“Like a betrayal?” she asked. “A traitorous act? Well so be it. Lolth is dead—or will soon be.”
“And you’ve aligned yourself with what you think will be the winning side,” Ryld said. He nodded. “I suppose that’s a sensible move to make.”
Halisstra sighed, wondering why Ryld just couldn’t understand.
“It’s more than mere tactics,” she said, trying to explain. “Eilis traee is the only deity to offer the drow any hope. With Lolth missing and her priestesses unable to mount a defense, the cities of the Underdark are going to fall, one by one. Soon hundreds—if not thousands, or even tens of thousands—of drow will come streaming up out of the Underdark, looking for refuge. Eilistraee’s priestesses will offer it to them. They’ll help guide our people up into the light. They’ll teach the drow to take their rightful place in the world—to not just survive up here, but thrive. We’ll be able to reclaim our birthright. Just look how much the Dark Ladies of Eilistraee have done so far, in terms of clearing this forest of monsters and making it fit to live in again. We’re creating a new home on the World Above, one in which the drow can live in harmony with one another. A home we’ll defend with our magic—and our swords. What more noble cause can there possibly be than that?”
Ryld, staring at the trophy tree again, muttered something under his breath. Halisstra thought she heard the words “just like clearing the slums,” then decided she must have been wrong, since the phrase made no sense.
“Ryld,” she said slowly, “are you sure you—”
Quiet! Ryld warned, switching suddenly to silent speech. I hear voices in the woods. Human voices. They’re coming this way.
Halisstra, worried, reached for the horn on her belt. Should she sound it to warn the priestesses? That was what she’d been sent out to the perimeter of the temple grounds to do, after all: stand guard. Uluyara had warned her that human adventurers sometimes ventured deep into the Velarswood—adventurers who made no distinction between the worshipers of Eilistraee and the drow of the Underdark. Humans slew any ebonyskinned elf they met on sight.
But blowing the horn would also alert the humans to Halisstra’s presence—and they were close. Better to assess the situation from hiding and deal with the humans herself, if possible. Ryld would back her up—and provide an additional element of surprise.
Take cover, she signed to him. I’ll challenge them. You wait.
Nodding, Ryld slid his greatsword silently out of its sheath, at the same time flipping up the hood of his piwafwi. He stepped back into the branches and stood utterly still, becoming no more than another shadow. Halisstra, meanwhile, quickly sang under her breath, casting a spell that rendered her invisible. Then she waited, songsword in hand.
The humans were either bold—or stupid. They came through the woods with heavy, snow-crunching footsteps, not bothering to lower their voices, which, when Halisstra could finally hear them clearly, sounded strained. Occasionally they grunted, as if carrying a heavy load. As they passed by the base of the trophy tree and came into sight through the underbrush, Halisstra saw two of them, both human males with axes in sheaths on their backs, carrying a body on a cloak they held stretched between them.
The body of a female drow.
And not just any drow, but one who wore the moon-andsword emblem of Eilistraee on a chain around her neck, and a cluster of miniature swords that hung from a ring on her belt like keys.
“Who are you?” Halisstra called out, dropping her invisibility spell. “What’s happened to this priestess?”
She held her songsword at the ready—not because the men looked threatening but because, if the priestess was still alive, healing magic might be needed, and quickly. Stepping closer, she touched the woman’s throat, but saw that it was too late for any spells she might have offered. The priestess’s skin was cold, and the rhythm of life had stilled. Her closed eyes would see no more.
Both of the humans were thin and muscular, with pale blond hair and darker skin than most humans, suggesting there had been a drow somewhere among their ancestors. The older of the two men inclined his head to Halisstra. It was as much of a bow as he could manage while still holding on to the cloak that sagged with the priestess’s weight. When Halisstra nodded back in acknowledgement, the two men gently eased their burden to the snowy ground.
