The priestesses you accompany rest ill at ease, Aliisza said.
It is a racial trait, he answered, sarcastic as always.
They simply need a little something to tire them out first, she said.
A little something? Pharaun answered, playing at being offended.
Aliisza laughed.
What is the Yor’thae? she asked.
The question gave Pharaun a start, but long practice kept it from his face and his surface thoughts. How did Aliisza know anything of the Yor’thae?
Apparently sensing his agitation, the serpent watching Pharaun uttered a soft hiss. Pharaun pretended not to have heard it and settled more comfortably onto his rock.
How do you know that word? he asked.
She let her mental fingers caress his brain playfully. The Lower Planes resound with it. It’s in the wind, the screams of tortured souls, the rush of boiling water. What is it, dear heart?
Pharaun heard none but the usual guile in her tone so he answered her truthfully: The Yor’thae is Lolth’s Chosen.
Oooh, Aliisza said. Which is it, the pretty one or the big one with the whip?
Pharaun could only shake his head.
Maybe it’s neither, Aliisza said.
To that Pharaun made no comment, though her statement disquieted him. Her words too closely echoed his own recent thoughts. He decided to change the subject.
Where are you? he asked.
I am invisible. Look around and find me, she answered with a mental smile. If you do, you’ll win a prize.
With a simple exercise of his will, Pharaun attuned his vision to see invisible objects and creatures—an effect that he had made permanent to his person. Casually, so as not to alarm the whip serpent whose eyes still glared at him, he looked down the tunnel opposite the one in which Jeggred sat, back the way they had come. There, he saw her.
You win, she said.
Aliisza leaned suggestively against the tunnel wall, back arched, arms back, batlike wings furled so as to reveal her lean body—the sensuous curve of her small breasts, the length of her legs, the turn of her sleek hips. Her long ebony tresses flowed down her back. She was looking at him and smiling. Pharaun found her small fangs more alluring than he cared to admit.
Greetings, lady, he said. I’ll just be a moment.
It is ungentlemanly to make a lady wait, she said, a smile in her voice. You will have to make it up to me.
Again, Aliisza, he answered, one can only hope.
Her giggle managed to sound both girlish and sexually provocative all at once. He found it thrilling. He looked at the serpent that was eyeing him. It flicked its tongue again.
He leaned back on his rock and closed his eyes as though preparing for Reverie. Fortunately, he knew an illusion that required no material component.
Moving only his fingers and whispering under his breath, he cast a sophisticated glamour. The spell affected the entire area in which he reclined. To the serpent, it would appear that Pharaun remained on his rock deep in Reverie, while the real Pharaun could do whatever he wished in the affected area under cover of the illusion.
After completing the spell, he looked at the serpent—Qorra showed no sign of noticing anything amiss—and climbed silently to his feet. The serpent’s gaze remained fixed on the illusion, on the false Pharaun.
Smiling, Pharaun pulled from his pocket a strip of fleece and whispered the words to a spell that rendered him invisible—a necessary precaution, because when he left the affected area of his spell, the illusionary image would no longer screen him. He knew that Aliisza’s demon blood allowed her to see invisible creatures so she would have no problem seeing him.
In his mind, Aliisza giggled again, and the sound sent a charge through him. Strange that the presence of a demon, albeit a beautiful one, brought him such pleasure.
Clever, dearest, she said.
He started quietly down the tunnel toward her, leaving behind him an image of himself reclined on a rock, lost in Reverie.
My, but you look horrid! she said as he drew near.
He knew. He had been through the Shadow Deep, the Abyss, and the Demonweb Pits, all without bathing. He had used cantrips to mitigate his stink and keep his clothes mended, but the minor spells could do only so much.
The journey has been a hard one, he replied. Perhaps you would enjoy an illusory Pharaun more? He jerked his thumb back up the corridor.
No, dearest, she said and stretched languidly, to show her body to best effect. Her green eyes danced over him suggestively. She held out her arms. I’ll take the real thing.
