Jeggred sighed so heavily Pharaun could smell his rancid breath. The draegloth moved toward Raashub.
“Hold, Jeggred,” Quenthel ordered.
The draegloth hesitated before doing so, but he did stop.
“Raashub still serves a purpose,” the high priestess said as she began to assess her injuries.
Jeggred turned to look at her, but she ignored him.
“Who told you that?” the draegloth asked in a low growl. “The dandy?”—he nodded at Pharaun—“or the snakes?”
Quenthel ignored the question, but Pharaun thought long and hard about it.
It took Danifae somewhat longer than she’d intended to remember Zinnirit’s favorite command words and determine which of them powered which of the rings. Then she turned her attention to studying the finer points of the portals she had “inherited” from the late Yauntyrr House mage. Not only had she lost all track of time as she studied Zinnirit’s collection of scrolls and tomes on the subject, made a few exploratory scans through open portals, and ignored a summons from Valas, but she had exhausted the limits of her own familiarity with the arcane Art. Danifae was no wizard, but fortunately she didn’t have to be to use many of the features of Zinnirit’s gatehouse.
The gates were used primarily for transportation—whisking someone or something hundreds, even thousands of miles in the blink of an eye—but they could also be used to find someone. Though the strong psychic link that the Binding had provided was gone, Danifae still had some connection to her former mistress. She knew Halisstra better than anyone ever had, even ranking members of House Melarn. Halisstra’s sister had tried to kill her, and her mother had always been the model of the aloof, controlling matron mother. Danifae, though always seething with hate, had served Halisstra loyally and well every minute of every day.
Ultimately all Danifae really had to do was remember her. All she had to do was imagine what Halisstra looked like, visualize her, and activate one of the portals in precisely the right way. At least, she thought that was all she needed to do.
After several false starts and failed attempts, Danifae stepped away from the gate and began pacing. As she did she fiddled with a ring on her finger, then another ring on her other hand.
She stopped and looked at her hands. Danifae had taken three rings from the dead wizard. Two of them were tucked safely in a pocket. She wore the ring that Zinnirit had created for her mother, the one that would bring her back to the gatehouse from anywhere, but she wore another ring as well—one she’d almost forgotten about. It belonged to Ryld Argith, the Menzoberranyr weapons master who, like Danifae’s former mistress, had abandoned the expedition.
They had been spending some time with each other, Ryld and Halisstra. Even in the cave where Pharaun had summoned the demon Belshazu, Danifae had suspected that Ryld was sneaking off to join Halisstra. If he had, she could use his ring as a focus.
It was only after several more false starts that Danifae finally found her mistress. The former battle-captive had been, like the Menzoberranyr, under the impression that Halisstra had gone to the City of Spiders to report on their progress (or lack thereof ), and much of Danifae’s time had been spent searching for her there. Hours later, Danifae realized that Halisstra wasn’t even in the Underdark but in the bizarre landscape of the World Above.
Danifae had suspected that Halisstra was in the process of turning entirely from the worship of Lolth. They had all seen her reaction to the chaotic, empty Demonweb Pits.
Even having seen that ruined plane herself, though, Danifae had been a priestess of Lolth when she was free and living in Eryndlyn, and she had served the goddess more faithfully and more sincerely than she served House Melarn ever since, so her faith remained strong. Guarded, perhaps, more curious, but strong. Danifae wouldn’t presume to question the goddess’s will, and Halisstra’s commitment to the Spider Queen was none of Danifae’s concern. Danifae could easily enough set aside her religion if necessary, but she would never set aside her vengeance. Halisstra Melarn had to die, and not on Lolth’s behalf. For Danifae it was a simple imperative.
As certain as she could be that the portal was properly tuned to the place on the World Above where Halisstra and Ryld were, Danifae stepped through. She felt as if she were being turned upside down and inside out at the same time, though there was no pain—only a dull, throbbing vertigo—then she was there.
