Forgotten Realms - The Lady Penitent - Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  When the copper in the crucible collapsed into a glowing puddle, Darbleth pulled the bowl from the furnace and swung it around in front of Q’arlynd. The wizard picked up a scroll and held his free hand over the dish, low enough to feel the heat rising from the molten metal. As he read from the parchment, he crossed each finger over the one next to it, then uncrossed them again, from forefinger to little finger and back again. Then he clenched his hand, as if grasping the haze of heat that rippled above the dish..

  As Q’arlynd opened his hand, sparks of violet light erupted from his palm and spun off into the air. Startled, he jerked his hand back. There it was again: another of the manifestations that had been perplexing the sages at the College of Divination. For the past two cycles, any time anyone in the city cast a divination spell, bright sparkles of faerie fire appeared on his hands or lips—something that could be annoyingly inconvenient when secrecy was the aim. It didn’t seem to matter how weak or powerful the divination spell, how skilled the caster, or even what method of spellcasting was being attempted. Wizard, sorcerer, bard, or cleric, the result was always the same, as long as the caster was drow: an involuntary glimmer of faerie fire. And it was getting worse. Two cycles ago, it had been a faint, barely noticeable glimmer; now it came as bright, crackling sparks.

  No one had any idea why—least of all, Master Seldszar, head of the College of Divination.

  A bit of an embarrassment, that. Especially when it was Seldszar’s College that had been charged with finding a solution to the problem.

  So far, the best theory his sages had come up with was that the effect was linked with the sun. They noted that all drow, down to the youngest, most unschooled boy, had the innate ability to evoke faerie fire and use it to clothe either their own bodies or whatever objects they pointed at in heat-less, sparkling radiance. Everyone knew that this ability was tied to the passage of the sun through the skies of the surface realms—drow could only invoke faerie fire once per cycle—and so the sages speculated that something must be affecting the sun. Increasing its intensity, perhaps, to the point where faerie fire was invoked whether a drow willed it or not.

  As to why involuntary manifestations occurred during the casting of divination spells, the sages opined that the practice of the divinatory arts made spellcasters especially sensitive to the passage of time. All that was required was a little mental discipline, they said, and the involuntary manifestations of faerie fire would end. Then all would be well again.

  Nobody was buying that explanation. Especially when reports from the surface realms indicated that the sun appeared exactly as it always had.

  But now was not the time to dwell upon this problem. Q’arlynd had a spell to complete. He repeated the pattern five more times, then let his hand fall.

  The copper was cooling and crusting over. Q’arlynd nodded, and Darbleth moved the crucible back into the furnace.

  They waited.

  Q’arlynd was making six magical rings, one for himself and five for the wizards and sorcerers who would be the foundation of his school—four of whom he’d already chosen.

  That “school” was still in its formative stages. Still based in Eldrinn’s residence and under the patronage of the College of Divination, it was a long way from being ready to stand on its own. But one day it would do just that, and Master Seldszar would nominate it for official recognition as one of the city’s Colleges. That would elevate Q’arlynd to a master’s title, and a position on the Conclave. With that secured, he would build his College of Ancient Arcana into the greatest school the city of Sshamath had ever seen. Bound together by their rings, Q’arlynd and the five mages who served as his apprentices would wield magic undreamed of—magic equal in power to the spell that had opened a temporary gate between the domains of Vhaeraun and Eilistraee, nearly two years ago.

  Arselu’tel’quess—high magic. Something said to be impossible for the drow.

  Something Q’arlynd knew from experience was possible.

  Opening the gate had opened Q’arlynd’s eyes to the power that drow wizards might wield, if only they could pool their arcane talents and set their hearts and minds jointly on a casting—something they would be able to do with the rings he was creating. The rings would enable those mages who would form the core of his College to open their minds to each other. They would be able to listen in on each other’s innermost thoughts—and to Q’arlynd’s, if he so chose—but only if they opened their own minds to scrutiny at the same time. It would be difficult for them, at first, but in time they would learn to do something that drow found almost impossible: trust one another.

