Sehanine and Corellon let out wails of anguish, Tymora squirmed uncomfortably and Beshaba simply laughed. Somewhere in the world, a pair of scissors snipped a thread. The Raven Queen, hearing this, took up her scythe and severed Prince Khavat’s soul from where his dead body lay, catching Tymora by the elbow before Lady Luck could flee the room in embarrassment. After all, it was Tymora’s job to escort the poor mortal boy to the Shadowfell.
The Moonweaver and the Starsinger protested, aghast. How could the Raven Queen simply send their consort to his damnation, over a joke, of all things? The Raven Queen reassured them that the boy did not face damnation, nor an eternity as a shade: Sehanine and Corellon could guide the prince’s soul from the Shadowfell to their own domains, where he could spend a happy eternity with his godly lovers. Following the proper protocols, of course.
Corellon shook his head. The young prince was a tiefling, and his lineage was that of Asmodeus. It was known for a fact that the Lord of the Ninth had a claim to Prince Khavat’s soul, and would retrieve him from the Shadowfell so he could spend eternity as the Archfiend’s wretched slave. The boy was, quite literally, doomed to hell. Surely the Raven Queen could make an exception—this was just a joke that had gotten out of hand, that’s all.
But the Raven Queen does not compromise, nor does she make exceptions. Tymora would take Khavat to the Shadowfell, to await his ultimate fate. And, all the saints agreed, mortals would never again be permitted at festivities of the gods.
Sehanine dejectedly accepted the Raven Queen’s verdict. Corellon agreed outwardly, but inside he was already scheming. After the celebration’s abrupt conclusion, he furtively snuck away and plucked a star out of the sky, which he turned into a diamond. He knew Tymora’s weakness for things that gleam and glitter, and he would use it to his advantage. He could not set foot in the Shadowfell, just as the Raven Queen could not enter the Feywild, so he could not steal back his consort himself. But Tymora, enticed by the most brilliant gem she had ever seen, could do so—and she did.
Corellon traded the star for his lover’s soul, then brought Khavat back to his palace in Akhdar-Mina, where he told the Prince that he would be safe from the Raven Queen’s scythe. He took a piece of the feywild and placed it in the center of Khavat’s palace, creating a beautiful garden sanctuary. As long as Khavat stayed in the garden, the Raven Queen’s scythe could not reach him, because she could not see into or set foot in her opposite plane. Tymora could not be sent to retrieve him, either, as Corellon simply kept bribing her with more stars from the sky.
Even when Khavat’s mother, Queen Emyrrah, passed away and he became the king, he simply had the throne moved into the garden, rejoicing that he had escaped his infernal destiny.
He ruled over Akhdar-Mina for three centuries before he was finally foiled.
Having noticed the disappearing constellations in the sky, and Tymora’s ever-increasing collection of diamonds, the Raven Queen quickly surmised what was going on. She sent for Tymora and accused her of stealing the stars from Corellon. Tymora, bristling with indignation, contested that no, he had given them willingly to her. When the Raven Queen asked why Corellon had deigned to give over half the stars to Tymora, Lady Luck realized she was cornered, and admitted the truth. The Raven Queen told Tymora she would be forgiven if she retrieved King Khavat—not simply delivering him to the Shadowfell, no, the Raven Queen wanted to cut him down herself.
So Tymora crafted one more clever deceit: she disguised herself as Corellon, and called to Khavat from outside the garden. Khavat hesitated for only a moment, fearful to leave his refuge, but trusting entirely the godly lover that had saved his life, and so he stepped out of the garden. No sooner had he done so than the Raven Queen appeared and struck him down with her scythe.
Corellon was bitter and upset, but admitted defeat. The denizens of Akhdar-Mina, however, were devastated at the loss of their benevolent ruler, and so they burned down the temple of the Raven Queen, killing her clergy in a violent mob. The heir to the throne, Khavat’s half-sister, Zadiya, outlawed the worship of the Raven Queen not just in Akhdar-Mina, but in all of Ourá.
Not long after, the champion of the Raven Queen—King Acronis of Eretrera—announced that he had been handed down a holy mission: to take the Isles of Mer in the name of the Raven Queen, and to make an example of Ahkdar-Mina.