The moment he got within arm’s reach, he took her in his arms. Her wings unfurled and enfolded them, her perfume intoxicated him, and her skin and curves stirred him. He allowed himself a moment of pleasure, greedily ran his hands over the smooth skin of her body, then—with great effort— pushed her to arm’s length.
How did you find us? he asked. Why are you back?
She pouted and her wings fluttered. Such questions, Master Mizzrym! I found you by looking. You are not hard to locate. As for why I’m back . . . Her face grew serious and she looked directly into his eyes. I wanted to say good-bye.
To Pharaun’s surprise, a pit opened in his stomach. Goodbye? He let his fingertip trace a line along her hip.
She looked away for a moment. I fear we will not see each other again, dear heart, and I needed to look on you one last time.
He did not believe a word of that last, though he very much wanted to.
You’ve finished your charge and now return to Vhok’s embrace? Is that it? He was surprised by the bitterness that leaked into his tone. His hands on her body grew less gentle.
She smiled, reached up, and ran a long-nailed finger down his jawline. You are so jealous, my mage. No, I will not return to Kaanyr. I have told him all that I was charged to tell, and now I am done with him. At least for now. I have grown interested in a different kind of man.
Pharaun ignored the implicit compliment. What did you tell him of us? he asked.
Everything, she replied. That was my charge.
Pharaun had expected nothing different, but the answer still pained him distantly.
If you will not return to him and your charge is complete, why would we not see each other again? he asked her. The question betrayed a certain weakness, and he hated himself for asking it, but he could not help himself.
She smiled, and her eyes grew as sad as her demonic blood allowed. Because I do not think you will survive what is coming, she answered.
For a moment, he could think of nothing to say. Her candor surprised him. Finally he managed a smile.
What is coming?
She shook her head and said, I don’t know. But this plane is dangerous and stinks of . . . something.
He dropped his hands from her. You are mistaken, he said.
She looked at him in a way she had not done before. Perhaps I am. I can always hope. But if I am not, may I have something to remember you by? A token of my gallant drow mage?
Pharaun wondered if a token freely given was what Aliisza really was after. He knew what a skilled spellcaster could do with such a prize. A part of him wished it were otherwise, but he had seen through her.
Before that, tell me what is happening in Menzoberranzan, he demanded.
Aliisza frowned, as though the fate of Pharaun’s city was an afterthought. It stands, she replied. Lolth’s power has returned to the priestesses. Kaanyr is in retreat, and the duergar soon will be.
Pharaun felt a surge of relief at the news. Menzoberranzan still stood.
Odd, he thought, that he felt such attachment to a place when he felt no such attachment to any of the persons in it.
Distantly, he wondered if Gromph had survived the siege. If not, “Archmage Pharaun Mizzrym” sounded pleasing. And since House Baenre would be selecting Gromph’s replacement, he had all the more reason to ally himself closely with Quenthel.
A memento? Aliisza prodded. Something small. A lock of
your hair?
Pharaun smiled at her, a hard smile. No, Aliisza. No token. I think I’ll keep all of me to me.
She took his meaning; her brow furrowed in genuine anger.
You misunderstand, she protested. I— She looked over his shoulder and behind him. It seems your absence has been noted. Farewell, beloved.
With that, Aliisza kissed him as though she never would again and vanished, teleporting away without a sound and leaving him staring at the wall. The smell of her perfume and the remembrance of her last word lingered in the air.
Before Pharaun could do anything further, his invisible flesh erupted in purple flames. Faerie fire. A flutter went through his gut.
The stench of rotting meat overwhelmed the last lingering aroma of Aliisza—Jeggred’s breath. Pharaun quickly rehearsed an excuse in his mind, even while he thought through the incantation that would trigger one of his more powerful spells, a spell that required the utterance of only a single word.
Grabbing two fingers’ full of web from the wall, he dispelled his invisibility spell, turned, and found that his nose nearly touched Jeggred’s heaving chest. The draegloth had moved behind him with the silence of an assassin.
“Jegg—”
With breathtaking speed, Jeggred grabbed him by the throat with one of his fighting claws and lifted him from the ground until they were face to face. Pharaun gagged—partially from his proximity to the draegloth’s breath, partially from the clawed hand squeezing his windpipe.
