Unknown to either Dagmar or Sittl, there were two witnesses to the secret meeting. Liriel and Fyodor sat silently nearby, their borrowed rowboat cloaked in a ghost-ship spell that the drow had learned during her days in Ruathym’s library.
“Convinced?” she demanded.
Fyodor nodded somberly. “You were right about all. We must go to Aumark with this news at once.”
But to his surprise, the drow shook her head. “Not yet. We know Dagmar is playing the traitor, but at whose behest? Luskan, almost certainly, but I have long suspected the city does not act alone. There is another layer to this conspiracy; we must go deeper before we know the true scope of the danger facing Ruathym. I must know about this Ascarle that the sea elf—or rather, the malenti—mentioned.”
As she spoke, Liriel remembered words that the nereid had said: the kelpie sprouts were grown in a wondrous place far below the sea. Perhaps it was time to take the nereid up on her offer.
“Judging from what I have read,” Liriel began, “the warriors of Luskan do not care much for magic. It seems likely to me that all the creatures of the elemental plane of water are commanded from this Ascarle—including the nereids. I will compel my slave to take me there. I’ll scout their forces, do what I can to uncover their plans, and bring back enough proof to force that idiot Aumark to pay heed! But I must go alone.”
Fyodor did not like any of this, and he and the drow held long and heated discussion on the matter. Finally Liriel reminded him that he, like Wedigar, must bide his time and accept risks for the greater good—even when they contradicted his own sense of honor and duty.
“I like it not when you quote my own words back at me,” Fyodor grumbled.
The drow tossed him a wicked grin, and they rowed in silence toward the shore of Inthar.
The nereid responded to Liriel’s questions with great glee. Ascarle, the creature claimed, was a subterranean city full of ancient treasures and wondrous magic. When Liriel asked about sea elves, the nereid nodded eagerly.
“Yes, there are many there, a hundred, perhaps more. The armies of Ascarle capture them as slaves.”
Liriel wondered briefly how Xzorsh would respond to this news—and the knowledge that his “friend” had a part in it. “Let’s assume I want to go to Ascarle,” the drow said. “How would you take me there?”
“You cannot go directly. There is a portal but no mortal may pass. My powers allow me to take you to my home plane, and from there to Ascarle.”
Something in the nereid’s words struck the drow as familiar. They were very like words spoken not long ago, by a voice from beyond the grave. Liriel’s eyes darted to the tower that loomed over the cliffs of Inthar, and her thoughts returned to the strange encounter with the banshee who guarded it.
After giving instructions to the nereid that she was to remain silent and out of sight once they reached Ascarle—or suffer damage to her soul-shawl—Liriel agreed to take the voyage. First, however, she encloaked herself in her piwafwi. There was no telling what she might encounter in the undersea stronghold. It did not escape Liriel’s notice that the sly nereid seemed a little too eager to take her there.
Liriel had traveled through magical portals many times, but none were quite like this. The moment the nereid took her hand, they were shot through a tunnel of effervescent energy. For a brief, exhilarating moment, Liriel felt as if she were inside a bottle of sparkling wine that had been shaken, then suddenly uncorked.
She emerged, wet and tingling from head to toe, in a marble pool. Colorful fish swam among the water flowers, and a delicate fountain played softly in one corner. The drow looked deep into the water. There, barely visible, was the face of the nereid. She gave a sharp tug on the soul-shawl’s fringe by way of reminder, and the nymph disappeared from sight at once.
The drow adjusted her piwafwi and climbed over the low marble wall and surveyed the room beyond—a vast, gleaming chamber with a vaulted ceiling. The walls and floor were of inlaid marble, and several pools and fountains sang in a melodic murmur. Dominating the room was a raised platform upon which sat a massive throne of pale purple crystal. The thing brought to mind an image of the Baenre throne. The matron of the First House of Menzoberranzan sat on an intricately carved wonder of black stone, within which writhed the spirits of Baenre victims. Liriel hoped that whatever creature ruled this place was less venal than her dear aunt Triel, the current Matron Mother.