It was night, and Danifae thanked Lolth for that. Her eyes still had to adjust to the bright glare of the starlight against the white snow, but she wasn’t totally blinded. She had appeared, apparently silently and without the sort of fanfare—flashing lights and thunderclaps—that often accompanied arcane magic, in front of a ruined building. The structure was overgrown with vegetation. No light or fire glowed from inside.
Danifae drew her piwafwi close around her shoulders against the biting cold in the air. She stepped as quietly as she could to the entrance. Her eyes adjusted little by little, and by the time Danifae reached the ruin, she could see fairly well. Inside, Halisstra sat back to back with Ryld. The two of them were deep in Reverie and in a position that told Danifae everything she needed to know about their relationship.
The former battle-captive felt a growing respect for Halisstra, as well as a growing contempt. Halisstra had managed to outwit Quenthel and the others, seduce the steadfast weapons master—admirable, even for someone schooled her entire life in manipulation and deceit—and had set up a sweet little household for them in the freezing, animal-infested forest—a bizarre and unseemly act of betrayal against her essential nature as a dark elf.
Danifae took a deep breath and let it out in a thin, reedy whistle. Halisstra came out of Reverie without a blink and looked at her. The First Daughter of House Melarn had established that sound as their signal years before, and they had both had occasion to use it more than once.
Halisstra let one side of her mouth draw up into half a smile. She indicated Ryld with a slow movement of her eyes, and Danifae shook her head.
Halisstra stood slowly and carefully, making sure not to disturb Ryld.
“Are you all right?” the weapons master whispered, his eyes still closed.
Halisstra replied, also in a whisper, “I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”
Ryld nodded and returned to his meditation as Halisstra slipped out of the ruined structure. Certain that Ryld hadn’t seen her, Danifae led her former mistress a good distance from the ruin, waiting for Halisstra to indicate they’d gone far enough. They stopped and faced each other for the first time as two free drow.
The Binding? Halisstra signed.
Danifae replied, Removed by Quenthel . . . Pharaun, really, but on Quenthel’s orders. We have found a ship of chaos to take us back to the Abyss.
Halisstra visibly withdrew and signed, I can see why you escaped.
I didn’t, really, replied Danifae. I was sent with Master Hune to gather supplies for our doomed little voyage.
How long before they leave? Halisstra asked.
Days still, answered Danifae.
Why are you telling me this? Halisstra asked. You’re free now. Go back to Eryndlyn if you dare, or go on with the Menzoberranyr until you all inevitably die. Do as you wish, but you no longer need seek my permission.
I served you, Danifae replied, and now I serve Quenthel. I’m not as free as you might think, Binding or no Binding.
There was a short silence as the two of them studied each other in the darkness. Danifae could somehow feel how far Halisstra had strayed from the path of Lolth, but it was confirmed seconds later by Halisstra herself.
I serve Eilistraee now, Danifae. There will be no more slaves for me.
Danifae pretended to consider that last statement for a while. Internally she tried to get her head to stop spinning. The depth of her former mistress’s betrayal was worse than she’d imagined. Danifae couldn’t believe she’d ever allowed herself to be taken captive by so weak a mistress—one who would turn her back on her entire culture at
the slightest provocation, at the first sign of weakness. It was that thought that snapped Danifae out of her confusion. Halisstra must have seen Lolth’s Silence as a sign of weakness and used that opportunity to escape, just as Danifae had seen Halisstra’s doubt as a sign of weakness and used that opportunity to escape herself. But would any priestess seek to escape the service of Lolth?
I like the sound of that, Danifae signed, but we are all slaves sooner or later.
We don’t have to be, Halisstra was quick to reply.
Danifae blinked at how strident, how obvious, and how careless her former mistress had become.
Lolth isn’t coming back, is she? Danifae asked.
I don’t know, replied Halisstra, but it doesn’t look good.
If I die still serving her, Danifae asked, where will my soul go? There were no drow souls in the Demonweb Pits, and no entrance past the sealed doors. Where are all those souls?
Halisstra looked at her former servant with a wounded, open look that made Danifae’s skin crawl.
What, Danifae asked, are your intentions here?
