Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  Slowly Fizzri rose to her feet. She allowed her serpent, Ulgatta, to curl around her arm and rest its head against her inner wrist, where her pulse beat an erratic rhythm. Approaching the scout, she laid her hand against his cheek in a gesture as tender as it was threatening. She knew he could see the serpent hovering inches from his chin.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Velzick,” she cooed. “Perhaps you’d like to try again.”

  The scout looked down at Fizzri and said, “It’s possible Zollgarza has been captured by the dwarves of Iltkazar, Mistress.”

  Mother Lolth, forgive. Forgive!

  Outwardly she wore the impassive mask, but Fizzri wailed the prayer in her mind. Her goddess, however, kept silent. Fizzri fought against despair. Zollgarza missing, which meant the Arcane Script Sphere was still in their enemy’s hands as well. Two vital components lost. No! She would not let this happen.

  Ulgatta seemed to sense her distress. Fizzri had given it no command, but the instinct to protect its mistress—instinct fueled by magic—took over, and the serpent’s tongue flicked out, making the barest contact with Velzick’s skin.

  The warrior didn’t flinch, but under her hand, Fizzri felt the muscles rippling in his jaw. The reaction distracted her from her terror. It was exciting to watch the males struggle with their restraint, to hold themselves back from striking at their superiors.

  “I see your thoughts, Velzick,” Fizzri whispered so only the scout and those standing nearest him heard. “As clearly as if I’d used magic to rip them from your mind, I see what you feel, what you want to do to me at this moment. Wouldn’t you like to be able to tell me?” She coaxed Ulgatta closer, so Velzick’s gaze involuntarily followed the serpent’s progress as it rode the back of the mistress mother’s hand. He swallowed but made no reply. “Think of it, Velzick,” she said, arousal stirring in her voice. “If you didn’t have to worry about risking your position in House Loor’Tchaan—if you didn’t have to curry my favor in the hope I might raise you higher than your fellows here … What would you do if you didn’t have those leashes to hold you back?”

  He was trembling, but Velzick let the serpent glide within striking distance of his left eye. At her command, the snake would blind that eye in less than a breath. Fizzri used that thought to soothe herself, to calm the turmoil and uncertainty raging inside her.

  Then, to her surprise, Velzick answered.

  “Do what you will, Mistress,” he said, his normally deep, lilting voice hoarse. “I serve you to the death. I swear this on the knowledge that we are all the children of the Spider Queen.”

  Oh, clever, sly tongue. Fizzri had to give him credit for his nerve.

  Velzick’s response, made with such fervor and dignity in the face of the threat hovering in front of his eyes, could do nothing but honor the mistress mother. Yet Fizzri sensed the message hidden in the male’s words. She could read it in his eyes—our time is coming, his expression said, which only increased her inner struggle.

  Her goddess remained silent to her pleas, but there was more in Fizzri’s thoughts than just Zollgarza’s fate. Were Fizzri and the other priestesses in Guallidurth prepared to bear the consequences of Lolth’s commands? They were the instruments of the Spider Queen’s will, but Lolth called out for magic, and it was the drow males who had answered, their time come at last to prove themselves worthy to their highest mistress and perhaps achieve an equality with the females.

  Once Lolth ascended to become the new Goddess of Magic.

  The vision and command from the goddess had come to drow cities throughout the Underdark. Gather and distill the essences of powerful arcane artifacts and transfer them to Lolth in dozens of sacred rituals conducted by wizards and priestesses working in tandem. The power generated would eventually allow the goddess to fashion the ultimate work of Art: the Demon Weave. When complete, it would replace even the memory of Mystra.

  But at what cost? Surely Lolth would never forsake her favored daughters for arcane practitioners, for males. Let them serve their queen for now. Fizzri stroked Velzick’s cheek and slowly drew her hand away. Let them strengthen Lolth and bring glory to House Loor’Tchaan, but by the goddess, let us never allow them to forget that they are lesser in all other things, subject to the will of their mistresses. She formed the words as a second prayer to Lolth.

