Forgotten Realms - The Lady Penitent - Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

The male ancestor’s eyes blazed. High magic is what condemned us! We were uncorrupted, still clean. Not like them. Q’arlynd’s head wrenched to the side, directed by a mind that was not his own. It forced him to look at the dim shadows that were his apprentices. And yet we were condemned to share the same fate as these Ilythiiri.

  The sentience released Q’arlynd. Relief flooded him. Losing control of his body, even for a moment, had felt uncomfortably close to the time he’d been forced to wear his slave ring.

  It wasn’t enough for Aryvandaar to wipe Miyeritar from the face of Faerűn with their killing storm, the presence continued. They could have left those few who survived to eke out their lives, but even that small mercy was beyond them. They and their allies had to alter our very bodies and drive us from the surface with their dominating magic, forever imprisoning us in the Dark Realms Below, together with those whose alliance we never sought.

  Q’arlynd drew in a sharp breath at what his ancestor had just said. Those two words. Z’ress—to hold dominance or to remain in force. And faer—magic. Q’arlynd had heard these words for a lifetime, but always the other way around. As Faerzress: “magic that remained.” Faerzress, he’d been taught during his days as a novice at the Arcane Conservatory, was native to the Underdark. A form of raw magic that was similar to a volcano, or a rushing river, in its ability to build or carve away stone. Something that had always been around, from the moment of the world’s creation.

  With the words reversed, the resulting term took on an entirely different layer of meaning. “Dominating magic.” Magic that compelled.

  “You mean to tell me that Faerzress was a creation of high magic?” Q’arlynd asked. “That it was linked to the Descent?”

  It created much of the Dark Realms Below. It lured us into that prison and locked us inside. The male frowned. Did it never occur to you to question why the drow chose to found their cities in regions that were permeated with Faerzress?

  Q’arlynd understood. “Because we were drawn to it? That would make sense. It would ensure we couldn’t teleport out. Or use divination to view the World Above.”

  Thus we were “contained.” That was the word the mages of Aryvandaar coined for our imprisonment. We could, through manual effort, return to the surface—climb up through those few tunnels the Faerzress had created that touched upon the World Above—but each time we emerged, the warriors of Aryvandaar beat us down again. The male shook his head sadly. And now we learn, through your thoughts, that it has become possible for us to escape this prison and reclaim the daylit sky—but that this freedom may once again be denied us. That the Faerzress ebbed, but is rising again.

  “I played my part. I teleported the Protectors to the Acropolis. Whatever the Crones are creating with the voidstone will be destroyed.”

  And if it isn’t?

  The male was replaced by the female who had spoken when Q’arlynd first placed the kiira on his forehead. I am disappointed in you, grandson, she intoned. I would have expected more of someone who had sworn himself to the Lady.

  Q’arlynd glanced down at his wrist—at the House insignia that adorned his bracer. The glyph it bore was no mere stick figure. It was, just as Zarifar had observed, the figure of a dancing female.

  Eilistraee.

  Q’arlynd swore softly, “Mother’s blood.”

  The male returned. Indeed, grandson. It flows in your veins—and in the veins of all who can trace their ancestry back through bloodlines that are of pure Miyeritari descent. I suspect there are few of us, now—fewer with each generation. The Ilythiiri will have mixed their bloodlines with ours, producing yet more offspring who bear the demon’s taint. But I am glad to hear that some of us continue to serve the goddess. Some of us remember her and keep the faith.

  Both voices spoke together. Male and female, backed up by a chorus of dozens more. That is why this lorestone, and others like it, were placed here. Because we knew that, some day, the goddess might guide the footsteps of someone who would be able to hear us.

  “Me,” Q’arlynd whispered.

  Yes.

  He touched a finger to his forehead. “But why did you strip me of my memories, the first time I wore you?”

  That was a different selu’kiira. Because you were not of its House, its embodied sentiences stripped you of all memory of it and forced you to return it to this place. They did the same to the boy. He was of the correct House but not wholly worthy of wearing that selu’kiira. He is fortunate that some dark elf blood, at least, flows in his veins. Else he would have died the instant it touched his mind.

  “Just as the chitines did?”