Liriel cast a quick spell to dry herself, for invisibility would be of limited value if she left behind a trail of wet prints. As silent as a shadow, she wandered through the rooms of the vast palace. The entire building was constructed of marble and crystal, decorated with ancient, priceless statues and urns filled with exotic plants. Beyond the palace lay an entire city, the buildings connected by air-filled walkways and tended by vacant-eyed slaves.
With every step, Liriel grew more certain that in this undersea city lived Ruathym’s true enemy. Whoever ruled here possessed too much wealth and power for it to be otherwise. No such beings could content themselves in Luskan’s shadow. On swift and silent feet she walked through the magic-filled greenhouse where the kelpie sprouts were grown, through storehouses filled with supplies, through armories well stocked with weapons. At last she made her way toward the humbler buildings, assuming these would house the city’s soldiers, as well as the slaves of which the nereid spoke.
Liriel was well acquainted with slavery. It was a fact of life in Menzoberranzan. Slaves were the source of most of the drow’s battle fodder and supplied nearly all the city’s menial labor. In her first meeting with Fyodor she’d learned Rashemi did not enslave each other. He clearly abhorred the very mention of slavery, but she herself had never given much thought to the matter. Some people were drow, some were humans, some were ogres, and some were slaves. It was that simple. But never had Liriel considered the slaves themselves, rather than the useful functions they performed. Here, surrounded by hundreds of listless, nearly lifeless beings, she could do nothing else.
As the drow walked through the cramped and crowded quarters, she noted that all the slaves—sea elves, humans, even some of the merrow that apparently guarded them—were held in tight control. Some sat like animated corpses, with slack faces and vacant eyes, moving only upon the command of one of their sea-ogre guardians. Others, whose spirits had apparently been broken, were shackled only by the deep hopelessness that emptied their eyes and bowed their shoulders. There were, however, a few who still resisted the powers that ruled Ascarle.
Liriel watched as a pair of merrow dragged a struggling elf female down a hall. For a moment the drow watched in fascination. This was the first land-dwelling fairie elf she had ever beheld. The female was tall and strong, and her long black hair whipped back and forth as she writted and kicked in the sea ogres’ grasp.
Liriel followed them into a long corridor lined with cages. Into one of these the merrow tossed the elf, informing her that she would be fetched again when her skills were needed. The drow crept down the hall, taking stock of these hearty prisoners. These were the strongest, those who might be persuaded to turn against their captors when the time came. Suddenly Liriel stopped before one cell, stunned and enlightened.
The young woman pacing the tiny cell was the mirror image of Dagmar: the same strong, beautiful face, the distinctive pale gold hair. Liriel understood at last why the Ruathen woman had turned traitor.
Twin births were not common among the drow, but they did occur from time to time. The link between elven twins was incredibly strong, often enabling one sibling to sense the other’s thoughts and to feel the other’s pain. And the rivalry between drow twins was ruthless enough to inspire the most ambitious priestess in Menzoberranzan. Rarely did both siblings live to adulthood. Those who did usually pitted themselves against each other in an endless, equally matched struggle. These miniature wars could become so destructive that many drow decided to avoid the bother by destroying such children at birth. As she gazed at Dagmar’s twin, however, Lir
iel wondered how strong that bond might be in cultures such as Ruathym, where all children were cherished, where clan and kindred were valued above all other things.
Abruptly the drow turned and strode back to the palace. She had not yet encountered the leader of this place. This she must do, before she could know the true strength of Ascarle.
Liriel made her way back to the council chamber. Beyond it was a suite of rooms. Judging by their opulence, she guessed they belonged to the shadowy “mistress” of whom the malenti had spoken.
One of these chambers was filled with dozens of scrying devices: small pools, scrying bowls, crystal globes, enspelled gems. The very air crackled with magic, and the drow hurried through to the room beyond. Here she stopped, more stunned by the sight before her than she had been by the discovery of Dagmar’s captured twin.
