Storm of the Dead зкp-2

by Lisa Smedman

  As Klizik told him the price, Miverra frowned. "You own slaves?"

  Q'arlynd winked at her. "Only for as long as it takes to teleport outside the city and set them free," he whispered back.

  Her expression immediately softened.

  The price Klizik had just quoted was inflated, but Q'arlynd didn't bother haggling. He fished coins out of his pouch, handed them over, and took the goblin.

  "How many have you freed?" Miverra whispered.

  "I couldn't begin to count them," Q'arlynd said breezily. She showed no signs of faerie fire, so it was probably safe to lie. "Why, only yesterday, I purchased two grimlocks."

  "You teleported them outside the city?"

  "Of course. Otherwise they'd be recaptured."

  "Far from the city?"

  There was a purpose behind her question, but Q'arlynd couldn't discern it. "Far enough." He tucked the clearstone under his arm and turned toward the door. "Let's go somewhere a little less public, shall we?" he suggested. "Somewhere we can… talk."

  He noted the shiver of anticipation that passed through her and the slight dilation of her pupils. The priestess was pathetically easy to read.

  Rather boring, really. He just hoped whatever information he gleaned would be worth it.

  As they neared the door, Q'arlynd touched Miverra's arm, slowing her. "There's a wizard outside who's spying on you."

  Miverra nodded. "I noticed him earlier. White robes-a necromancer."

  Q'arlynd's opinion of her went up a notch. Miverra wasn't quite as naive as she seemed.

  "Should I be concerned? Is he a threat?"

  "Personally, I wouldn't want Master Tsabrak taking an interest in me."

  "Why not?"

  Q'arlynd lowered his voice, as if revealing a confidence. In fact, Master Tsabrak's predilection was an open secret among the higher-ranking wizards of Sshamath's other colleges. Even Eldrinn had heard of it. "He's a vampire."

  Miverra's eyes widened slightly. She really was too easy to read.

  "Will it cause problems for you to be seen with me?" she asked.

  Q'arlynd shrugged, then gave her a coy smile. "Even if it does, I'm sure it will be worth it."

  She nodded. "Then play along with me. When we step outside, pretend to say goodbye. Be sure to bow."

  They exited the slave house, and Q'arlynd did as instructed. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady," he said, bowing. "May your stay in Sshamath be a pleasant one."

  Miverra echoed his farewell and bowed, one hand briefly touching her chest-and her holy symbol. Then she straightened and strode away. The necromancer hesitated, glanced between Q'arlynd and the departing Miverra, and followed her into the crowd.

  A moment later, Miverra's body shimmered back into view beside Q'arlynd. None of the people streaming by took any notice; they were used to wizards teleporting back and forth across the city.

  "Well played," Q'arlynd said, "but I thought Eilistraee's faithful preferred a more direct approach when dealing with threats."

  Miverra shrugged. Her eyes were almost level with his; she wasn't much taller than he was. "Things have changed. The goddess offers us a wider range of choices now."

  "Let's leave before the necromancer realizes he's been tricked and comes back."

  They moved deeper into the labyrinthine streets of the Dark Weavings bazaar, winding their way through the crowds that thronged it. As they walked, Miverra sang a song under her breath. She lightly touched first her own lips and ears then Q'arlynd's. As she did, the noise of the street suddenly fell away. Yet when she spoke he heard every word she said.

  "Tell me about the other Masters of the Conclave. Is there anyone else I should be wary of?"

  Q'arlynd laughed. "Just approach them as you would a council of matron mothers." At her puzzled look, he added, "With the utmost deference-and the utmost caution."

  She nodded.

  As they passed a building that sparkled with lavender faerie fire, Q'arlynd noticed Miverra's eyes following the light as it swirled up and down the hollowed-out columns. She probably didn't see many buildings like that on the surface.

  "Let me offer these cautions, which may prove useful when you at last get to appear before the Conclave," Q'arlynd continued. "The College of Enchantment is in charge of Sshamath's slave market, so dealing with Master Malaggar may prove… problematic for you. And Master Felyndiira is as slippery as an oiled lizard; with an illusionist, you can't ever really trust what you're hearing or seeing. Master Urlryn is said to have poisoned his way to the top, while Master Masoj is said to prefer entombing his rivals deep in the earth. That is, supposedly, how he assumed his position at the College of Abjuration." He paused, as if thinking. "Of the ten masters who make up the Conclave, there's only one I'd recommend you trust: Seldszar Elpragh."