  He felt their disapproval and overheard a snatch of conversation.

  … certain he is Miyeritari?

  He is.

  “So…” Q’arlynd glanced at Kraanfhaor’s Door. By concentrating, he could just make it out. “There are more kiira in there?”

  Dozens. One from each House whose patriarch or matriarch survived the Killing Storm.

  He touched his forehead. “And since I’m a Melarn—a pure descendant of your House—you’ll teach me high magic?”

  When you’re ready to wield arselu’tel’quess, then yes.

  “What must I do to prepare?”

  Learn to trust.

  “Done.” Q’arlynd waved a hand in the direction of his apprentices. “You can see the proof. I brought them along to share in whatever knowledge I might glean.”

  Is that why three of them still stand bound by your magic?

  “I had to. Piri—”

  You placed that enchantment into the rings long before that.

  “Yes, but the point remains that Piri—”

  What did you expect of someone who bonded with a demon? the male chided.

  You cannot fault Q’arlynd for trying, the female interjected. The yearning for companionship, for family, comes instinctively to him. It was only the cruelties he suffered as a child that beat it into dormancy. There is a kindness in him still.

  Q’arlynd bristled. They seemed to be implying that he was the equivalent of a surface elf, soft and weak. Not a true drow at all.

  Your skin may be black, but you’re no dhaerow, the female said. She gave the word its original meaning: traitor. A spark of moonlight flickers within your heart. The dhaerow did their best to extinguish it, but it dances there still.

  That sounded just like something Qilué had once said.

  “Enough about me,” Q’arlynd said. “Now, about those spells …”

  When you’re ready. After a century or two of study, perhaps.

  “Surely I don’t need to wait so long! Aren’t you forgetting something? I already cast high magic, once before.”

  When Eilistraee willed it, yes.

  Q’arlynd clutched at that straw. “Well, doesn’t she will it again? If Kiaransalee’s Crones aren’t defeated, Faerzress throughout the Underdark will become as potent as it was at the time of the Descent. Your descendants are going to be trapped, just as you were. Aryvandaar will win.”

  Righteous anger hit him like a physical blow. He reeled. Then a wordless song eclipsed the angry voices. So beautiful was it that Q’arlynd’s eyes welled with tears. A memory flooded his mind: Halisstra, singing to him, healing him, that time he lay unconscious after the riding accident.

  Halisstra had used bae’qeshel magic, rather than Eilistraee’s hymn, but she had saved him just the same. Maybe the goddess had been watching over him even then, using Halisstra as a conduit to …

  “That’s it!” he gasped. He turned his attention to the spot where the chorus had come from. By concentrating intently, he could see a crowd. Dozens of people.

  “Are you all mages?” he asked.

  Mages, priestesses, warriors—for nearly three millennia the matrons and patrons of our House wore this lorestone.

  “And the other kiira you spoke of—do they all contain the combined wisdom of mages and clerics as well?”

  Of course.

  “And each kiira is capable of casting
the spell that stripped my memories when I wore the wrong lorestone?”

  Yes.

  Q’arlynd laughed with delight. “Then we still have a chance. Listen.”

  Swiftly, he outlined his idea.

  That may be possible, the lorestone said when he was done. With Eilistraee’s blessing. I know that it is possible to hand you the sword you seek. As to whether you can wield it…

  “We have to at least try.”

  Yes.

  As the voices of his ancestors faded, Q’arlynd became aware of his surroundings once more. Eldrinn was watching him intently, his eyes gleaming.

  “We’ve got work ahead,” Q’arlynd told him with a grim smile. “Kiaransalee is about to get a taste of her own poison.”

  Cavatina gasped as her awareness returned to her body. A moment ago, she’d been drifting toward Eilistraee’s sacred grove, weaving her way through the moonstone-hung boughs, her spirit dancing in time with a song whose beauty made her weep. Now she lay on her back on a cold stone floor, her throat tight and sore. Eilistraee’s song had vanished, replaced by a ghastly wailing and the muffled rattle of bones.

  A male bent over her, one hand resting lightly just above her left breast.

  And she was naked.