  Of course, all this would come to pass only if Q’arlynd succeeded in prying the secrets of high magic out of the kiira he’d found. That was something he hadn’t accomplished yet, despite a year and a half of trying.

  The thought made him grind his teeth.

  The copper was molten again. Darbleth removed it from the furnace and held it ready for the second spell.

  Q’arlynd picked up a small glass vial and unstoppered it. Wisps of yellowish-red smoke rose from the acid it held. Carefully, he tipped the vial over the dish, letting five drops fall. He set the bottle aside on the workbench and picked up a bowl of bluish-gray powder. He dropped five pinches of this into the mix. Then he picked up the second of the four spell scrolls and an eagle feather, and touched the latter to the molten metal. The feather instantly burst into flame, but Q’arlynd forced the quill into the copper, stirring it as he read from the scroll. The vivid motes of faerie fire danced briefly across his knuckles. Q’arlynd ignored them and continued his casting.

  The second spell would allow him to extend his mental reach through any of the five lesser rings at will and instantly see what its wearer was up to. It would also allow him to see the wearer’s surroundings—clearly enough that he could teleport to that place, if he chose to.

  The wearers of the lesser rings, of course, would expect to scry him in return. For that reason, he added a pinch of ground jade. If Q’arlynd chose, he could let the other wizards scry him. If, however, he was doing something he’d rather they not see, his ring would create a false image of his choosing.

  The copper was cooling again, so Darbleth returned it to the furnace.

  They waited.

  Darbleth once more removed the crucible, and Q’arlynd picked up his third scroll. The first two parchments had held divination magic. This one was different. The spell it contained would cause the five lesser rings to exert a subtle influence on their wearers, making them loath to remove them. As he read the enchantment, Q’arlynd dropped a pinch of crushed pearl into the molten copper, followed by a sticky, fingernail-sized fragment of honeycomb.

  The fourth scroll held the final spell—an enchantment that Q’arlynd would use only if absolutely necessary. As he read from it, he dropped five needle-thin slivers of iron into the crucible, one by one.

  This done, he leaned over the crucible and let a strand of his shoulder-length hair touch the molten copper. The smell of scorched hair joined the reek of burned feather as he bound himself to the metal, ensuring that he would remain master of the six rings. He rose, and pinched off the singed bits of hair.

  “I’m done,” he told Darbleth. “Proceed with the casting.”

  The duergar, his expression as somber as ever, returned the crucible to the furnace and watched the copper melt. Then he took it to his centrifuge. He poured the copper into a ceramic flask at one end of the centrifuge’s central arm, and yanked out the pin that held the arm in place. A powerful spring snapped the arm into motion, driving the molten metal into the plaster mold. The arm spun for a time, gradually slowed, then stopped.

  Darbleth removed the mold. While they waited for the metal inside it to cool, Q’arlynd listened to the sounds that entered the workshop through the stalagmite’s open roof. He heard the dull roar of other darkfire furnaces and forges, the muffled clank of hammers on anvils, the murmur of voices and the hiss of water-quenched metal. The sounds might have c
ome from a duergar city; indeed, many of those who worked in the Darkfire Pillars were of that race. Few of the drow liked the duergar—the antipathy between the two ran deep—but they grudgingly admitted duergar were the best metal crafters in the Underdark.

  Q’arlynd wanted nothing but the best, in every detail of the college he hoped to create. Fortunately, Master Seldszar’s coin pouch proved deep enough to provide it.

  When the metal was at last cool, Darbleth broke open the mold. Inside was the casting: five rings, linked by sprues to the master ring like fingers and thumb to a palm. He sawed the sprues off and filed the rings smooth. He gave each ring a final polish, then handed the lot to Q’arlynd. He finished by carefully sweeping the copper dust from his saw and his workbench onto a sheaf of parchment, added the sprues from the casting, then folded the parchment around them. This, too, he handed to Q’arlynd.

  Later, Q’arlynd would negate any residual magic the waste metal held and dispose of it, lest anyone else use it to subvert the rings.

  Q’arlynd paid the duergar his fee—coin that Q’arlynd’s patron had provided without even asking what it was for—and left the workshop. Weaving between the workshops of the Darkfire Pillars, he made his way back to the city’s main cavern.