  "Master of the College of Divination." She glanced pointedly at his amulet. "The college to which you belong, coincidentally enough."

  "That's true. But I'm only trying to be helpful. You and I do, after all, share the same faith."

  They passed a fungusmonger's stand, and the merchant held up an orange sporeball and cut a sliver from it, imploring them to take a bite. Miverra ignored him. Her attention, Q'arlynd saw, was focused on a bridge that spanned two buildings up ahead. A bridge that, like the column she'd just admired, sparkled with faerie fire.

  Her expression was anything but one of admiration. In fact, she looked deeply troubled.

  He suddenly realized a possible reason for her visit. "The faerie fire-is it affecting your priestesses too?"

  She hesitated, not answering.

  "Is that why you came to Sshamath? To learn what's causing the problem? Why… that's the very thing our college's sages have been studying."

  She spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. "Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to the master of your college, instead of appearing before the Conclave as a whole."

  "I'm sure Master Seldszar will want to speak to you," Q'arlynd told her. "In fact, I think I can convince him to hear you this very 'day'" He lifted a hand. "Shall I teleport us to the College of Divination at once?"

  Miverra touched his arm and moved in close. "Isn't there something you're forgetting?"

  "What's that?"

  She nodded at the clearstone in his hands. "The goblin. Shouldn't you set it free first?"

  Q'arlynd almost laughed. He'd forgotten about the slave entirely. "Of course. Wait here; I'll only be a moment."

  He intended to teleport to the slave house, return the goblin, and ask for credit toward the purchase of the chitine. But as he glanced down at the goblin it reminded him-just for a moment-of someone. A svirfneblin he'd once owned. The goblin stared up at him with dull eyes, its naked body a mass of bruises. No doubt some child had played with the clearstone, shaking it to see what would happen to its contents.

  Flinderspeld had looked just as bad, the day Q'arlynd had seen him standing on the auction block.

  Q'arlynd sighed, then teleported to a cavern well beyond the city. It took him two tries-his maudlin mood must have interfered with his concentration-but when it eventually worked he was precisely on target.

  He laid the clearstone on the cavern floor, dispelled its magic, and stepped back as it shattered. The goblin instantly assumed its full size. It staggered to its feet and stared at him, lips pulled back in a grimace that revealed a mouth of jagged teeth. If Q'arlynd got too close, the creature would no doubt bite him. Goblins were that stupid; they didn't understand what wizards could do to them.

  "Go on," he told it, making shooing motions. "Run along now. You're free."

  The goblin's head puckered in a frown that pulled its ears closer to its beady eyes. "Free?" it squeaked.

  "Yes, free," Q'arlynd repeated, already regretting this. He flicked a finger and spoke a one-word spell that hurled a pebble at the creature. "Go!"

  The goblin cringed.

  Muttering at its stupidity, Q'arlynd teleported back to the city.

  After he was gone, faerie
fire puddled on the floor where he'd been standing, bathing the cavern in a pale violet light.

  The goblin sniffed at the glow. Then it scurried away.

  CHAPTER 4

  Cavatina touched her fingers and thumbs together to form Eilistraee's sacred moon, and bowed. "Lady Qilue. You sent for me?"

  "Cavatina. My thanks. For coming so quickly." The high priestess levitated near the ceiling of the Hall of Swords, a large chamber in the Promenade where the Protectors of the Song honed their skills. She was naked, her ankle-length silver hair whirling like a wind-blown skirt around her as she spun in place. Motes of moonfire filled the air around her, shining with the many colors of the changing moon: blue-white, dusky yellow-orange, and harvest red reflected by the curved blade of the sword she danced with. The Crescent Blade.

  Cavatina felt a pang of longing for the weapon. Her right hand clenched as she remembered its perfect heft, and how its leather-wrapped hilt had warmed in her palm.