Stretched out on a large loom was a nearly finished tapestry depicting a coastal village—as one of the creatures of the Abyss might leave it after a few days’ dalliance. Dead human warriors lay in moldering piles; sea elves were staked out beneath a blazing sun. Familiar sea elves. Liriel knew those faces, even if she had seen them only in death.
The drow grasped her holy symbol and whispered the words to the spell that had once sought the spirits of the sea elves. There was no misty gray anteroom this time, for Liriel had not far to go. She touched her fingers to the woven image of the elf, felt the mingled despair and hope as the captured spirit responded to her presence.
Liriel snatched her hand away and stared with dismay at the tapestry. Such a thing took powerful magic; this was the work of a mighty and malevolent being.
Her own words rang in her ears—her impetuous promise to free the captured spirits. If she tried to do so, if she tampered with the tapestry in any way, she would surely alert the powers of Ascarle to her presence.
Welcome, Liriel of House Baenre.
The words sounded in Liriel’s mind as clearly if they had been engraved there by the finger of Lloth. The drow spun, and her amber eyes widened.
An illithid, one of the most powerful and most feared creatures of the Underdark, glided silently toward her. Liriel did not need to ask how the thing had sensed her presence. An illithid could read thoughts as easily as a drow’s eyes could perceive heat patterns.
I am Vestress, Regent Ruler of Ascarle. Your presence here has long been desired.
Liriel flung back her cloak and faced down the powerful creature. “How do you know of me?”
We have need of a wizard, one who possesses considerable command over magic portals. You have proven yourself to be just such a one, the illithid continued. It is no small thing, to move an entire ship!
“That was not my doing, but Lloth’s,” Liriel said bluntly. She saw no reason to prevaricate; the illithid would take the thought from her mind, regardless.
Is it so? You are indeed a priestess of the Spider Queen? A hint of amusement—and speculation—entered the creature’s oddly feminine voice. This situation may prove even more diverting than we had hoped.
“What do you want from me?” the drow demanded, although she was beginning to suspect what the illithid had in mind.
Vestress outlined the plan in detail. As Liriel listened, she kept her mind carefully blank, calling upon the discipline and concentration she had learned in three decades of magic studies to focus her thoughts entirely upon the illithid’s instructions. A moment of doubt, a single stray thread of counterstrategy, and all would be lost.
Finally the drow nodded. “I will do as you say. The banshee will be defeated, the portal opened for the armies of Ascarle.”
And in return, we offer you the power you crave, the illithid said slyly. All the magical treasures of Ascarle will be open to you: the spells and artifacts of a mighty elven people, wonders that form the stuff of legends. This tapestry, which has so taken your fancy, will be yours to do with as you like. And there is one other reward you might consider: a conquered Ruathym must be administered so that the Kraken Society is well served. We agree with your assessment of the human males who rule this island. Order your human champion to do away with the other battle chieftains and establish himself as leader. He will make a most useful puppet—and you will possess a kingdom to rival that of the matrons who forced you from the Underdark, as well as more wizardly might than the father who betrayed you. In time, you could amass power enough to take your revenge and reclaim your place Below. All of this, we offer you.
“I will think on it,” Liriel said in a stunned whisper. She turned and fled the chamber, before the too-perceptive illithid could steal more of her thoughts.
No longer concerned with keeping silent, the drow sped to the council chamber and plunged into the pool. She called the nereid to her and took refuge in the effervescent tunnel that would take her far away from this place.
In moments, Liriel sat alone on the rocky shore near Inthar, hundreds of miles from the wonders and horrors of Ascarle. Yet she could not escape thoughts of the temptations that the canny illithid had laid out before her, temptations made all the more poignant for being torn from the fabric of her own unspoken desires.
Early the next morning, Liriel found Dagmar by the cove, working with several others to mend a torn net. She pulled the young woman away from the other fisherfolk. As they walked along the deserted shore, Liriel told her what she and Fyodor had witnessed, and what she herself had learned in Ascarle.
“You have seen Ygraine. Then you understand why I have done these things,” Dagmar whispered. “Even so, I will surely be slain for my treachery. And I would welcome the blade, even if wielded by your hand!”
