Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  It was hardly the grand banquet of a dwarf king in a story, but as Icelin sank gratefully into a chair, she reflected that the whole city was not what she’d expected.

  Where were the masses of servants, the guards, courtiers, and advisers who flocked to meet a king’s commands? Why were there no echoing shouts of people in the city streets, and what had happened to still the bustle and dirt of commerce and labor—the pulse of daily living? Had the drow really taken all that from these proud, strong folk? Icelin couldn’t believe it. This king with the bright silver eyes surely wouldn’t let such a thing happen.

  The king in question sat at the head of the table, and when the servants placed the food, he swept a hand out. “Eat,” he said. He made no move to take food himself.

  “Sit back and be easy, lass,” Sull said, staying her hand when Icelin reached for a bowl and spoon. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Icelin smiled at the butcher and leaned back in her chair. Surrounded by food, Sull was where he truly belonged. He hummed the tune to one of the songs Icelin had taught him on their journey as he ladled up bowls of stew, tearing hunks of steaming bread to soak up the juices the spoon couldn’t catch. She nodded her thanks when Sull handed her the food, but Icelin wondered what Sull would do when it came time to serve the king. Would he wait for the servants to attend him? Would the king refuse the butcher’s overtures?

  Sull never faltered. He ladled soup into a third bowl, added bread, and presented it to the king as if they were in a Waterdhavian tavern and not in the hall where Mith Barak was master. The king reached for the bowl, eyeing Sull all the while with a curious expression.

  “Not that I’m claimin’ to be an expert on your local recipes,” the butcher said, pausing in the act of relinquishing the bowl, so that king and butcher held the stew between them. Steam from the meat wafted up in their faces. “But if you were to add a bit of this—” he reached into his pocket and produced, with a flourish, a small, unmarked packet of herbs that, judging by his excitement, he’d been saving for a special occasion “—it’ll bring out cooked onion flavors in the gravy and cling to that meat like a lover to her mate’s … ahem … lips.”

  The king eyed the packet with suspicion. Icelin sank lower in her seat, expecting any minute for the guards to converge on the table and haul Sull away for attempting to poison their sovereign. Tension chilled the air, and for a breath, nobody moved or spoke.

  Oblivious, Sull sprinkled a liberal amount of the seasoning on his own stew. “In gods’ truth, it’ll also make you thirsty as a beached sailor, but we have more than enough wine to cure that, I say!”

  The king blinked at the butcher. He glanced down at his bowl and uttered a quick, unwilling laugh. “Give those herbs here, then,” he said, gesturing imperiously at Sull. “You two eat,” he commanded. “Don’t just sit there with your tongues lolling out.”

  As quickly as it had come, the tension dissipated. Grateful, Icelin picked up her spoon and ate. For a time, nobody spoke, and there was only the clink of tableware and cups plunked against the wood, the sounds of chewing and swallowing, all conspicuously loud in the silent hall. Once, Icelin caught Ruen’s eye over the rim of her wine cup. She grinned at him, and his face softened in something that was so close to a smile that it renewed a bit of Icelin’s energy.

  “What are you grinning about, girl?” the king said suddenly.

  Startled, Icelin put down her wine cup and wiped her mouth. “Nothing of importance, I assure you, King,” she said.

  “Hmmm … I’ll be the judge of that,” Mith Barak said. “Go on, out with it.”

  Icelin felt a blush coloring her cheeks. “In all honesty, I was just thinking that when I look back on this day at some future time, I’ll remember it as the night I dined with a dwarf king, not knowing for certain whether I was his guest or his prisoner.”

  “That troubles you, does it?”

  Icelin paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to her lips. “Not at the moment. Whatever the outcome, I’ll still get to say I dined with a king.”

  Mith Barak grunted. “You’ve an active mouth on you, like most humans. You went so far as to admit your companion—” he nodded to Ruen—“is a thief. Other than your butcher’s impressive spices, I see nothing special about any of you. Why shouldn’t I treat you as thieves, then, and lock you up?”