You found me, her former mistress replied. Tell me, what are your intentions? Spying on me for that Baenre bureaucrat?
No, Danifae replied sharply. I sneaked away from Valas in Sschindylryn. It was the only place to find a portal and to find you. I don’t trust the Menzoberranyr.
Why would you? Halisstra replied, eyeing her former servant carefully.
What is the weapons master doing here? asked Danifae.
She could see by Halisstra’s reaction that things between she and the weapons master had gone a considerable distance toward the bizarre. The light and air of the World Above must have affected Halisstra in unpredictable ways. Danifae marveled at how such a thing might be possible.
You sit in Reverie against his back? Danifae asked,
Halisstra drew herself to her full height and tried to recapture the manner of a slaveholder. Danifae was unwilling to play the part of the battle-captive.
Instead of flying into a rage, Halisstra simply relaxed.
Do you sit the same way with Quenthel? Halisstra signed.
Danifae made a convincing show of being uncomfortable with that question. She was intimate with Quenthel not out of some alien emotion like love or compassion but because Quenthel could help her. Quenthel, in turn, used Danifae for physical pleasure and to gain a toady. It was all perfectly natural. Halisstra, however, seemed to have turned a corner with Ryld Argith, and that was something Danifae knew she could exploit.
You said that Quenthel is taking the expedition back to the Abyss, Halisstra signed, changing the subject. Why? Why that way? Why all that?
Danifae could have given her some of the reasons, but some were still not clear to her.
I can explain all, Danifae lied, but I must return to Sschindylryn. Valas will grow suspicious, then he’ll leave without me. I have to go back to the Underdark then back to the Lake of Shadows. I will contact you again.
Halisstra looked her up and down, appraising her.
“I’ll be waiting,” Halisstra whispered in Danifae’s ear.
Danifae nodded, gave Halisstra a slight bow, and did her best to look at the First Daughter of House Melarn with a face full of sisterhood and friendliness.
When Halisstra disappeared into the dark forest, Danifae signed after her, We’ll meet again very soon, Halisstra Melarn. Sooner than you think.
Danifae touched the ring she’d taken from the dying Zinnirit, and a second or two of bizarre sensation later and she was back at the gatehouse.
Perfect, thought Danifae. It worked perfectly.
chapter
eleven
Valas purchased more supplies than he probably should have— three large bags that carried more than would seem possible from their size or weight—but he couldn’t help thinking they’d be gone longer than Pharaun had estimated. Already their journey had lasted longer than any of them had assumed when they’d left Menzoberranzan.
He sat at a small table in an open café high up and in the center of the ziggurat-city, waiting for Danifae. The battle-captive hadn’t been joking, obviously, when she’d told him that she would ignore his summons. Valas wasn’t necessarily anxious to return to the Lake of Shadows, but he did want to leave the city. Dark elves throughout Sschindylryn were looking over their shoulders. Tempers were short, and the lesser races had a dangerous gleam in their eyes. The city wasn’t quite as bad off as Ched Nasad,
but the scout could see it was headed in that direction and sooner rather than later.
“Waiting for me?” Danifae asked.
Valas turned, surprised, to see her standing behind him. He hadn’t noticed her.
“Cities . . .” the scout sighed.
He stood, quickly gathering up his bags.
“Are we really in such a hurry?” Danifae asked as she slid into the chair across the table from him.
She looked up at him with one arm raised and a wide, bright grin on her face. She looked different. Valas couldn’t help but stare.
“In the Surface Realms,” Danifae said, “it’s customary for a gentleman to buy a lady a drink. Well, so I hear.”
Valas shook his head but found it difficult to take his eyes off the female.
The chair he had been sitting in slowly slid toward him. She pushed it with her foot from under the table.
“Order us a bottle of algae wine,” she purred.
Valas turned to order the wine but stopped himself.
“We should get back,” he said. “The others will be waiting for us.”
“Let them wait.”
Valas took a deep breath and shifted the bags onto his shoulders.
“Mistress Quenthel will be displeased,” he said, not caring but wanting to be on his way.
