Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “You waste no time. Good,” the king said. He fixed a keen gaze on both of them. “Looking a little melancholy today, though, aren’t you? What’s it about? Beds uncomfortable—too short, were they?”

  Icelin sensed the thread of humor running beneath the king’s scowl and tried to respond in kind. “Not being overly blessed with stature, they were more than adequate for me,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s not a bed in the city big enough for my butcher, but he managed fine as well.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the king said. “So if you slept well, your dour faces must mean you’ve reconsidered our bargain.” He reached out and took hold of the knob of the adjacent door, but his penetrating gaze never left Icelin’s face.

  “I haven’t decided anything,” Icelin said. “The threat your city faces is a monstrous one. Even if I do what you ask with this drow prisoner, I don’t see how it will make a difference in the fight that’s coming.”

  “You let me worry about that,” the king said—rather sharply, Icelin thought, but she had no time to ponder why he was agitated. He turned the knob and swung open the door.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  22 UKTAR

  ICELIN EXPERIENCED SEVERAL EMOTIONS AT ONCE WHEN she stepped into King Mith Barak’s library. Foremost was awe, at the sheer size of the chamber, the vaulted ceilings, the rugs and furniture arranged around the room. A large table took up most of the space in the center of the room, but smaller, more inviting tables and chairs occupied the corners, arranged near a set of books resting under glass on marble pedestals.

  She’d been expecting a dark cell, or some other confined space where prisoners were interrogated, but this …

  When she gazed at the books on the walls, Icelin grew lightheaded. The smell of old parchment filled her nose, and she fell into the scent as if into the arms of an old friend. She’d always loved books, but the volumes of knowledge contained in this room eclipsed anything she’d ever seen in the bookshops of Waterdeep.

  Standing in the middle of it all, one arm leaned against the mantle of a huge marble fireplace, was the drow.

  He looked up from a book he held in his hands and met her gaze. For a breath, Icelin made no reaction at all. The drow’s presence was so out of place in the warm, inviting room, she thought he couldn’t be real.

  “What game is this?” the drow said.

  Icelin jolted in surprise. The drow had spoken in Common. His melodic voice was full of wary indignation.

  “They’re my guests,” Mith Barak said. He nodded at Icelin. “She’s here for the same reason you are, Zollgarza. I told her you’d behave yourself.” He made a gesture, and a pair of guards strode into the room, taking up positions near the door.

  “You send a child to interrogate me now?” Zollgarza sneered. “Am I expected to roast the girl over the fire and devour her flesh to satiate some unholy appetite?” He flashed a lascivious grin at Icelin. “No, she has barely enough flesh to make a meal. Still, there are other pleasures she might supply, for a tenday at least, before I tire of her.”

  Ruen reached for his dagger. The king stepped forward, and despite his shorter stature, he more than compensated with his bulk to block Ruen’s path.

  “He won’t touch her,” the king said. “You have my word. And the lady is not without her own protections. Don’t mind him,” he said, this time addressing Icelin. “I’m the one he wants to kill. He’s bitter because he missed his chance. Aren’t you, Zollgarza?”

  This time the drow actually smiled. “How much easier my task might have been, had I found you in the form of a statue. Were those simply legends, King—mad tales spun by your followers? Do your guests know what rumors your own people whisper about you?”

  Icelin glanced at Mith Barak, but the king’s face had gone cold, his silver eyes devoid of expression or apparent feeling. “Beyond the guards, there are protections in this room—older than any of the tomes—that will activate if the drow tries to attack. No, the only thing you have to fear from this one is his tongue,” Mith Barak said. “There is no greater weapon, no more lethal poison. He will try to break you with nothing more than words, and he has succeeded on many hapless souls in the past, I’ve no doubt. Take care and do not heed him.”

  Slowly, Ruen sheathed his dagger and turned to Icelin. “Are you sure you want to speak to this thing?” he asked in a low voice. “I tell you again, it will do no good. You’ll regret it.”

  Icelin hesitated. “What did you mean when you said he and I are here for the same reason?” she asked Mith Barak.