  “Keep pressing the attacks on the dwarven outposts and maintain the reconnaissance patrols,” she commanded, raising her voice to address the whole room. “Zollgarza is missing. I want him found. We will assault the city within a tenday.” She ignored the confused murmurs that went through the group of scouts. An attack so soon gave them little time to prepare, but Fizzri didn’t concern herself about that. If Zollgarza was alive, then there was still a chance he would complete his mission and return to her. In that case, a direct attack on the city would not be necessary. But if he’d been captured, then she needed to get him back and retrieve the sphere. That was paramount.

  If he was dead.…

  No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think it. “Leave me,” she said, deliberately turning her back on Velzick while the scouts filed out of the temple. For a breath, she allowed herself to revel in his hatred and loathing for her, but when she was alone, Fizzri went to her private chamber.

  She knelt before the altar, a polished slab of obsidian carved with prayers to Lolth. Fizzri had made most of the engravings herself from the time she was a novice. Two of the carved supplications had been made by other hands—a prayer for protection and a prayer for knowledge made by Fizzri’s first lover—long gone. Since then, the mistress mother had filled the symbols with her own blood, never letting anyone touch the altar, and now, without hesitation, she took up her ceremonial knife and put it to her flesh for another offering.

  Letting the blood flow into the carvings, Fizzri recited the ceremonial words. “Always for you, Mother Lolth. My thoughts will find him. I will know if Zollgarza lives and if his task is yet undone.” On the heels of that prayer, she uttered a spell to link her awareness to Zollgarza.

  Her mind traveled the hidden pathways of the Underdark, passing through ancient stone, stagnant cave waters and tunnels covered with strange, glowing fungi. Some of the creatures that dwelled there marked her passage, the cold-blooded kuo-toa and roving bands of quaggoths, but only as a vague sense of wrongness, of danger passing swiftly over their heads. Then she was gone, her awareness pointed toward Iltkazar.

  Imaginative creature that she was, Fizzri thought she smelled the fire stink of dwarven forges and sweat, the little vermin scurrying around like mice in too-large holes. Zollgarza’s awareness should not be hard to discern among these lesser intelligences. With that hope, she flew freely, spreading her awareness in a wide net.

  She was wholly unprepared for the pain.

  Agony erupted in the mistress mother’s chest. She coughed once, dredging up blood that dripped from her mouth and nose. Dropping to her knees, Fizzri clutched the altar and pressed her cheek against the cool obsidian. Gods, the weight—it was crushing her. She struggled to draw breath as a fire spread from her chest to every nerve in her body. She collapsed in front of the altar, hands clutching her chest as if her heart might burst from it.

  For a long time, she couldn’t move. The pain wracked her, obliterating all thought. She couldn’t pray either until finally, the fire receded. A dull ache lingered in her chest, flaring each time she breathed. How long until it faded?

  The magic that protected Iltkazar was stronger than she’d thought—much stronger. She would not be able to find Zollgarza by that means. For now, she must wait to see if Zollgarza resurfaced. If he didn’t, she would command the army to proceed with the assault on Iltkazar. One way or another, she would get the sphere.

  Fizzri dragged herself back to her knees in front of the altar. She laid her head on the blood-soaked runes and repeated her prayer. “Lolth, I will find him. I will obtain the power you seek. This I swear.”

  The pain dwindled in her chest, an
d Fizzri felt the edge of triumph blocking out the agony. Lolth heard—and approved.

  “Stand behind me,” Garn told Icelin and Ruen.

  They’d crossed a narrow stone bridge that traversed a deep chasm. Drafts of frigid air wafted up from the blackness of the pit. A wide tunnel on the opposite side left room for the four of them to stand abreast.

  Icelin gazed down into the pit. Ruen stood beside her, ready to reach out a hand if she stumbled. She stood too near the edge for his comfort. Why did she always do that? Ruen suppressed an exasperated sigh. Didn’t she see the danger?