“A spell to cover your absence?” the draegloth asked, nodding back at the chamber where the illusory Pharaun still reclined. Jeggred sniffed the air thoughtfully. “What is it you’re doing down here, mage?” His red eyes narrowed. He extended his arm and slammed Pharaun against the cave wall.
Pharaun’s magical piwafwi and rings prevented the impact from cracking his ribs, prevented even Jeggred’s incredible strength from closing his throat, but only just.
“Release . . . me,” Pharaun demanded.
His anger was rising, partially at Jeggred, partially at the fact that he feared he might have mistaken Aliisza’s motives. Still, he considered it beneath his dignity to flail about, so he remained still.
Jeggred squeezed Pharaun’s throat harder and held his other fighting claw before Pharaun’s face. With his inner, human hands, the draegloth took hold of Pharaun’s arms by the wrists, presumably to prevent him from casting any spell that might require gestures to complete. Pharaun tested their strength for a moment and found them more than a match for his own. Scraps of old meat hung between Jeggred’s yellow fangs.
“She is manipulating you,” Pharaun croaked, and both of them knew he meant Danifae.
“No,” Jeggred said and sneered. “She’s manipulating you. And my aunt.” He spat the last word as though it tasted foul.
“You’re a fool, Jeggred,” Pharaun managed. “And time will show it.”
The draegloth exhaled a cloud of vileness into his face and said, “If so, you will not be alive to see it, because you, wizard, are out of time. This has been long in coming.”
Jeggred looked back up the cavern to see if either Danifae or Quenthel had stirred. Neither had. Pharaun’s illusionary image sat on its rock in blissful Reverie.
To Pharaun’s surprise, the serpents of Quenthel’s whip— all of them—stared silently down the tunnel, watching the confrontation.
Pharaun understood it then. If the serpents were watching the confrontation, then Quenthel was watching it too, at least indirectly. She wanted to see what Pharaun would do when confronted with her nephew. Another test. He was growing tired of tests.
Jeggred, of course, saw nothing other than the opportunity to kill an irritating rival. With an unexplainable illusion of Pharaun sitting in the campsite, the draegloth probably believed that he could concoct any story he wanted about Pharaun’s treachery.
Jeggred leaned in close and his rancid breath made Pharaun wince.
“You see it now, don’t you?” the draegloth asked. “Go ahead and scream. You’ll be dead before they awaken. I’ll explain it as the execution of a traitor and feed on your heart. My aunt will shout, but she’ll dare nothing more.”
Pharaun could not help but smirk. Jeggred truly was a dolt. He had all the subtlety of a warhammer. It surprised Pharaun that the draegloth possessed any drow blood at all, so inept was he at scheming. Of course, having met and killed Belshazu, Pharaun knew that Jeggred’s demon bloodline was something less than spectacular.
“Your death amuses you?” Jeggred whispered, leaning in close.
Pharaun twisted his head to the side so he could more easily speak.
“No, you do.”
With that, he whispered a single word of power, one of the most powerful he knew.
The arcane force in the word hit Jeggred like a titan’s maul. Foul breath blew from the draegloth’s lungs, and he released Pharaun— who managed to keep his feet when he hit the ground—staggered, uttered a spit-fouled stutter, and sank to his knees.
Pharaun knew the word of stunning would leave the draegloth incapacitated for only a short time. He knew too that the spell likely would not ordinarily affect Jeggred at all, but the draegloth’s battle with the chwidencha had left him weakened and vulnerable.
Of course, Jeggred knew no more of that than he did of Quenthel’s tacit permission to Pharaun to teach the oaf a lesson.
With exaggerated dignity, Pharaun smoothed his piwafwi and straightened the stiff collar of his shirt. When he noticed that Jeggred’s claw had torn a slash into the chest of his shirt, his anger burned hotter still.
“Oaf,” he said and cuffed Jeggred in the head. It felt good. He cuffed him twice more.
The draegloth sat on his knees before him, drooling, moaning softly.