  “We told you why we were searching the ruins,” Icelin said patiently. “When it came out that we are searching for the sphere, it triggered some great suspicion. Joya told us your city is about to be attacked by the drow, so you obviously have larger concerns. Why bother feeding us and speaking to us personally if there isn’t something you want from us? Don’t you think it’s time to stop this word fencing and tell us what that is?”

  The king wiped his mouth and pushed his chair a little away from the table. “I see you have some sense in your head too.” He stood up, moving restlessly around the table. “It’s true Iltkazar is under attack. Drow scouting patrols and small advance forces of slaves and monsters target our outposts, each assault more aggressive than the last. They spread out the attacks in order to take advantage of our inferior numbers. We’re losing even small skirmishes, forced to seal off tunnels to prevent access to the city, letting them drive us back behind our stone doors. We’re as rats herded to one big hole. They’re just waiting for the right time to bring their wrath down on us.” The king slammed his fist on the tabletop, rattling the cups and bowls, spilling his own wine cup.

  “Why attack you now?” Ruen asked. “The city has stood for centuries. What do the drow gain by mounting this offensive?”

  “We captured one of their advance scouts,” Mith Barak said. “What little information we’ve been able to get from him tells us they’re after an artifact, a powerful sentient relic that channels arcane power. Sound familiar?”

  “The Arcane Script Sphere,” Icelin said, understanding at last. “Small wonder you were so suspicious when we told you we sought the item as well. In truth, we know little about it.”

  “That much is clear,” the king said. He righted his wine cup but left the red stain untouched on the table. “The Arcane Script Sphere contains a piece of the dead goddess Mystra. A small piece, mind you—a sliver of memory and personality, but even a fragment of a goddess holds terrible power, for it also contains a bit of her Silver Fire, which it imparts to wielders the goddess deems worthy. With power such as that, it’s likely you could shatter the greatest spells and tame the wildest magic.”

  Icelin swallowed, her throat gone dry as dust, but it was not the king’s promise that the sphere could calm her wild magic that rocked her so. At the mention of the lost goddess of magic, Icelin felt a stirring in her gut, a sharp excitement. Strangely, it was the same feeling she got whenever she thought of her parents, who’d died when she was a young child. She’d never known them, just as she’d never known the goddess who had died before she was born. Had any of them lived, Icelin had no doubt they would have been strong, loving forces in her life.

  So much of her life would have been different, had the goddess lived.

  The need to see the artifact, to touch an object connected to the goddess of magic, flared in Icelin. Would she feel that connection, however faint, with the lost Mystra? Would the Silver Fire truly stabilize her magic, prolonging her life?

  Glancing at Ruen, Icelin saw the same desire that she felt lay bare on his face. She cleared her throat, and he schooled his expression.

  Not before Mith Barak saw it. “Perhaps we have something to offer each other,” the shrewd king said. “I will not allow the drow to herd and slaughter us. I’ve fought them for centuries in the Night Wars and always beat them back, but I don’t have the numbers to drive them off any longer. There will be war, and I need warriors willing to fight for this city. You risked your lives fighting the drow alongside the Blackhorns, a family I respect a great deal.”

  “You want us to fight for Iltkazar?” Icelin hadn’t expected this—the proud dwarves, O
brin and the rest, asking for help from people like her?

  “Not just in the battle that’s coming,” the king said, and when he looked at her with those shrewd silver eyes, Icelin felt a stirring of unease in her gut. “I want your particular talent: your magic.”

  “No,” Ruen said immediately. “That would defeat the purpose. Her wild magic is what’s killing her.”

  Icelin held up a hand to stop Ruen’s protests. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you we’d captured a drow scout,” Mith Barak said. “I pulled information about the enemy’s plan from his mind, but still he hides secrets from me, protected by powerful magic. The only force I know of that’s strong enough to penetrate this barrier is the Silver Fire, but as I said, the Arcane Script Sphere only confers this power on those it deems worthy. No one in this city has been able to call on it. You are human, a practitioner of the Art, and you seek the sphere for a worthy cause. It’s possible the artifact might grant you the power. If so, you could use it on the drow for me.”

