Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  On the spirit road, there were no limits, Mith Barak thought, but his body creaked with age and old wounds, his skin stretched taut over his spirit. Sometimes the confinement was so harsh that he wanted to tear his skin with his teeth like a beast.

  He rose from his bed and set bare feet against the cold stone floor. The chill chased away the sleep phantoms and returned, if not peace, then a bit of clarity to his mind. Stretching out his awareness, he felt the echoes of heartbeats and footsteps coming from the room next to his. His own room sealed in all sound, so Icelin and Zollgarza would not have heard his dream cries, nor would the guards stationed outside the door and in the library.

  Icelin’s awareness concerned him most. He knew Zollgarza would do no physical harm to her—after his escape attempt, the guards had searched him thoroughly for hidden needles or other poisonous substances, and Mith Barak’s own protections on the library would come to her aid if needed. Besides that, it wasn’t in Zollgarza’s interest to attack her, not while he had the opportunity to search for the sphere.

  Not that any of it mattered. Mith Barak would not fool himself into thinking Icelin was completely safe around the drow. He was too old to take comfort in self-deception.

  He hovered around her, not so close that she would sense him, but close enough to detect the quickness of her heartbeat, the tightness in her movements. He couldn’t actually see her, but then he didn’t need to. She was afraid—of course she was—and Mith Barak was the cause. Alone in a room with a strange, alien creature such as Zollgarza—she’d be insane not to be afraid.

  Mith Barak turned his attention to Zollgarza. Dark magic still swirled around him, creating an impenetrable wall that rebuffed Mith Barak’s own spells. He sighed. Perhaps he’d been hoping for too much, thinking that she would be able to find the sphere when it had hidden itself so thoroughly from him. He supposed it was still possible Icelin would change her mind and refuse his bargain, even with the enticement of the sphere’s Silver Fire.

  Mith Barak severed the connection to the library and began donning his clothes and armor. A thought struck him. Perhaps he could offer Icelin something else, an added recompense for the danger he had placed her in. She sought knowledge of spellscars, the means to tame her wild magic, and his library was a vast resource.

  Abruptly, Mith Barak sent out a mental call. It had been so long. Would she still answer his summons?

  Seneschal. Lady of the Tomes, do you hear me?

  Silence met his call. Mith Barak felt an unexpectedly sharp stab of sorrow in his heart. Had she gone to sleep for good?

  Lady, forgive me. I did not mean to leave you in the dark so long.

  How sweetly you talk, Old Master. What would you have of me?

  Mith Barak smiled as the familiar voice wrapped him like a warm blanket. Tears pricked his eyes. I have missed you, Seneschal. It has been too long.

  Centuries, the clear, feminine voice chided him. I feel the pages stirring. You have guests.

  Some more welcome than others, Mith Barak agreed. The girl needs aid. Will you show yourself to her?

  The seneschal made no immediate reply. Mith Barak waited in respectful silence. He knew what he asked of her.

  I have offered my services to none but you for a thousand years, Old Master, she replied. Is this truly important to you?

  It is, Mith Barak said. Many things are come to an end, Lady. Our time together, I fear, is short. Will you grant me this one last favor?

  For you, Old Master, I will, the seneschal said. Mith Barak felt her affection and love through the mind-link. His sorrow returned, for a moment threatening to overwhelm him. Clenching trembling hands into fists, he mastered himself and finished tying the laces of his tunic. He needed to meet with the regents and the master armswoman, and to speak to Garn about some specific defenses for the city gates.

  His thoughts lingered on Icelin and the seneschal. Mith Barak allowed himself a wry chuckle. To see the look on her face when she realized all the library had to offer … he would have given much to observe that moment.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  23 UKTAR

  STANDING JUST INSIDE THE LIBRARY DOOR, ICELIN HALF-HOPED the drow had vanished overnight.