Pharaun looked up the tunnel to see ten slitted eyes still watching in silence. He knelt down to look into Jeggred’s slack face.
Pharaun thought of offering the draegloth the excuse he had prepared—I was gathering material components. The illusion was to avoid alarming anyone who might stir in their sleep and find me gone. The invisibility is one of my ordinary precautions when acting alone—but decided against it. Quenthel wanted to test Pharaun and at the same time teach a lesson to Jeggred. Pharaun would push it as far as the high priestess wanted it to go.
He took Jeggred’s slack face in his hand and said, “Remember this moment, demonspawn. This is me doing better than fire, not so? If I desired it, I could drag you to one of these acid pools and dip your head in. Imagine that, dolt. The spell I used to incapacitate you was of middling power. If I wished you dead, I could strip the flesh from your bones in an instant, or stop your heart with a word.” He punched the draegloth in the face again, more angry at himself over Aliisza than at Jeggred. He decided that he would burn out Jeggred’s eyes before killing him. He started to cast—
But the crack of a whip froze him.
“Master Mizzrym!” Quenthel called, her voice sharp.
With effort, Pharaun controlled his anger. He leaned in close to Jeggred’s vile face and said, “Serve your mistress and I’ll serve mine. We’ll see who has the right of it at the end of this. Meanwhile, I’ll place a contingency spell on my person. Perhaps you do not know what ‘contingency’ means? It means that if you put one of your stinking hands on me again—”
“Mage!” Quenthel called again. Pharaun licked his lips, looked back up the tunnel, and slowly stood. Lesson learned, apparently. He wondered if he had passed her test.
Quenthel stood over the illusionary Pharaun, looking down the tunnel at the confrontation between the real mage and Jeggred. Danifae stood behind and beside her.
“Explain yourself,” Quenthel ordered.
Pharaun held up the webs and recited the lie without hesitation: “I was gathering material components, Mistress. I used an illusion of myself to avoid alarming your serpents, lest they disturb your sleep.”
At that, the serpents hissed, and Qorra drifted up near Quenthel’s ear and h
issed something. The high priestess cocked her head and nodded.
Danifae’s hooded gaze went from Quenthel, to the stunned and drooling Jeggred, to Pharaun. Despite her obvious vulnerability at that moment, she showed no fear. The Master of Sorcere wondered if Quenthel would take the opportunity to kill the former battle-captive.
“Not this,” the Baenre priestess said. She passed her hand through the illusion, which vanished, then she pointed the haft of her whip at Jeggred. “Explain that.”
Pharaun looked down on the draegloth, who seemed at last to be recovering from the effects of the word of power. All four of his hands reflexively clenched and unclenched. His moans grew louder, and his drool pooled on the tunnel floor.
“Ah, that,” Pharaun said, and aimed a smile at Danifae. “Without the two of you available to mediate, your nephew and I found ourselves engaged in a . . . doctrinal dispute. I’m afraid the force of my arguments has left him stunned.” He patted the draegloth’s head the way he might a pet lizard. “My apologies, Jeggred. All is forgiven now though, not so? We’ll simply agree to disagree.”
Jeggred managed a growl, and his fighting hands pawed at the hem Pharaun’s piwafwi.
“Yes, well . . . ahem,” Pharaun said, and backed up a step. “There we have it. Friends again.”
He walked back up the tunnel and bowed before Quenthel.
“Forgive me for disturbing your Reverie, Mistress,” he said.
Quenthel stood silent for a moment before saying, “You did not disturb me, Master Mizzrym.”
Hearing those words, Pharaun understood that he had passed her test. He smirked at Danifae and called to mind another spell as he watched Jeggred come back to himself. Just in case.
The effect of the word of power vanished quickly. Jeggred’s breath came hard, and his hands dug furrows into the stone. He climbed to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and fixed his baleful stare on Pharaun.
“I will tear your head from your shoulders!” he roared as he stalked up the tunnel.
“Stop,” Quenthel commanded but to no effect.
It was Danifae’s raised hand and soft word that halted Jeggred’s charge. He stood in the tunnel, staring hate and rage into Pharaun.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 79