  “The sphere,” the king said. “It has hidden itself somewhere in this library. Zollgarza seeks it, too, so I’ve decided to let both of you look for it, though I have a feeling it will reveal itself to the lady first.”

  “You mean you don’t know where it is?” Icelin couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But how will I find it? I don’t even know where to begin to look.”

  “If you prove worthy, it will find you,” Mith Barak said, as if it were that simple.

  Icelin knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d sensed the king was hiding something. Now her task seemed twice as impossible as before. “I need to speak with Ruen privately,” she told the king.

  Mith Barak nodded. “Take your time,” he said.

  “I like nothing about this,” Icelin began when they were back outside in the plaza.

  “Neither do I,” Ruen said. “For whatever reason, Mith Barak thinks you will be able to find the sphere.” He scowled. “One thing I’m sure of, if that drow dies under the Silver Fire, I for one won’t shed any tears for him.”

  “Nor will any of the dwarves,” Icelin said, hugging herself to ward off the chill of the cavern. How easy it would be to justify the action if she let herself. No one would blame her this time. No one would mourn the loss of a drow who’d already taken dwarf lives and would take more if given the opportunity. “But it feels wrong.”

  “You’ve always had a soft heart,” Ruen said.

  “One of my greatest faults,” Icelin said, growing serious. “It’s not just for the sphere itself that I’m considering this.” She paused, gathering her courage. “I need to know something, Ruen.”

  “Say it.”

  Now or never, Icelin thought. “If we get the sphere and it does what we hope it will do for me, is there a chance for us?” Icelin said. She rushed on. “These last months we’ve spent traveling together, I’ve become more and more certain.” Icelin clutched her arms against her stomach, feeling that if she didn’t protect herself, she might not be able to speak further. “I cover it with jests and insults, but you know—you have to know—that I … care about you.”

  “I do,” Ruen said, each word sounding forced. “I don’t understand why. I’m nearly twice your age, I’m not kind or gentle, and I’ve killed people with my bare hands. Death is in everything I touch. No one should want that.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about your great age,” Icelin said, a strained smile twisting her features, “or your temperament. I don’t care about what you’ve done, or your spellscar—”

  “It changes nothing,” Ruen interrupted. “I can’t give you what you want.”

  “I see.” A sudden sense of disconnectedness took hold of Icelin, as if the whole conversation were happening to someone else. It wasn’t his spellscar that kept him from her. He didn’t return her feelings. That was all. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t have to wonder now.” Her voice was unrecognizable to even herself. “I’ll search for the sphere while you and Sull aid the dwarves however you can.”

  Ruen shook his head. “I’m not going to leave you in that room with a drow.”

  “Mith Barak’s guards will be there if anything happens,” Icelin said. “If I’m going to accept the king’s bargain, I need to speak to him, and I need to do it alone. In the meantime, please take care of yourself, and Sull. I couldn’t … I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  She walked away without another
word. Stiff steps carried her across the plaza, and all the while, the contents of her stomach threatened to come up, but considering everything, it had been a clean break. Perhaps she’d spoken coldly, but he’d have to forgive her for that. Allowing in any more emotion would have torn out her heart.

  When she was back in the hallway, just outside the library door, alone, she slid to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and let out two quick, dry sobs. That was all. Then she stood up, opened the library door, and stepped inside.

  GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

  23 UKTAR

  STRIP THEM TO THE WAIST, BUT MAKE THE CUTS AS shallow as you can so as not to break the enchantments,” Levriin Soltif commanded his apprentice.

  The younger drow, Kraefmir of House Rirdel, did as his master bade him, but he didn’t bother to hide the look of distaste as he removed the armor and scraps of clothing from the bugbear slaves and cast them in a pile. Staring straight ahead, their vapid gazes fixed on Levriin, the creatures did not react when Kraefmir took a ceremonial knife from the pocket of his robes and began tracing an arcane symbol into the flesh of the nearest creature. Levriin focused half his concentration on maintaining control of the thralls and appraised Kraefmir’s progress with the other.