  "I have a mission for you. One that will require… your renown." The high priestess continued to dance as she spoke, her breathing rapid. Yet her voice betrayed no hint of weariness. Qilue' had been performing the dance of attunement without pause for nine days and nine nights, according to the priestess who had greeted Cavatina upon her arrival at the Promenade. Yet the silver fire that flowed within her sustained her body. Aside from a sheen of sweat, the high priestess looked as strong as if she had only just begun her dance.

  Qilue spun with the sword balanced atop her head, the midpoint of the blade lying flat against her silver tresses. A toss of her head sent it spinning into the air. She "caught" it on one arm, spun the weapon in a fast blur around her arm from wrist to elbow, then flicked it to her other arm and repeated the motion. A thrust of that arm sent it spinning into the air; it sailed toward the ceiling, slowed, then fell.

  Cavatina gasped as the weapon whistled down, point first, at Qilue's upturned face. The high priestess twisted aside at the last moment and caught the hilt between her bare feet. A kick transferred the sword back into her hand.

  "I am assembling a force," Qilue said as she shadow fenced with the weapon, "and sending it north. You will lead it. Six Protectors…"

  The sword flashed in a high arc. Qilue caught it, point-first, between finger and thumb, and flipped the hilt into her hand.

  "… and six Nightshadows."

  Cavatina's nostrils flared. "Nightshadows," she muttered.

  "Do not denigrate them," Qilue admonished. "They are weapons. Finely honed. Eilistraee has embraced them. So must you."

  Cavatina lowered her eyes. "My apologies, Lady Qilue."

  She hadn't intended her comment to be heard. She knew she was being honored. The mission must be an important one if Protectors were being sent. The singing swords they carried left the temple only in times of dire need. Like the time, nearly two years ago, when Cavatina had been sent into the Demonweb Pits to recover the Crescent Blade, armed with the singing sword that now hung at her hip.

  "Our objective?" she asked.

  "The time has come." Qilue set the Crescent Blade spinning around her wrist. "To take on a foe. One that is equal. To Selvetarm." She stared down at Cavatina through the blur of the whirling blade. "Kiaransalee."

  Cavatina drew in a sharp breath. Excitement flooded her body, making her giddy. "Am I to slay the Goddess of Death?"

  "No. Throwing down her temple…" Qilue transferred the whirring blade to her other wrist. "… should be sufficient."

  "Her temple," Cavatina echoed, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  Qilue tossed the Crescent Blade into the air. "Surrounded by an army of undead. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands."

  Cavatina's eyes widened as she realized what the destination must be. "The Acropolis?"

  "Yes."

  "Why such a small force? Six Protectors is hardly enough to-"

  "And six Nightshadows. An even dozen. Of our best."

  Cavatina took a deep breath. "That's small, for a crusade."

  "Not a crusade." Qilue caught the sword, held it above her in both hands, and spun from it as if dangling from a twisting rope. "An assassination. Hence…" She spun faster, until the curved blade described a blurred oval in the air. "… the Nightshadows."

  "An assassination?" The word felt as wrong in Cavatina's mouth as a lump of sickstone. It suggested poison, a garrote around the throat. She preferred to meet her foes honorably. Face to face, with blade in hand.

  "Think of it as a hunt," Qilue said. She slapped one arm to her side and halted, letting the Crescent Blade spiral down her upraised arm. "You are to kill the head priestess. Cut off the head," she said, as the weapon whirled past her face, "… and the temple will fall."

  The weapon spun around her neck. Her hand slapped against the hilt, jerking the sword to a halt. The edge of the curved blade rested against her throat, unsettlingly reminiscent of a scythe poised against a stalk of wheat.

  Even more disturbing was the thin line of blood that trickled down Qilue's wrist.

  That shouldn't have happened.

  Cavatina knew that first-hand; her mother had been a sword dancer. Jetel Xarann had prided herself on never-not once-being cut by the blades she danced with. Qilue was far more skilled, the high priestess of her faith. Yet she seemed not to have noticed an error that could have cost her a hand.

  Now that the Crescent Blade had been stilled, Cavatina could see the spot where its two halves had been fused together again, and the silvered inscription that was interrupted at that place: "Be your heart filled with light and your cause be true, I shall n- fail you."