  After her conversation with Ruen in the plaza, she’d spoken to Mith Barak and accepted his challenge to find the sphere, but Icelin found she didn’t have the strength to begin that search just yet. She’d gone back to the Blackhorn house and rested, helped Sull in the kitchen where she could, stalling, until Ruen left to help Garn and Obrin on a scouting mission. Once Ruen was gone, she knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable.

  Her heart sank when she saw the drow sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. One leg propped on the hearth, a book open across his lap, he was the picture of relaxed self-assurance. He looked up when she entered and flashed a lazy smile.

  Like a wolf grinning at a lamb, Icelin thought. The image made her indignant. Let him have his fun. His presence wouldn’t intimidate her.

  Squaring her shoulders, Icelin crossed the room and stood before the fire, warming her hands against the chill. “Good morning,” she said without looking at the drow.

  The drow closed his book and rose smoothly to his feet. Instinctively, Icelin pivoted so her back would not be facing the drow.

  His smile grew wider. “We haven’t been properly introduced.” He extended a hand to Icelin. “I am Zollgarza.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Icelin saw the guards stationed at the door tense. She assumed they hadn’t taken their eyes off the drow since she’d entered the room. She offered them a small nod, hopefully communicating that she wasn’t afraid.

  “My name is Icelin,” she said, ignoring the drow’s outstretched hand. “It is … interesting to meet you. What are you reading?”

  Zollgarza picked up the book and held the spine out to her. “A personal journal of a cleric of Shanatar,” he said.

  “Shanatar?” Icelin raised an eyebrow. “Are you a student of dwarf history?”

  “Iltkazar is all that remains of the ancient dwarven realm,” Zollgarza explained. “It is … refreshing to see how the mighty are diminished over the centuries. No empire lasts forever.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Icelin said, ignoring the jab at the dwarves, “but I find most historical accounts to be dry, mind-numbing reading.”

  “Oh?” Zollgarza said in amusement. “What books do you prefer?”

  “Adventure tales,” Icelin said. “Full of hard-won battles against impossible odds … that sort of thing. Add a splash of romance and intrigue and you’ve won my attention forever.”

  “If I find any such tales, I’ll be sure to lay them aside for you,” the drow said, bowing before returning to his seat. He spoke amiably enough, but Icelin had the distinct impression he mocked her with every word. “At any rate, I was under the impression you’re here for a purpose other than reading. You’re here to hunt for the sphere, yes?”

  Oh, he was definitely mocking her. Anger made Icelin flush. Ruen had been right. What did she hope to gain by talking to the drow? She should just ignore him and focus on finding the Arcane Script Sphere.

  At the thought of the artifact, longing rose in Icelin again. What would it be like to hold a bit of Mystra’s essence near her heart, to be so close to the goddess she had never known? Even if the sphere’s Silver Fire didn’t cure her spellscar, the memory of the goddess would be enough.

  But when she looked at Zollgarza, those hopes shattered.

  Hadn’t she sworn never to work magic she couldn’t control, to knowingly put others at risk, unless there was no other choice? She’d done it to defend Ruen and the dwarves when she attacked the drow wizard, but had one of them been standing too close to her, he might be dead now. What of the guards stationed in the room to protect her? Did they know the danger of using the Silver Fire? The doubts tore apart her resolve.

  Needing a distraction, Icelin turned to the bookshelves. Ladders fastened to a track on the highest
shelves rested on wheels on the floor, allowing access to all the shelves, even the books she could barely see. No doubt they were covered with an inch of dust and served as a home for countless numbers of tiny eight-legged horrors. Icelin ran her hands absently over the spines. Many of the titles were in Dwarvish or languages she couldn’t even identify, but she found others in Common. Was the Arcane Script Sphere hidden somewhere amongst them? Did Mith Barak expect her to tear apart the room in a mad search for an ancient artifact that likely had all sorts of magical means to conceal itself?

  Yet the king said that if she were worthy, the sphere would find her. Did that mean she was supposed to stay here and wait while the sphere silently considered its decision? Bemused, Icelin imagined the great artifact watching her every move, looking for faults and failures in her character.