  “Kâras,” she growled. She was halfway to her feet, fists raised to fend him off, when she realized what he must have done. She lowered her hands and turned her motion into a bow. A little less gracefully than she would have liked, but a bow nonetheless. “You healed me?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Cavatina glanced around. They were in a small, cell-like chamber with stone walls and a single exit. The door was closed and barred with what looked like a femur. The walls bore ghastly murals, painted with what looked like dried blood. Shifting shadows screened the worst of it—Kâras’s doing, no doubt.

  There was no point in asking what had happened. Cavatina remembered all too well the feel of the ghost’s dagger plunging into her neck. “Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her throat.

  “A distant corner of the Acropolis,” Kâras said in a low, cautious voice. “A chamber, now hallowed by the Masked Lady. But my prayer won’t hold the Crones at bay for long. Even Cabrath—the spirit you slew—will rejuvenate eventually.”

  Cavatina’s eyebrows rose. “You knew her?”

  “I knew of her, when she was still alive. She was one of Kiaransalee’s priestesses, back in Maerimydra. A mortal, then.”

  Cavatina let that go. She glanced around but didn’t see her singing sword. “What about Leliana and the other Protectors?”

  “Dead. I’m the only one who still lives. Even disguised, I could drag only one of you away.” He pulled a small, silvered sword, hanging from a broken chain, out of his pocket. Her holy symbol. “I managed to retrieve this.”

  Cavatina took it. She held it to her chest and whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. “I’m surprised that…” She stopped herself just in time. She’d been about to question why he hadn’t just skulked away from the Acropolis and saved himself—that would have been more in keeping for a Nightshadow, after all—then realized there was no point in stirring up old arguments.

  He guessed her intent, despite her silence. “The Masked Lady commands, I obey.”

  Cavatina nodded her approval. He had a sense of duty. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the Nightshadows, after all. She’d learned a lot, in recent days.

  “What do you suggest we do now?”

  Kâras seemed surprised she’d asked his advice. His eyes narrowed, as though he expected a trick. Then he shrugged. “We’re outnumbered, probably a hundred to one. And that’s just counting the Crones, all of whom will rise as revenants shortly after we kill them, if we don’t take the time to permanently lay them to rest.”

  Cavatina tightened her grip on her holy symbol. “Then we’ll make sure we do just that.”

  Kâras shook his head. “There isn’t time. The Crones are doing something with a voidstone. Something terrible.”

  From somewhere outside the room came a series of sharp cracks, followed by the sound of falling rubble. The ground trembled under Cavatina’s feet. She heard a hail of thuds on the roof. White dust drifted down from the rafters, gritty as powdered bone.

  Cavatina shook it from her hair. “Have you contacted Qilué?”

  “She’s not answering.”

  If it were true, it didn’t bode well. Cavatina concentrated on the high priestess’s face and said in an urgent voice, “Qilué?”

  No reply came.

  Kâras gave her a flat, I-told-you-so stare.

  “All right, then,” Cavatina pushed that worry aside. It helped that she’d had a taste of what lay ahead. She wasn’t afraid to die. Not anymore. “We’ll carry the battle forward on our own. Do what we can to stop … whatever it is the Crones are up to.”

  She wound the chain of her holy symbol around her wrist and secured it. Then she glanced down at Kâras. “Before we begin, I’ll need you to disguise me.” She smiled grimly. “Let’s just hope I do as good a job of impersonating a Crone as you did at feigning paralysis, that time the revenant attacked us.”

  The corners of Kâras’s eyes slowly crinkled. He touched fingers to his mask and cast his spell.

  As a gray robe cloaked her body and silver rings appeared on her fingers, Cavatina shuddered. She could feel her holy symbol against her wrist but couldn’t see it. “Masked Lady,” she whispered. “Forgive me this blasphemy.”

  She sensed Eilistraee’s approval. Or, at least, her recognition that this was necessary.

  Kâras, also disguised as a Crone, eased open the door. Together, they crept outside.

  The main part of the temple lay just around the corner. As soon as they rounded it, Cavatina’s hopes sank. The flat space ahead was packed with Crones. They stood, side by side, chanting and waving ring-bedecked hands. In front of them was what remained of Kiaransalee’s chief temple, reduced to rubble. Hovering above was a sphere of utter darkness: the voidstone Kâras had spoken of earlier. Drifting above it, leading the Crones in prayer, was the spirit Cavatina thought she had slain.