  He’s good, Levriin thought. He’s coming into his own, adding flourishes to the magic that even I might not have considered. In many ways, Kraefmir had entered that perfect period of his apprenticeship—skilled enough that he could truly aid Levriin, yet also dependent upon the wizard to advance him in position. Soon he would grow beyond needing Levriin’s tutelage, but for now, he was quite useful.

  “You are distracted,” Kraefmir commented without looking up from his work. Blood coated his hands and the knife. He wiped them on a towel. “Your meeting with the mistress mother did not go well?”

  Damn it, Levriin realized, he’s perceptive as well. “I underestimated her,” he admitted. The words tasted bitter in Levriin’s mouth, but he wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t learn from his mistakes. “She is not reacting to the potential shift in the power balance the way I expected. She claims we have not divined Lolth’s will.”

  “If the priestesses feel threatened, you can be assured they will defend their positions,” Kraefmir said. “Any female who says differently is a liar or a fool.”

  In his mind, Levriin saw the blind priestesses, the abominations altered through the power of the Spider Queen. “Perhaps we are not as weak as they would have us believe,” he murmured.

  “Master?”

  “Mind your work,” Levriin said sharply, and his apprentice obediently fixed his attention on the bugbear’s hairy flesh. He sliced downward with the knife—too deeply, Levriin realized. He felt the pull of the creature’s will against his magic, the faint echo of terror as the slave tried to mount a resistance to the drow’s violation. Levriin lashed out with a mental command, sharper than any whip, and the slave’s silent cry cut off abruptly. He struggled no more.

  “Should we fear the goddess’s will?” Kraefmir said after a moment. “Is this chance she offers us—and the promised reward—genuine?”

  Oh, so very diplomatic. Levriin silently applauded his apprentice. He really wants to know if I am afraid, for he is too young yet to fear any doom. The true horrors of the world had not revealed themselves to him. Perhaps it was time he confided in his apprentice. If not now, on the eve of their first major offensive against Iltkazar, then when would he get the chance?

  “Does it matter?” he challenged the young drow as Kraefmir finished carving the last symbol on the slave’s back.

  “Does it matter that we rise in the Spider Queen’s favor?” Kraefmir wiped his hands one last time on the towel, though the fabric was soaked. “How can you ask that?”

  “Because the question does not get asked enough, in my opinion,” Levriin said. “Think about it. All our lives, we have striven to better our positions in this city. We are weaker physically than the females, and they remind us every day, with each glance, bitter word, or strike of the whip that we are mentally the lesser creatures. Yet we are masters of the arcane, warriors whose martial prowess rivals that of any of the cities of the surface world. When the World Above speaks of us in fear, they do not separate male and female, priestess and wizard. To them, we are only drow.”

  “None of that seems to matter to the females—or to the Spider Queen,” Kraefmir said. “Yet we continue to strive in Lolth’s name.”

  “Precisely,” Levriin said. “The centuries pass, and we grow stronger, more powerful, waiting for the day when the goddess will take notice of our devotion. Had we not been denied her love, her favor, would we have come so far?”

  “You can’t be suggesting that we don’t need the goddess?” Kraefmir wiped the blade of the ceremonial knife and sheathed it. “You court blasphemy, Master.”

  “You mistake me,” Levriin said. “I simply suggest that Lolth’s favor may not be the blow the females expect. Neither may it be what the males of our race need to achieve glory.”

  “Ah, I see. Once we achieve supremacy, you believe that will breed complacency,” Kraefmir said. “That we will become slaves to Lolth’s desires once we’ve had a taste of her favor.”

  Complacency was one extreme, and at the other … some priestesses are drunk on those desires, Levriin thought. The mistress mother had challenged him on that very point, asking him if he was prepared to submit to Lolth’s will. Was he, in truth? Was he ready to give of himself completely, to undergo a spiritual and perhaps physical transformation? Would the goddess ask of him more than he was willing to give?

  Levriin felt the bugbears’ collective pull at his magic. He felt a slight throbbing at his temples. He’d held the spell too long.