“We two are from Velarsburg,” the older man said. “I am the lumberman Rollim, and this is my son Baeford. We were cutting timber near the Howling Hills when we heard a woman calling for help. We followed the voice—some ways through the woods, from which I figure it must have been a magical sending—and found this Dark Lady outside a cave. She looked near death—she was breathing shallow, and fast. She couldn’t speak, but she could still sign. She said she’d been attacked in the Realms Below and needed to get back to the temple.”
Halisstra contemplated the dead priestess. She was a stranger, but Halisstra could guess her mission by the tiny swords that hung from the ring on her belt. She was one of the priestesses who traveled as missionaries into the Underdark, carrying the faith of Eilistraee to the drow who dwelled below. The tiny swords would have been handed out to the faithful, to serve as “keys” that would ensure them safe passage to the temple.
“Did she tell you what attacked her?” Halisstra asked.
Rollim frowned and replied, “Not ‘what,’ Lady, but who. When she was telling her story, she used the sign for ‘she.’ The sign that means ‘drow female.’ ”
Halisstra winced.
“Did you see any sign of this other drow?” she asked.
“None,” Rollim said. “There was only the Dark Lady’s footprints—and we didn’t dare go into the cave. The other must still be below.”
“Stabbed in the back,” Halisstra muttered, staring down at the priestess. “How typical.”
Behind the two men—both had their backs to the spot where Ryld was hidden—she saw dark hands briefly flash: Or else abandoned to fight alone.
Even though Ryld’s face was no more than a shadow under the hood of his piwafwi, Halisstra could see he was scowling.
“Not stabbed,” Baeford interjected. “There wasn’t a mark on her.” He glanced apprehensively down at the body of the priestess. “It must have been magic that killed her.”
Rollim ran a heavily callused hand through his hair, which was damp with sweat and dotted with sawdust. “A normal injury, we might have been able to do something about—we could have splinted a broken bone or stanched the bleeding of an axe cut. But this—” he shuddered—“She died as we were lifting her onto the cloak.”
Halisstra nodded. “You did well to bring her here,” she told them. “I’m sure the priestesses will reward—”
“They already have,” Rollim said. He raised his right hand, palm up, toward the sky in a reverential gesture, then let it drop to his side. “If it wasn’t for the Dark Ladies, Baeford wouldn’t be alive today. He had the pox soon after his birth and nearly died, but Eilistraee healed him.” He glanced at the dead priestess, and his expression grew grim. “I only wish we’d been able to repay that kindness.”
Baeford—whose face did have pock marks—shuffled his feet nervously.
“Lady,” Baeford asked, “shall we carry her to the sacred circle?”
He looked as though the last thing he wanted to do was pick up the body again.
“No,” she answered. “I’ll take her. You may go.”
“You’ll carry her alone?” Rollim asked, eyebrow raised.
He bowed hurriedly when he saw Halisstra’s frown. She still didn’t appreciate a male questioning her authority.
“As you wish,” Rollim quickly said. Then, to his son, “Come, Baeford. We’ve done all we can.”
As they left, Ryld slid silently out of the branches.
Should I follow them? he signed.
Halisstra shook her head.
“No. There’s something amiss here, but though the younger one could sense it, he doesn’t know what it is. Whatever it
is, they weren’t the cause of it.”
She knelt beside the body and studied it, shifting it slightly to observe the woman’s back. As Baeford had said, there were no obvious signs of injury. The priestess’s skin was unbroken, and her tunic and boots showed only normal travel wear. Just as all of Eilistraee’s priestesses did—especially when venturing into the Underdark—she wore a chain mail shirt. Its links were undamaged, and her sword was still in its scabbard.
On an impulse, Halisstra grasped the hilt and tugged. The sword slid out of its scabbard easily, its blade keen and bright—had it been used, it might have been sticky with blood. As Halisstra reached once again over the dead woman to resheath the weapon, her face came close to that of the priestess. Detecting a faint but acrid odor, she bent closer and sniffed. The smell was a distinctive blend of the sulfuric fires of the Abyss combined with rotten spiderweb.
Halisstra swore softly, “Eilistraee protect us.”
“What is it?” Ryld asked, tense.