  “We don’t know what the Silver Fire might do to Icelin,” Ruen argued. “And it would probably kill the drow anyway.”

  “A risk I’ll take,” Mith Barak said.

  “But one I won’t,” Ruen said, “not where Icelin is concerned.”

  “I have much to offer in exchange,” Mith Barak said. “What if I gave you the Arcane Script Sphere? You would have the Silver Fire and perhaps the means of curing a spellscar.”

  That shut Ruen up, but Icelin leaned forward, eying the king warily. “Why would you be so generous, gifting us with an artifact that the drow would invade your city to obtain?”

  “Because my city stands on the verge of annihilation,” Mith Barak said. His voice shook, and his silver eyes blazed with rage. “If I don’t find out what the drow are plotting and find a way to stop it, my people will die. I’m willing to sacrifice a great deal to keep that from happening.”

  The king fell silent and looked at the three of them expectantly. Icelin realized he was waiting for an immediate answer—no, an immediate acceptance. He knew how much this chance meant to them. She’d admitted that it was a matter of life and death. How could they refuse?

  His confidence put Icelin on her guard, but a part of her wanted badly to accept. She had to bite back the words. An artifact with a piece of Mystra’s memory.…

  But to get it, she’d have to somehow prove herself worthy of the Silver Fire—and then be willing to unleash it. Her dream, the boardinghouse fire, was still fresh in her mind. That time, she hadn’t intended any harm. This time it would be different. She’d be intentionally using unspeakably powerful magic that she had no idea whether she could control. Even the thought of doing so against a drow sickened her. She was tired of losing control, of unleashing killing force. She’d already done it too many times, injuring both her body and spirit.

  Yet, what if she never had to feel her magic rage out of control ever again? She’d never risk hurting anyone else. What if that piece of Mystra and the Silver Fire were the key to everything?

  At a loss, she looked at Ruen. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a risk,” he said, and Icelin could see his inner struggle reflected in his muddy eyes, normally so difficult to read. “But it might be the best hope we have.” He glanced at the king. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked. “If Icelin can’t use the Silver Fire or break through this drow’s magic, will you still honor your promise?”

  “I will,” the king said, “so long as you agree to help defend my city. The drow have stepped up their attacks in recent days. I expect the invasion to happen before Uktar is out.”

  “What happens if we don’t agree,” Icelin asked, “to any of it?”

  “Then you’re free to go,” the king said. “You aided the Blackhorns against the drow. I’ll consider that penance enough for your companion’s desecration. But I don’t truly believe you’re going to refuse.”

  Icelin suppressed a shudder. This dwarf was a wily, ancient schemer. He had power, and he knew how to manipulate people. The meal, their conversation, all of it felt like a carefully constructed dance, a stage performance culminating in this moment.

  Icelin took a long drink of wine, held the cup in her hand, then set it carefully on the table. Her hand trembled, making ripples in the wine’s surface, but she didn’t care. “Before I decide, I want to talk to the drow,” she said.

  The king looked briefly surprised. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

  “Because if I use the Silver Fire, there’s a chance both of us will be killed,” Icelin replied. “I want to talk to him first, to at least know who I risk killing.”

  “It won’t make it any easier,” Ruen said.

  “Maybe not, but those are my terms,” said Icelin. “Take them or leave them, King Mith Barak.”

  “Done,” the king proclaimed, and again the triumphant light came into his eyes. “You said you didn’t know whether you were a guest in my city or a prisoner. Allow me to call you my guests and welcome you. I’ll arrange for you to speak to the drow when you’re ready.”

  Icelin tried to put aside the sense of foreboding that settled in her stomach. Everything was happening so quickly, and the king was being far too accommodating for her comfort. Yet his offer was too good, the chance too precious to just throw away. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’ll leave you now,” the king said, as if he sensed her unease, “so you can discuss this without my shadow cast over you. I’ll send a guard to you in a while to show you to where you’ll be staying.”

  They all stood as the king left the hall. Icelin listened to the dwarf’s heavy, echoing boot tread recede until the great doors opened and shut, and they were alone.