  Icelin groaned and thought, I’m doomed.

  Pacing the room wouldn’t help. She selected one of the books written in Common—a history of the dwarves, similar to what Zollgarza was reading—and took it to the long table in the center of the room. Maybe if she explored the library and cleared her head, inspiration on how to find the sphere would strike.

  It was warmer near the fire, but she wasn’t eager to share Zollgarza’s company like that. Reading together in front of a fire had a certain unavoidable intimacy that she wasn’t ready to experience.

  She opened the book, inhaled the scent of parchment and age, and began to read.

  Zollgarza sat motionless by the fire, pretending to read his book while he watched the girl. Once she got over her initial nervousness and started reading a tome, she seemed to forget he was in the room. She leaned over the book with her elbows propped on the table and pulled one of the candelabra closer. Every now and then she squinted at the text and mouthed the words aloud as she ran her fingers along the page. When she wasn’t doing that, often she hummed to herself softly as she read. She had a steady, melodious voice, but that was the only compliment Zollgarza willingly gave her.

  His assessment of her physical features was that she was a small, sickly thing. Whether magic or some other malady had taken its toll on her, he couldn’t say, but if Mith Barak had wanted to threaten him, he’d chosen a poor creature as his ambassador.

  He had to give the old dwarf credit, though. Mith Barak knew how to scheme and deceive with the best of the drow. Zollgarza couldn’t believe the king had allowed him access to the library, and the introduction of this newest obscure element in the form of the girl was even more frustrating. What was the wily dwarf up to? Was the Arcane Script Sphere truly so hidden from him that he needed this sickly girl and a drow to locate it for him? This would have amused Zollgarza no end had he not been so suspicious of the girl.

  What was her power? Was it something Mith Barak hoped to use against him? But the king had already probed his mind and raked through his memories. There were no secrets for this human child to uncover.

  Except the ones being kept from Zollgarza himself. By Lolth, if Mith Barak were to be believed.

  Zollgarza clenched the book in his hands, resisting the urge to throw it into the flames. Knowledge and lore surrounded him, yet the answers he sought most were denied him. Who was he truly, and where did he come from? Had Fizzri altered him at Lolth’s command? To what end? Was there some dangerous knowledge he possessed that the mistress mother had stripped from his mind in order to protect Guallidurth? But why deny him his own identity, unless she simply meant to toy with him?

  Zollgarza considered the girl. Frustration and rage made him tremble. He wanted to lash out, grab her by her slender throat, and demand her purpose here. He had already begun a search of the library for the sphere and turned up nothing. She would have no better chance than he had of finding the artifact, unless it somehow considered her a worthy recipient.

  Perhaps that was what Mith Barak hoped. Was there something special about the girl’s character that he hoped to exploit? Zollgarza thought it might give him some satisfaction to try to root that information out of her, to play with the girl as he was being played, a pawn in some larger game. She might not be worth the trouble, but she was a mystery and a distraction. Zollgarza enjoyed a good mystery, and he certainly needed the distraction.

  She tensed and looked up from her book. Zollgarza flicked his eyes to the page and pretended to read but continued to watch her out of his periphery. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Slowly, she walked to the bookshelves and began pacing in front of them, head cocked as if listening for something.

  What is she doing? Zollgarza wondered. He almost called out to her to ask, but he clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to betray the fact that he’d been watching her closely.

  “Do you hear that?” the girl asked, breaking the silence.

  Zollgarza rubbed his eyes and adopted a weary tone. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Just now, did you hear … I thought it sounded like voices … whispers,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she felt a sudden chill. “You heard nothing?”

  Zollgarza listened, but all he heard was the crack and pop of the fire and the cave breezes coming down the chimney. The dwarves had a sophisticated ventilation system—he’d utilized it himself sneaking into the city—that kept the smoke emanating from the homes and forges from choking off all the fresh air in the city. “You’re imagining things,” he said, putting a hint of condescension in his voice.