  The Crescent Blade nearly had failed Cavatina. Only with Halisstra's help had she been able to prevail against Selvetarm. Now she wondered: when the time came for Qilue to wield it against Lolth, who would come to her aid?

  "… depart two nights from now, when the moon rises." Qilue was saying. "Our new battlemistress will tell you everything you need to know."

  Cavatina was startled to realize that the high priestess had dismissed her. Qilue continued to dance, her eyes staring into the distance and her head cocked slightly, as though she were listening to a faint voice: the sword, whispering to her. Cavatina yearned to hear it too.

  Qilue glanced sharply down at Cavatina. "Is something wrong?"

  "Nothing," Cavatina said quickly. "Two nights from now, at moonrise. I'll be ready."

  *****

  Master Seldszar sat cross-legged on a raised stone platform, cushioned by his meditation mat. At least two dozen crystal spheres no larger than pebbles orbited his head. Most were clear and contained a miniaturized image of a person or place the Master of Divination monitored, but one, Q'arlynd knew, could detect falsehoods spoken in the master's presence.

  Even though Master Seldszar listened to Miverra speak, his glance kept drifting back to the crystals. Pale green faerie fire burst from his forehead and drifted toward them, fading just before it touched the spheres.

  The master's eyes were pale yellow; rumor had it he'd had them replaced, decades ago, with the eyes of an eagle. His hair, too, tended toward yellow. It matched his piwafwi, which was embroidered, in black, with numerous eyes: the symbol of his college. The garment was magical, and the direction in which each embroidered eye seemed to be looking constantly shifted.

  Q'arlynd stood to one side of the master's platform. Miverra was in front of it, her eyes barely level with its top. If she was intimidated by the master, she showed no sign.

  "I understand, Master Seldszar, that the spellcasters of Sshamath are experiencing a strange manifestation whenever they attempt a divination spell. Our priestesses have also noticed peculiar things, whenever they sing a hymn of divination."

  "Faerie fire," Q'arlynd added. "Just like our wizards. You see why I thought you should hear what Lady Miverra had to say."

  Miverra turned to him. "Not quite, Q'arlynd. The faerie fire effect seems to be peculiar to Sshamath."

  Q'arlynd fought to hide his startle. "
But you said-"

  "I did not." Her lips quirked slightly. "You made that assumption. But what I have to impart here today is equally worthy of Master Seldszar's time."

  Master Seldszar shot a glance at Q'arlynd, then returned his attention to the spheres. "Go on," he told the priestess.

  "Something is heightening the Faerzress that surround the vast majority of our Underdark communities. In areas adjacent to a Faerzress, it's become increasingly difficult to perform any acts of divination over the past little while, as well as to-"

  "Teleport?" Q'arlynd interjected, suddenly realizing what her earlier question about setting the grimlocks free had really been about.

  "Yes. But strangely enough, only for drow. All other races seem unaffected. The Faerzress still hamper them, but only to the degree that they always have."

  "By 'drow,' you include half-drow?" Master Seldszar asked.

  Q'arlynd nodded to himself; Seldszar was obviously thinking of his son.

  "Half-drow, as well."

  "You said 'over the past little while,' " Master Seldszar observed. "I take it this has been going on elsewhere for some time?"

  "The first reports of the effect came in from far to the northeast a tenday ago, just after High Harvestide," Miverra said. "From the region south of the Moonsea, where our priestesses have labored, these past few years, to bring the survivors from Maerimydra up into the light."

  Q'arlynd recognized the name. Maermydra was a drow city that, like Ched Nasad, had been invaded and destroyed during Lolth's Silence. He'd heard that what little of it remained was home to hordes of undead. Even fewer had survived there than in Ched Nasad.

  Master Seldszar's arms were crossed, and the hand that was hidden under the sleeve of his piwafwi flicked a question at Q'arlynd: Moonsea? Surface?

  Q'arlynd turned to Miverra. "Forgive my ignorance, Lady Miverra, but is the Moonsea part of the Surface Realms?"

  She nodded. "It lies directly above the Moondeep Sea, its Underdark counterpart in the Deep Wastes."