  These past few months they’d been traveling along the Sword Coast, Icelin had been oblivious to everything—her life in Waterdeep, her spellscar, and her diminished lifespan. Wrapped up in the sights of Faerûn, she had discarded all the weights that threatened to hold her back. At first, Ruen had taken this as a good sign. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He might have felt better if they’d been able to find the Arcane Script Sphere or at least confirm that it was nearby. Ruen theorized that the artifact would act on Icelin’s magic in a fashion similar to her staff, only far more powerful, focusing and guiding her magical energy and preventing it from raging out of control. If he were right, that stabilizing force would prolong her life and let her use magic safely. It was a slim hope, but it was the best they had. Even so, Icelin hadn’t seemed discouraged. In fact, over the past tenday, she’d stopped showing an interest in Ruen’s theory, and when they’d finally reached the dwarven ruins, she’d seemed much more interested in learning about the remnants of the people who’d once used them. Perhaps it was being among the dead and forgotten. Icelin didn’t need the reminder of her own mortality staring her in the face.

  Ruen looked at his gloved hands. How many times had he wanted to reach out to Icelin to comfort her? He had never been skilled at gestures like that, and his spellscar only made things worse. It was cowardly, he knew, but the thought of touching her, of the piercing reminder that eventually all that warmth and life would be gone from her—he didn’t like to think of it.

  Yet that wasn’t the true reason he refrained from touching her. What woman in her senses would take comfort from his touch when she knew what he could do? Ruen thought bitterly. When he was a boy, his own mother hadn’t wanted to touch him. The first time he ever used his power he’d predicted the death of an old woman in his village. The memory of that icy pain lingered in Ruen’s hands. He’d screamed and pushed her away, told his mother that the old woman was going to die. She’d passed the next day, and after that, most of the villagers thought his touch caused death instead of merely predicting it. He’d stopped letting folk near him after that.

  He didn’t want Icelin looking at him the way the villagers had. No, the best thing he could do for her was find the Arcane Script Sphere. The only thing hampering them now were the dwarves.

  Garn stood in front of the group, but he wasn’t looking at the chasm. He surveyed the bridge, arms out in front of him as if testing the air. Obrin stepped up beside him and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. They both looked solemnly at the bridge, and Obrin murmured something that sounded to Ruen like a prayer. Then he stepped back, caught Ruen watching him, and glared.

  “What is it?” Icelin asked. “Why have we stopped?”

  Garn answered her. “We need to seal this passage to the surface. Don’t worry,” he added when Ruen started to speak, “there are other routes above that are closer to the city. If the king commands it, we’ll bring you back by one of those, but these outlying passages aren’t easily defensible, not anymore.”

  “You’re going to destroy the bridge, aren’t you?” Icelin said. “I sense the magic on it. It’s very old, isn’t it?”

  Garn nodded. He never took his eyes off the structure. “The dwarves who carved it out of the stone are long gone, but there were Blackhorns among them. I can feel them, as if they were standing beside me.” He spit into the chasm. “Glad I am that they aren’t here to see us so … diminished.” Obrin made a sound of displeasure, but Garn ignored him. “Keep back until I’m finished,” he commanded. “The bridge took years to shape, but I’ll bring it down in only a few breaths.”

  Ruen stepped back, Icelin following. Obrin stood with his father as Garn traced a pair of symbols in the air. His hands moved too quickly for Ruen to follow the shapes, and no glowing rune appeared in the wake of his casting. Garn gestured again, and the symbols appeared on the side of the bridge in swirls of fire, burrowing into the stone.

  Standing at his side, Icelin sucked in a breath. “Are you all right?” Ruen asked.

  “I’m fine,” Icelin said softly, but Ruen heard the sadness in her voice. “Something so ancient, beautiful, and yet … my great uncle used to tell me all the tales, of the elves in their deep forests, and the dwarves in stone halls where their kin lived and died for centuries, forging bonds that surpass the understanding of humans. The long-lived races of the world are used to the rise and fall of glory, he said, but when I see this … I don’t know how he can stand it,” Icelin said, watching Garn calmly weave his destructive magic.

  “You can look away,” Ruen said. He was aware of Obrin watching them intently. “You don’t have to watch, if it troubles you.”

  Icelin shook her head. “It would do them both a dishonor,” she murmured. She met Obrin’s watching gaze, but the dwarf flushed and looked away quickly.

  The fiery runes covered the bridge now. Garn drew his axe off his belt and went down on one knee. He turned the black horns, symbols of his family, toward the bridge and sketched three vertical lines in the stone. The scrape of obsidian echoed in the chamber. Garn turned the axe upright.