  Sshamath was smaller than Ched Nasad had been, but no less beautiful. Its main cavern was wide, rather than deep, and was dominated by Z’orr’bauth, a pillar of stone as thick, from one side to the other, as four blocks of a surface city. Sparkling with decorative faerie fire that shaded from blue-green to violet, it was connected to the cavern’s lesser columns via a series of arched bridges. Across these flowed a steady stream of traffic: drow on foot or in palanquins borne by massive ogres or minotaurs, soldiers of the city guard, and diminutive goblin slaves. Wizards flew between the buildings, seated crosslegged on driftdiscs. A wide ramp spiraled around Z’orr’bauth itself, leading from the cavern floor up to a hole in the ceiling, the city’s main entrance.

  Hanging from the ceiling between Z’orr’bauth and the spot where Q’arlynd walked was the Stonestave, a stalactite that had been stoneshaped to resemble a wizard’s staff. Seat of the city’s government, it contained the chamber where the Conclave met.

  One day, Q’arlynd would stand in that chamber as a master. First, however, he had to crack the kiira’s secrets. And for that, he needed a test subject.

  He made his way to the Dark Weavings Bazaar, a cluster of slender stalagmites that had been turned into shops and inns. It was also home to the slave market. Anywhere else, a slave market would include dozens of holding pens and auction blocks, but in Sshamath, where magic was prolific, the entire market was contained in one building. It lay near the bazaar’s center, a blocky edifice of cut stone. Its walls were blank, save for a massive glyph, carved in relief on each side, that sent out a silent magical compulsion for passersby to make their lives easier by buying a slave. Or better yet, two slaves.

  As he approached the building, Q’arlynd noticed two white-robed wizards from the College of Necromancy huddled together and talking in low voices, as if plotting something. Curious, he decided to eavesdrop on their discussion. It probably wasn’t anything important, but one never knew what scrap of information might prove valuable.

  He whispered a quick divination and flicked a finger in their direction, and their whispers became clear. “… a priestess of Eilistraee,” one of them said, nodding in the direction of the slave house. “She’s—”

  The other necromancer made a furtive hand sign. The speaker abruptly fell silent and glanced in Q’arlynd’s direction. Q’arlynd was puzzled—but only for a moment. Looking down, he saw violet sparks dancing around the finger he’d used to direct his spell. He curled his hand into a fist, cursing softly.

  No matter. He’d heard enough. He strode briskly past the pair, toward the slave house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the necromancers hurry up the street. The other lingered outside the slave house, watching the entrance.

  Q’arlynd stepped into a display room lined with shelves holding hundreds of hollowed-out chunks of clearstone, each of a size that would fit neatly in a cupped hand. Each clearstone contained a slave, temporarily reduced in size and bound inside the stone. Some sat on the floor of their clearstones, shoulders slumped in resignation. Others raged and pounded on the walls of their prisons with fists or feet, or butted with their horns, making tiny tinking noises. A few of them had their mouths open as if shouting, but since none of the slaves needed to breathe while magically bound, no sounds were escaping their mouths. Nor did they need to eat or drink, ensuring that they wouldn’t foul the inside of the containers.

  About a dozen customers eyed the merchandise. Q’arlynd immediately picked out the priestess by her posture. She stood with her back to him, staring intently at a chunk of clearstone on the shelf in front of her, her body rigid with disapproval.

  Q’arlynd wondered what she was doing there.

  Eilistraee’s faithful opposed slavery, and often put themselves at risk to set slaves free. If that was what this priestess was plotting, she wasn’t being very sly about it. She wasn’t wearing her armor or carrying a hunting horn, and her holy symbol was tucked inside her shirt, with only the silver chain around her neck showing, but her body language all but shouted her faith to anyone familiar with Eilistraee’s creed.

  Q’arlynd sidled up behind her and glanced at the clearstone she stared at. In Sshamath, only “primitive” races could be kept as slaves, but Eilistraee’s faith included a number of worshipers of the lesser races. Perhaps one of them had been captured and put up for sale. That would explain the priestess’s lack of discretion.