“Let her be displeased,” Danifae shot back, still smiling, but her eyes grew colder. “I feel a bit like taking a holiday.”
“Her House is paying,” the mercenary said, still not sitting down.
Danifae looked at him, and Valas felt his skin crawl. It was as if she was peeling off his flesh with her eyes and looking inside him.
She stood slowly, unfolding herself from the chair piece by piece, and Valas watched every subtle movement that made up the whole. She held out a hand.
“I’ll carry one,” she said.
Valas didn’t move to hand her a bag.
Whatever it was about Danifae that had changed, Valas was trying desperately not to like it.
For the drow, as with other sentient races above and below the surface of Faerûn, each individual had his own set of skills and talents, his own individual use that served the whole in some way, even if only as an irritant. In Menzoberranzan talent was something that was identified early, and skills were a commodity traded on the open market and imparted on the young only with great care and economy. Individuality was accepted only within certain limits and rarely if at all for males of the species.
“He is a lich,” the Master of Sorcere said, “so his touch will paralyze.”
There were a few places where male drow had some advantage, and one of those places was the halls of Sorcere. It was the females who held the power, and when things were as they should be, the ear of Lolth, but it was the males who were attuned to the Weave. Of course, not all wizards were male . . . only the best were, and Gromph Baenre, the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, had more than a little to do with that. It was his responsibility, after all, to identify talent for the Art in young drow from every House in the city, and it was his right to choose those who would go to Sorcere to study. It was his whim that decided whether or not they would ever finish their course of study. The fact that the majority of wizards in Menzoberranzan were male was no coincidence, no accident of birth or statistics, but a carefully and often less than subtly played turn in the great sava game of the City of Spiders. That most females preferred serving Lolth anyway only made that bit of manipulation easier.
“He will radiate an aura
of fear,” the Master of Sorcere continued, “but you probably won’t be affected by that.”
While there was no question that the priestesses had and would always have dominion over the city, his dominion over the Art was simply a small consolation—something that would warm Gromph’s heart in his private moments. With Lolth silent, withdrawn, and the priestesses scrambling for answers, thrown into the sort of chaos only a demon goddess could conjure . . . well, things had changed.
“Once in each twenty-four hour cycle,” said the Master of Sorcere, “he can kill with a touch.”
The strangest thing, for Gromph, about the shift in power was how little he liked it. He had, after all, spent a lifetime manipulating the system to best serve his House and himself. When the system faltered, he might have been in a position to unseat his sister and the rest of the matron mothers and take control of Menzoberranzan himself—but why? What would he hope to gain? How could his position be any better? He enjoyed all the benefits of House Baenre’s position and Sorcere’s, but there was always someone else onto whom he could deflect responsibility, always someone who could be manipulated.
“There are a number of spell effects that will be of no concern to the lich,” said the master. “These include cold, lightning, poison, paralysis, disease, necromancy, polymorph, and spells that affect or influence the mind. Best not even to bother preparing such enchantments.”
Gromph was the third most powerful dark elf in Menzoberranzan, and Lolth be damned, he liked it that way.
“He will likely be wearing a robe of black silk,” the Master of Sorcere continued, “that will allow him to conjure a barrier of whirling blades.”
Well, he might like to be second, but still . . .
“The crown,” the Master of Sorcere finished, “is more than simply a crass affectation. It can store and reflect back offensive spells.”
So it was that Gromph Baenre sat on the floor of a very small, very dark, and very secret room in the deepest heart of Sorcere, surrounded by a circle of mages who were the most powerful in the city—among the most powerful spellcasters in all the Underdark. The other mages, Masters of Sorcere all, whispered or chanted and waved or gesticulated, and tossed into the air or pinched between fingers all manner of tokens, totems, focuses, and components. They showered the archmage with protective magic, doing it at so fast a pace they’d stopped even bothering to tell him what they were casting on him. Gromph had few doubts that by the time they were done, he’d be immune to everything. Surely no one would be able to harm him—no one but a spellcaster of greater power than the Masters.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 45