  Sull let out a long, gusty sigh and plunked down in his chair. “Remind me again, you two, how I get myself caught up in these crazy adventures.”

  “You were the one who got captured,” Ruen pointed out.

  “Yes, I blame you, too,” Icelin said. Ignoring Sull’s sputtered protests, she drank the rest of her wine in one gulp. “I don’t trust him. He’s hiding something.” She didn’t care if the guards overheard her.

  “He’s hiding many things,” Ruen said. “But he’s also desperate.”

  “Must be, if he wants our help,” Sull said. “Desperate men are dangerous,” he added. “And desperate kings? We’d do best to stay as short a time as we can.”

  “Even if we stay, what can we possibly do to make a difference in this fight?” Icelin said. “Dwarves such as Obrin don’t even want outsiders here. Will we truly find a welcome?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ruen said. “He offered us the sphere.”

  “And if I die trying to strip the magic from this drow prisoner or you die in a fight against a drow army, the sphere will mean nothing,” Icelin said. “Too many things could go wrong here.”

  “Don’t worry about Ruen. I won’t let the drow have him,” Sull assured her.

  “Sull, I don’t want you in danger either!” Icelin said.

  The butcher shot her a glare that would have melted lesser women. “If it helps the two of you, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. We’re past needin’ to have these kinds of arguments.”

  “Sull and I will aid the dwarves however we can, but we’ll be careful,” Ruen said and raised a hand before Icelin could protest. “It’s dangerous, yes, but that part of the bargain is easy enough for me to fulfill. The dwarves obviously need all the help they can get.”

  “That’s true,” Sull said. “I don’t like the idea of any of these folk bein’ herded like rats by their enemies. It’s not a fair fight.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Icelin had to agree. Joya and her family were good people. They didn’t deserve the doom fast approaching them.

  Weariness hit her again. Icelin put her chin in her hand, resisting the urge to lay her head on the table.

  The gesture failed to fool Ruen. “It’s time to rest,” he said, standing. He held Icelin’s st
aff out to her. The red light glowed faintly when she took it. Though she hadn’t had it long, the staff seemed to recognize her touch, knew it apart from any other.

  Would the Arcane Script Sphere be the same? Would the goddess’s memory reach out to her? Icelin’s heartbeat quickened at the possibility, the temptation so near at hand.

  Ah, Mystra. What great mess have we stumbled into, and will we regret it before the end?

  The guards snapped to attention when Mith Barak entered the dungeons, a black glare fixed on his face. “Open the cell,” he commanded the nearest guard.

  “My king.” The dwarf hurried ahead and fumbled with the keys. “Be careful. He got hold of some poison somehow. We searched him and chained him, but he might have more of the stuff hidden.”

  “I’m not afraid of his godsdamned poison.” Mith Barak shoved open the cell door, slamming it against the adjacent wall. Zollgarza lay on the floor, his hands chained behind him. Mith Barak crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the drow by the tunic. He lifted him bodily from the floor and slammed him against the wall.

  The breath whooshed out of Zollgarza, and his face creased in pain, but he did not cry out. He kept his gaze on the floor and did not meet Mith Barak’s eyes.

  “We should kill him, my king,” said a rough, feminine voice from the doorway.

  Mith Barak swiveled his head to regard his master armswoman. The hatred in his expression did not abate. “No one is to touch him, Dorla,” he said. “Let me be understood on this. Swear an oath!” he shouted when she didn’t immediately reply. “I’ll have a godsdamn oath from all of you! Those who won’t do their duty are free to leave this city.”

  Gasps and murmurs echoed from the hall outside the cell, but Mith Barak ignored them. Dorla met his furious gaze and did not flinch or turn away from his wrath. She was his master armswoman for a reason, he thought, but her proud, stubborn gaze only fueled his anger.

  He wished they would leave him alone with the drow. None of them understood the danger he posed, not truly. They wanted him dead. He was a curse of ill luck, a bad omen for the battle to come. Mith Barak agreed with them. He wanted nothing more than to rip the drow’s head from his shoulders, but he dared not. He dared do nothing until he knew what sort of dark magic had remade the drow.