“She was killed by a yochlol,” Halisstra said. “I can smell its stink on her skin and hair.”
Silver flashed as Ryld drew his greatsword. He assumed a ready position, eyes darting around the forest.
“Do you think it followed her?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I doubt it.”
As she spoke, Halisstra pried open the dead woman’s mouth. The priestess’s jaw opened easily. She had not been dead long. As Halisstra had suspected, the smell was stronger when the woman’s mouth was open. The yochlol must have assumed gaseous form and flowed into the priestess’s lungs, choking her and rendering her unable to retaliate with either sword or spell. Which meant that the yochlol had gotten close to her—close enough to take her completely by surprise. It had done so either by using a spell to dominate her, or by the simple subterfuge of assuming one of its most innocent-looking forms, that of a female drow.
A “drow” who had, Halisstra guessed, pretended to be a petitioner seeking to join in Eilistraee’s worship. The yochlol must have toyed with the priestess, secretly gloating at what was to come while accompanying her to the cavern that led out onto the World Above. Then it struck.
“This was no random attack,” Halisstra concluded. “The yochlol chose its victim deliberately.”
“Do you think the demon was summoned?” Ryld asked, his brow creased in a worried frown. “If it was . . .”
The warrior didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to. Halisstra knew full well what was on his mind. The yochlol were demonic creatures that served the Queen of the Demonweb Pits. The handmaidens of Lolth could only appear on the prime material plane if summoned by her priestesses. It was possible, however, that one had already been on the prime when Lolth fell silent and had subsequently broken free of its mistresses.
It was also possible that Lolth had returned from wherever she’d gone to, and that her priestesses were once again able to use their spells.
“Uluyara will want to know about this,” Halisstra said. She moved to one end of the cloak on which the priestess lay, and grasped its two corners. “Let’s get the body to the temple—at once.”
chapter
twenty three
Sculling to keep herself just beneath the surface of the lake, Quenthel waited until the spell that allowed her to breathe water ended. When her lungs began to feel tight and hot, she exhaled the last of the lake water from them and let her head break the surface. Then, treading water and coughing slightly, she touched the brooch on her chest. She rose smoothly into the spray-filled air beside the waterfall, at last drawing level with the tunnel.
Jeggred was sitting just inside it brooding, staring out across the lake. When he saw her his eyes widened. Letting out a howl of delight, he leaped to his feet, cracking his head against the low ceiling and splitting his scalp. Oblivious to the blood that flowed freely through his thick white hair, he broke into gulping laughter.
“Mistress!” he barked.
Quenthel landed lightly on the ledge beside him. Crouching low, she scrambled into the tunnel. Jeggred leaped forward, his massive fighting arms wide as if he were actually about to embrace her, of all things. Quenthel’s stern look—and the twitching of her vipers—warned him off, and instead he groveled at her feet. Not daring to touch her, he kissed the cold stone in front of her feet, whimpering softly.
Quenthel half-hoped Jeggred would ask how she’d managed to escape the aboleth. She would have relished relating how clever she’d been. But, being a draegloth, he was far too literalminded for that. His mistress had been eaten, but now she was alive again. That much was enough. That—and the comfort of having someone to give him commands again.
Curling her fingers like a spider’s legs, she touched them momentarily to his shoulder and watched his mane ripple as he writhed with pleasure. Then she turned to more pressing matters.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
Jeggred pointed behind him, back down the tunnel, and said, “In another cavern. That way.”
Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, Quenthel set off in the direction indicated. Jeggred trailed behind her, ducking his head subserviently and silently pointing each time she glanced at him for directions. After a while, the ceiling became higher, and they were able to walk upright. They were going back the way they had come, still following the river. Up ahead Quenthel could hear voices, one male, the other recognizable as Danifae’s by the audible pout of the words. Quenthel remembered a larger cavern, just ahead. By the echo of their voices she guessed they were probably standing inside it, talking.
“Why were you alone?” Quenthel asked Jeggred. “Did the others leave you behind after Pharaun failed to return?”