  As he expected, her lips thinned and she fixed him with an indignant look. “If you heard none of that, then the reputation you drow have for keen hearing is entirely undeserved. I’m telling you, we’re not alone in this room.”

  “If you say so,” he said and turned his attention to his book. He continued to watch her, though. She approached the fire and stood with her back to it, still listening for mischievous phantoms. His attention taken up by her, he didn’t detect the movement out of the corner of his eye until a loud bang echoed in the library.

  Instinctively, Zollgarza leaped from his chair and went into a crouch. Beside him, the girl tensed, but as she was in a better position to see the source of the noise, she was the first to relax.

  “It’s all right … I think,” she said. Cautiously, she strode across the room to the bookshelves, where a particularly large tome bound in green leather had fallen to the floor near the ladder. “I must have knocked it loose when I pulled my book off the shelf.” She bent to pick it up.

  Before she could touch it, the cover of the tome flipped open by itself.

  Ruen followed Garn, Obrin, and a contingent of dwarves past the forges to a smaller cavern on the eastern edge of the city. The first thing Ruen noticed was the overgrowth of the glowing silver lichen hanging from the cavern ceiling and in some cases growing in patchy carpets along the ground. The light it created was uneven and pained Ruen’s eyes. No one had tended to the lichen in some time. Ruen soon learned why.

  “We’ve evacuated these caverns,” Garn explained as they marched along, joined at intervals by more dwarves, until Ruen counted their group at least a hundred strong. They were a mixture of warriors and clerics. “The population was too thin on our outer fringes—we relocated everyone closer to the city to conserve resources. Water doesn’t have as far to travel, and people don’t have to feel isolated out here.”

  Ruen saw the logic in the decision, but by Garn’s tone, he knew the dwarf didn’t like it. “It must have been difficult for so many families to leave their homes,” he said, and indeed, some of the stone dwellings looked as if they had not long been abandoned. Mushroom gardens still thrived around the fringes of the homes, and through open doorways, Ruen saw that much of the furniture remained in the homes, left behind as if their occupants anticipated that someday they would return.

  Garn approached one of these open doors and pushed it shut with the toe of his boot, sealing it. “Some folk refused to leave,” he said without looking at Ruen. “A few dozen, maybe—they’re around here someplace, but they won’t show themselve
s while we’re passing through. They’re afraid we’ll make them pack up and leave. I wouldn’t do it for a dragon’s hoard,” he said and spat on the ground.

  The dwarves at the front of the group had begun forming the others into three columns. Ruen watched them as two dozen more dwarves spilled into the cavern. “This is no scouting mission we’re undertaking,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” Garn agreed. “Last night, a couple of scouts reported that the Hall of Lost Voices had been cut off by a cave-in. They claimed they heard fighting on the other side, but the debris was too much for them to clear alone. We’re venturing out to clear the passage and get our people out of there … if any are still alive.”

  “What is the Hall of Lost Voices?” Ruen asked.

  “A mining outpost three miles straight east of here,” Garn explained. “It’s got lots of long, narrow tunnels emptying out into wider spaces, like knots on a rope. We’ve been filtering troops to the outpost for a tenday now because we thought it one of the likeliest places for Guallidurth to assault.”

  “Why would they risk fighting on a battleground like that?” Ruen asked. Small spaces and bottlenecks could cut soldiers off from each other quickly. While this would hamper both sides, the dwarves knew the sizes of their own tunnels better than the drow did and could better control the field.

  “Because if they can take those tunnels, it cuts off one of our major supply routes to the surface and denies us access to a major source of ore,” Garn said. He and Ruen fell into step with the company, walking side by side in two of the columns. Obrin walked in the third column, but as usual, he remained silent. “We’ve tried to keep its importance a secret, but the damn drow spies are everywhere. Some of them are infiltrating the outposts in magical disguise. For all we know, they might have had their scouts in place for months.”