“Don’t tempt me,” Liriel said coldly. “Believe me, I have to keep reminding myself that you’re of more use to me alive than dead. You’re going to go to Aumark and tell him all you know of the coming battle.”
Dagmar hesitated, her blue eyes frantic. Liriel thought she knew why.
“Your sister is dead,” she said bluntly.
It was a lie, and a cruel one at that, but Liriel was desperate to free Dagmar from her loyalty to her captured twin. The stunned expression on the Northwoman’s face assured Liriel she had hit the mark. It did not, however, prepare the drow for what happened next.
Dagmar threw back her head and let out a peal of wild laughter. The veil of pretense dropped from her beautiful face, and Liriel stared up into blue eyes burning with fierce joy.
“So at last I am to come into my own!” the young woman exulted. “Now that Ygraine is dead, I will be the one to bring the hamfarrigen magic back to Ruathym!”
As the initial shock of this announcement faded, the drow nodded slowly. There was a certain macabre logic in Dagmar’s words, for she was obviously astute enough to realize that Ygraine would never have returned to Ruathym alive. The traitorous Northwoman had been held hostage by her sister’s captors—not by the threat of her sister’s death, but by Ygraine’s continued survival! To a drow of Menzoberranzan, this made perfect sense. There were some things, however, that Liriel did not yet understand.
“Ygraine would have died sooner or later,” the drow stated coldly. “You could not have waited for your inheritance?”
Dagmar shrugged. “If I knew for certain that the dutiful fool would soon serve mead in the halls of Tempus, I would have been content to wait upon the pleasure of her captors. But I was shown a tapestry, a magical thing that can hold the spirits of the slain for all time. If I did not do as they bade me, Ygraine’s spirit would have been trapped among the threads. Perhaps that would have been sufficient to pass her legacy on to me, perhaps not. It was not a chance I was willing to take.”
“Many Ruathen have died,” Liriel spat out. “Is your sister’s death worth that much to you? What do you stand to gain from this, besides a passel of shapechanging brats?”
Dagmar turned a strange smile upon the drow. “That is how my people think; I would have expected differently from you. To the people of Ruathym, a woman’s worth is measured by the rank of her husband and
the sons she bears him. I would be known for myself!”
Liriel stared at the Northwoman, rendered momentarily speechless by the naked ambition written on Dagmar’s face—an ambition that fully matched her own. The drow had the uncanny sensation that she was gazing into a pale mirror.
“What power were you promised?” she asked softly.
“After the conquest of Ruathym, someone must rule,” the young woman said bluntly. “Most of the warriors will be slain, the women humiliated, the pride of all the people brought low. The Ruathen will accept someone who provides a measure of hope, who can restore to them their sense of honor. Who better than she who revived the ancient hamfariggen magic? And I will do it, not a son that some warrior begot upon my body!”
“If that is so, what did you want with Fyodor?” Liriel demanded, for Dagmar’s attempted seduction of her friend still rankled deeply with her.
Again, the strange, cold smile. “Had he lain with me, he would have been dead that very night, and the conquest of Ruathym would have been so much the easier.”
Liriel nodded. It all made perfect sense. Indeed, the mixture of twisted intrigue and icy calculation was all too familiar to her. Familiar, too, was the desire for power, a desire so strong that any method of achieving the longed-for goal was deemed acceptable. There was an odd kinship between Dagmar and herself that Liriel could not ignore.
“Why do you tell me this?” she demanded. Even to her own ears, her words rang with desperate denial.
Dagmar laughed softly, knowingly. “Is there anyone alive who does not wish to be understood? I tell you because on all this island you alone can understand the things I desire, and the things I have done to get them.”
The drow received this explanation in silence. As much as she wished to refute the damning words, she found she could not.
“Besides, who can you tell?” Dagmar continued, her voice ringing with amusement as she pulled her long fish knife from her belt. “Even if you were to live out this day, to whom would you take this tale? Fyodor?” she asked mockingly, and something in her tone froze Liriel in place, her black fingers tightly gripping the hilt of her dagger.
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