  The clearstone, however, held only a goblin: a scrawny little yellow-skinned creature that stared dully out through the clearstone like a mace-hammered lizard. Goblins were vicious, self-centered little beasts that scavenged in packs; it was doubtful they understood what a deity was, let alone were capable of worshiping one.

  The priestess, Q’arlynd decided, must be in Sshamath for some other reason.

  He cleared his throat. “Greetings, Lady.”

  As the priestess turned, he briefly touched his forefingers and thumbs together—in front of his body, where the other customers wouldn’t see his gesture—to form the sign of Eilistraee’s moon.

  The priestess’s eyes widened slightly. Then a hint of suspicion clouded them. “Who took your sword oath, and where?”

  “Lady Karizra, at the shrine in the Misty Forest.” Q’arlynd turned his right palm up, revealing the tiny, crescent-shaped scar the sword had left in his hand.

  The priestess smiled, satisfied. She tipped her head in the direction of the shelves. “Slaves,” she said in a low voice, the corners of her mouth curling in disapproval.

  Q’arlynd gave a somber nod. He sighed, as though he agreed with her but was powerless to change such an institution. “What brings you to Sshamath, Lady? Can I be of assistance?”

  “Not unless you can persuade the Conclave to hear me today, instead of keeping me waiting,”

  Q’arlynd smiled. She was there to speak to the Conclave, was she? “Do they know who you represent?” He stared pointedly at the chain around her neck.

  “I told the Speaker I had been sent by the Promenade,” she said. Her gaze drifted to the door. Her eyes hardened as a priestess of Lolth was carried in on a palanquin borne by two minotaurs. “I didn’t think it wise, however, to let who I am be generally known.”

  “Good idea,” Q’arlynd agreed. Meanwhile, his mind was brimming with curiosity. Eilistraee’s priestesses normally came below ground only to woo new converts and lead them to the surface—something that was normally done in secret. He wondered what might compel a priestess to announce herself to the rulers of an Underdark city. He decided to find out.

  “The Conclave can be slow as a millstone, at times,” he told her. “Here in the Underdark, we don’t have night and day to remind us of the passage of time. Things tend to seem less… urgent than they might.”
r />   “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Would you like some company while you wait for your petition to be heard?”

  She nodded. “I could use the company of someone who’s more in tune with the customs of the World Above. The parts of Sshamath I’ve seen so far aren’t exactly to my taste.”

  Q’arlynd smiled. The net had been cast. Time to haul in the blindfish.

  He took stock. The priestess was far from beautiful. Acne had left her skin porous as limestone. Her braided hair was a dirty mushroom-white and lacking in luster. She was probably double Q’arlynd’s age, well into her second century of life. Still, her body was firmly muscled, and her breasts generously endowed—her one redeeming feature. Q’arlynd let his eyes linger on them and smiled.

  “I’d be delighted to give you a taste of Sshamath that’s more to your liking,” he murmured. “Lady… ?”

  The color of her broad cheeks deepened in a blush as she noticed where he was staring. “Miverra.”

  “Lady Miverra,” Q’arlynd repeated, as if savoring the taste of the name. He ran a hand through his hair and gave her his best “take-me” look.

  Her blush deepened.

  Q’arlynd gave a mental sigh. Miverra was from the Surface Realms, all right. She expected Q’arlynd to take the lead in this little dance.

  So be it.

  He bowed. “I’m Q’arlynd.”

  She showed no sign of recognizing his name. A pity, since this was one instance where he might have capitalized on it. Yet in many ways it was a relief. A handful of Nightshadows still skulked about Sshamath, despite the wave of assassinations that had left the halls of the Tower of the Masked Mage awash in blood. Those assassinations, part of a coup by Nightshadows who had shifted their allegiance to Shar, had taken out the few who insisted on worshiping what remained of Vhaeraun: that strange blend of deities they called the “Masked Lady.” There weren’t many of the latter left, but Q’arlynd didn’t want them learning of his role in Vhaeraun’s death. Even one dagger in the back would be too many.