  Cavatina was shocked. It should have taken days for the ghost to rejuvenate. The voidstone must have accelerated the process.

  Even as Cavatina and Kâras watched, the sphere of blackness expanded. Within the voidstone, Cavatina saw shapes: a vast army of undead, jostling one another and prodding at the sphere from within. At the front of their ranks stood an enormous, undead minotaur, eyes blazing with unholy fire.

  Fire that matched the Faerzress pulsing through the stone below.

  Cavatina glanced at Kâras. His illusionary face betrayed the grimness he felt. Cavatina could see the lack of hope in his eyes.

  She feigned an optimism she didn’t feel. “The spirit,” she breathed. “We need to destroy her. What could permanently lay Cabrath to rest?”

  “Only one thing,” Kâras whispered back.

  Hope sparked to life in Cavatina. “What’s that?”

  “Killing Kiaransalee.”

  Cavatina laughed bitterly. With the Crescent Blade in hand, she might have been able to do just that. But that weapon was back at the Promenade, in Qilué’s keeping. Cavatina was unarmed.

  “Let’s do what we can.”

  Kâras nodded.

  Side by side, they shouldered their way into the chanting throng.

  Q’arlynd handed a kiira to each of his apprentices. Baltak, eyes glittering greedily, clenched his fist around the stone. Alexa peered into the depths of her gemstone as if trying to assess its worth—or perhaps its mineral content. Zarifar closed his eyes and rolled his back and forth between his palms in a series of short jerks, turning the hexagonal crystal one facet at a time, his lips silently counting.

  Eldrinn stared warily at the kiira he’d been handed. “Is it going to feeblemind me?”

  “It might,” Q’arlynd answered truthfully. The boy was only a half-drow, after all.

  Alexa and Balt
ak glanced up sharply.

  Q’arlynd raised a hand. “This isn’t a time for lies. Too much is at stake. None of you belong to a House that matches what you hold. Yet the lorestones have agreed to impart the ability to work arselu’tel’quess. When our casting is done, they’ll erase all knowledge of the spell from your minds. That might feeblemind you—or it might not. But even if it does,” he said as he touched the kiira on his own forehead, “I’ve mastered this lorestone. I’ll still have my wits about me, and will see to it that yours are restored.”

  Baltak stared a challenge at him. “I can see what Eldrinn gets out of it, saving his college from ruin, but what about the rest of us?”

  Q’arlynd raised an eyebrow. “Casting high magic doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “Not if I can’t remember how to do it afterward,” Baltak snorted. His eyes strayed to Piri’s corpse. “How do we know you won’t kill us, too, once we’re feebleminded?”

  Alexa snorted. “Don’t be stupid, Baltak. If he’d wanted to do that, he would have blasted us while we were still held by his spell.”

  The transmogrifist continued to stare at Q’arlynd. “No, he wouldn’t. If he had, we wouldn’t have been around to cast his spell for him.”

  “Enough!” Q’arlynd snapped. “Can’t you see what’s happening?” He waved a hand at the walls. The Faerzress that infused them had brightened noticeably even in the short time it had taken to explain to his apprentices what he’d planned. It glowed with a steady, blue-green light.

  “The Faerzress is increasing in power by leaps and bounds. We have no idea what other ill effects that may cause. Divination and teleportation may only be the first of several strains of magic to be denied the drow. I know it’s difficult, but you’ve got to trust in the kiira—and in me. And in the school we’re going to build together. You’ve come with me this far. Trusted me. Why stop now?”

  He strode over to the dead wizard and touched a lorestone to Piri’s forehead. It instantly adhered. As Q’arlynd’s kiira had promised, Piri was restored to life. The demon-skinned apprentice sat up slowly, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  Q’arlynd turned to the others, rubbing his left arm. It still tingled from the poison. “It was a struggle, convincing my ancestors that we needed Piri, but they saw the wisdom in letting him participate. For our spell, we need a sixth caster.”