  “Forgive me,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I speak of the future, but we have a long road ahead of us before these questions will demand answers. We must think of battle strategy now.”

  “As you wish.” Kraefmir appeared relieved at the shift in topic. “The targets are prepared,” he said. “You’ll be mind-linked to all of them during the battle, and you’ll know them by symbols only your eyes can see. They won’t remember that they’ve been altered, so they won’t try to run.”

  “You did well.” Levriin silently banished the spell that held the slaves in thrall. They blinked in confusion and reached around to touch the raw wounds on their backs. Slowly, they gathered their wits and began putting on their armor. With their limited intellect, the bugbears would probably assume the drow had beaten them into unconsciousness for some transgression. Pain was an accepted part of their existence.

  Kraefmir dismissed them back to their houses, and Levriin took the opportunity to activate the spell that would single the creatures out to him during the battle. He passed a hand over his face, spoke the arcane phrase, and fixed his gaze on the retreating slaves. A faint red light haloed their heads and shoulders, making their features appear fuzzy and indistinct for a moment. The effect would carry clear across a battlefield, making them easily visible to Levriin.

  “Is it working?” Kraefmir asked. “Did I carve the symbols correctly?”

  Levriin glanced at his apprentice. Red light bled from Kraefmir’s shoulders, and his features, too, were blurred, but Levriin did not blink or squint so as not to betray the spell that was on the drow. He’d placed the arcane mark himself on the back of Kraefmir’s thigh, while the apprentice slept under a heavy spell.

  “The magic is perfect,” he said. “The slaves remember nothing and suspect nothing. We march in the morning.”

  Kraefmir inclined his head. He was in so many ways the perfect apprentice, but he would not be so for long. He was the first of Levriin’s apprentices in a long time who had the potential to become a rival. Levriin saw qualities in Kraefmir that he himself possessed: ambition, insight, flashes of brilliance that signaled an assured rise to power.

  Under other circumstances, Levriin might have appreciated the challenge, but now was not the time. Instead
, Kraefmir would make the ultimate sacrifice for the glory of Lolth, whether he knew it or not.

  Caught in the throes of a dream, Mith Barak flew. He followed the spirit road toward the dim horizon of the Astral Sea, streaks of silver stars passing by at impossible speeds. As he flew, the stars whispered to him, fragments of thought and memory that drew Mith Barak’s attention. He reached for these shreds of dreams, but they slipped through his fingers like wisps of cloud. All that remained were the whispers.

  “Come back, Arlefin, you’re straying …”

  “What was that? The silver shadow, don’t touch it …”

  “Please guide me … I beg you … I’ve been lost so long …”

  “Gods, I’m flying … it’s … magnificent …” Whispers turned to weeping.

  Mith Barak turned away from his fellow travelers. These were old memories, old dreams. Was he doomed to be trapped in the past the way he’d been trapped in the stone?

  The sky grew darker as, one by one, the stars retreated from a burning object that appeared in the east. Red—the color of fire and agony, slicing along his flank like steel drawn from the forge. The burning force slammed into his spirit form so hard that he lost himself for a time, spinning into oblivion. Where had the attack come from? Where had the power come from? Had he become so complacent, so safe in his vault deep beneath the earth, behind mithral doors and layers of magic so complex he’d thought them inviolate?

  He’d been a fool. No safe place existed in this life.

  Darkness engulfed him. Pain raked his back like claws. Feebly, he lashed out, trying to fight back. In the darkness, a single voice rang out, peals of cruel laughter that echoed in Mith Barak’s ears. He opened his mouth to scream. The sound came out as a rough, aged moan, a small cry from a small chest.

  Mith Barak sat up in his bed, clutching his face. He ran his hands over his flanks and combed his fingers through his beard. The pain was slow to leave him. Even in dreams, the memory was so fresh that for a moment he couldn’t move. His skin was on fire, and sweat poured down his face, soaking his beard. For a moment, he stroked the coarse hair, as if his own skin were unfamiliar to him.