When Jeggred didn’t answer immediately, she glanced back at him. The draegloth had a confused frown on his face.
“The wizard did return,” he answered.
Quenthel ground her teeth, irritated, and felt her whipvipers writhing against her hip. Sometimes her nephew could be so thick-headed.
“I know he came back the first time he went to speak to Oothoon,” she said. “I was talking about the second time he—”
Hearing a third voice—one she recognized—Quenthel stopped so abruptly that Jeggred bumped into her from behind. So surprised was she by the sound of the voice, she didn’t even think to draw her whip and lash the draegloth for this transgression. Instead she swore softly under her breath—a curse that would have invoked the wrath of Lolth, had the goddess been able to hear it—then she rushed forward, scrambling up the incline that led away from the river tunnel, toward the cavern from which the voices came.
The entrance to the cavern was a narrow one, and Quenthel had to squeeze past a mushroom-shaped stalagmite to get inside. Through the opening she saw Valas and Danifae sitting on a natural shelf of rock, sharing a bricklike loaf of pressed fungus. A moment later she saw the third speaker, standing a little apart from them and holding a small spherical object in front of one eye as he chanted the words to a spell.
Quenthel’s ears hadn’t lied. It was Pharaun, alive, whole, and without a single aboleth tooth mark anywhere on him.
“Ah, Mistress,” the Master of Sorcere said, stopping in midincantation and lowering the glass sphere. “I was just casting a spell to help me look for you.”
Quenthel stood frozen in the cavern entrance, mouth hanging open. Even her serpents had stopped their usual writhing and were rigid with surprise, eyes staring, unblinking. Then, as Valas and Danifae looked up—and gaped back at her—Quenthel realized how foolish she must have looked.
Pharaun tucked the sphere inside a pocket of his piwafwi.
“You’re wondering why I’m still alive,” he said, addressing the question she hadn’t dared to ask. “The answer is simple: a contingency spell that I prepared before visiting Zanhoriloch. I was expecting something like that little surprise you gave the aboleth matriarch, though I’m surprised you were willing to part with one of your beads of force. Still, it served its purpose
, I suppose.”
“What contingency spell?” Quenthel asked, still not understanding.
Valas, having quickly recovered from the shock of seeing Quenthel alive, bit off a chunk of fungus loaf and chewed. Danifae sprang to her feet and clambered down the shelf of rock toward Quenthel, exclaiming her relief and joy at the fact that her mistress was alive. Quenthel stared at Pharaun, ignoring both the lesser priestess—who was kneeling before her in a bow—and Jeggred, who was crowding close behind her to stare over her shoulder.
“You see?” Jeggred grunted, his foul breath hot in her ear. “He came back.”
“Before teleporting to Zanhoriloch I cast a number of spells,” Pharaun explained at last. “One of them was a contingency that would teleport me back to these tunnels if certain events occurred. I made the condition simple, and specific. The spell was triggered the moment an aboleth—Oothoon, as it turned out—tried to eat me.”
Oothoon ate him? K’Sothra asked.
Be silent! Yngoth shot back. Then, to Quenthel, the viper said, Tell him you knew this would happen—that you were counting on his resourcefulness.
Quenthel smiled and said, “I expected no less of you, Master Pharaun. You are truly resourceful.”
Pharaun returned the smile with eyes just as cold as Quenthel’s. The looks they exchanged made it clear that knives had been drawn—and would be plunged home when the time was right.
“Thank you,” Pharaun said, acknowledging her false compliment. “You are wiser . . . Mistress . . . than I thought. How clever of you to escape the aboleth. Your ‘death’ was in fact a ruse of the highest order. You have the very mind of a demon, when it comes to trickery, and I commend you for it. No doubt you managed to get the location of the ship out of Oothoon, in return for my life?”
Quenthel frowned. Had the mage deliberately hissed when using her title? It was almost as if he suspected the idea had come from her serpents all along. Which it only partially had. The vipers had made a few suggestions, it was true, but it had been Quenthel who had pulled everything together, who had seen the pattern those suggestions wove.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 21