  “Moradin, forgive and protect,” he said, and Ruen was surprised to hear the words spoken in Common. He didn’t have time to wonder why Garn had chosen to share the ritual words with them. The dwarf drove the axe hilt into the stone over the vertical lines. Sparks flew, and a thunderous roar echoed through the chamber. The runes on the bridge flared to dazzling gold and exploded.

  Heat erupted across the chasm and swept over Icelin and Ruen. Instinctively, Ruen put his body in front of Icelin, but the fire from the runes never reached them. Cracks splintered the stone bridge, suffused with radiant gold light. The structure groaned once, a long, mournful sound, and then broke apart, huge stone chunks dropping into the chasm.

  Dust rose in the air, obscuring Ruen’s vision. He blinked and wiped watering eyes, but like Icelin, he found he couldn’t look away from the destruction. Behind him, Icelin clutched his shoulder, and Ruen, overcome by the force of the explosion, didn’t think about pulling away from her.

  They stood behind the dwarves, who hadn’t moved either, until the dust settled and revealed the gaping hole where the bridge had been. Broken remnants clutched each side of the chasm.

  Garn turned away from the devastation first. Ruen was startled to see tears standing in the dwarf’s eyes. “It’s done,” he said, his voice as rough and ancient as the stone. “We can be on our way.”

  The group moved off down the tunnel, not speaking, and when Icelin reached for his gloved hand, Ruen didn’t pull away. She entwined her fingers with his, squeezed, and just as quickly let go. Ruen moved away, hoping she wouldn’t see the tremor that passed through his body.

  For the first time in years, he heard his mother’s voice in his head, a memory he’d thought long gone.

  Foolish to take such a risk, her voice whispered after she’d caught him trying to play with the other children in his village. One boy had thrown stones at him. Normal folk will never understand you. They’ll turn from you. You must learn to expect it.

  Ruen banished the hated voice and suppressed a shudder. Gods, he never used to think about the past. He lived day to day, focused wholly on survival. What was happening to him?

  The passage before them ended in a set of stone stairs that descended in a spiral just wide enough for them to walk two by two. The dwarves went ahead with a lit torch, and Ruen and Iceli
n walked behind, guided by the red light atop Icelin’s staff.

  Garn paused and glanced back at them. “We’ll be in the Underdark soon. Keep a close watch around you. We might run into scouting parties.”

  “Scouting parties?” Ruen said. “You mean your people or more monsters?”

  “Monsters.…” Garn said. “Yes, that’s right.” He spit again and went on down the stairs.

  “He’s afraid,” Icelin whispered. “I can see it in his eyes.” She glanced sidelong at Ruen. “You don’t look so well either.”

  “I’m fine,” Ruen said tersely. “Just do what he said and keep your eyes on your surroundings. You can’t stay oblivious forever.”

  As soon as they were out of his mouth, Ruen regretted the words. Their effect on Icelin was immediate. She stiffened, and her face paled. Ruen waited for her to lash out at him. She had the sharpest tongue of any woman he’d ever met, and he knew he deserved the rebuke. But she said nothing, only raised her hand to the light of her staff. She made a gesture and the red glow intensified, chasing back the shadows in the stairwell.

  Ruen cursed himself. Why didn’t she shout at him or make a jest, tell him he was being a hurtful fool? Anything was better than silence. But her face by the light of her staff was unreadable.

  Mith Barak sat on his throne and listened to the echoes of his boot tapping rhythmically against the stone, the sound traveling out to the ends of the hall. The cavernous chamber, built in the time of Shanatar, was large enough to house an army of warriors to challenge the greatest drow cities in the Underdark.

  A bitter laugh escaped the king’s lips. He listened to the sound echo back at him in a mocking wave. The audience chamber of ancient kings, large enough to house an army of ghosts.

  The door to the hall swung open, and one of the regents strode in. Mith Barak was embarrassed that he didn’t remember the dwarf’s name. He’d been appointed sometime during Mith Barak’s last sleep. Sometimes, the king felt as if he still slept, that his whole life was one endless dream.