Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “But why was she sent here in this form,” Ruen said, “with no knowledge of her true identity?”

  “Maybe she was never meant to be a weapon used against Iltkazar,” Icelin said. “Gods know she’s caused enough chaos, intended or not, but what if this is part of some other drow plot?”

  At her words, Zollgarza went very still. Like a candle lit in a darkened room, a memory came to him in faint images, whispers. Mith Barak’s voice and the voices of the others faded, replaced by a soothing chant. Zollgarza closed his eyes to hear it.

  In his mind, he saw an obsidian altar covered in carvings and stained with the blood of old sacrifices. His perspective hovered above the altar, so that he could not see the face of the female drow who crouched before it, chanting in a soft, velvet-smooth voice. He recognized that voice. It had issued from his throat only a breath ago.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” said a new voice, coming from somewhere out of sight.

  The figure before the altar halted in her prayers and looked up. For the first time, Zollgarza was able to see his new face, and it struck him, bewilderingly, how beautiful it was, and at the same time how faintly similar to his own male visage. The flaws he’d exhibited in his male form were corrected in the female. Muddy red eyes deepened to a rich scarlet, and high cheekbones accentuated them. The crooked nose was now straight and small. In his vision, his fall of white hair had been tied back, secured with combs studded with onyx and ruby. Taken together, the features looked so symmetrical, so natural, that Zollgarza felt the first twinges of foreboding deep in his gut.

  “The preparations have been made. You can’t stop what I’ve begun,” said the kneeling woman. A second figure joined her at the altar. Zollgarza recognized Mistress Mother Fizzri. She angled herself on her knees so she faced the altar and Zollgarza’s double.

  “I know. May we both be worthy for the task ahead.” Swaying forward on her knees, she kissed the other female, raising a hand to bury it in her thick white hair.

  Zollgarza watched with a sense of detached amazement as his double leaned into the kiss, and his own body reacted, filling with warmth, desire, and frightening affection—for the woman he hated above all other drow.

  This can’t be right. He had no memory of such an interlude between himself and the mistress mother, yet the physical sensations coursing through his blood were so familiar. His skin tingled, reawakened by the phantoms conjured before him. More images crowded his thoughts, superimposing themselves over the scene.

  The night before—he remembered the two of them lying side by side in a bed covered in white silk sheets. Fizzri’s head rested on Zollgarza’s belly, her fingers stroking Zollgarza’s thighs.

  She likes to lie this way, Zollgarza thought, facing away from me, her delicate neck exposed. It makes her vulnerable and excites her at the same time.

  “Doesn’t it ever frighten you, just a little,” Zollgarza asked, her voice rough from sleep, “the hatred you see in their eyes?”

  “Is that really what you were thinking about just now?” Fizzri purred. “You see, I’ve been contemplating all the wicked things I’m going to do to you in the next few breaths, yet all that consumes your thoughts are the males. Should I be jealous, Zollgarza?”

  “I can’t imagine you any other way,” Zollgarza replied. She lifted Fizzri’s hair and scratched her neck gently while the mistress mother gave a soft little sigh. “I worry that we’ve grown complacent, too secure in our power and confidence. Lolth’s plan to become the goddess of magic—it has shifted the balance, given hope to the males. Such a dangerous thing, hope. It may cause them to plot against us in numbers.”

  “They’ve given no indication of such a plot,” Fizzri said, leaning into Zollgarza’s touch.

  “Perhaps we just aren’t looking at them closely enough,” Zollgarza replied. “The more the males give the appearance of subservience, the more I worry what they are thinking down in the depths of their souls.”

  “I assure you, love, you don’t want to know,” Fizzri said, rubbing her cheek against Zollgarza’s belly.

  “But I do,” Zollgarza whispered so softly, the mistress mother didn’t hear her.

  Zollgarza remembered how she’d felt in that moment. She’d been unsure how much to confide in Fizzri. The threat of betrayal hung between them always, and the more knowledge one had of the other, the more the threat intensified. Fizzri thrived on that threat, and Zollgarza managed it by not giving too much of herself away, but so far neither had had cause for betrayal. Perhaps it was because they had spent so long being stronger together than at odds.

  Zollgarza made her decision. She’d struggled too long with her doubts and questions. Despite the risk, it was time for an outside perspective. “I’ve asked Lolth for guidance, but she remains silent to me. I am … worried,” Zollgarza said.

  Fizzri’s reaction was immediate. Her lover stiffened and pushed herself up on one elbow to glare at Zollgarza. “How could you be so foolish?” she hissed. “It is not for us to seek Lolth’s aid for trouble with a few males. If we can’t handle the problem ourselves, we are not worthy to be in her service.”

  “We have proven ourselves worthy, a hundred times over,” Zollgarza argued. “Lolth sees that and blesses us with her power. Why should we not seek her guidance as well?”

  Fizzri slid off the bed and reached for her piwafwi. She shook her head in disgust. “I tire of having this discussion with you, Zollgarza. You have always expected more from the goddess than what you’re owed. It is dangerous and blasphemous.”

  “I seek purpose,” Zollgarza said passionately. “I want to be the instrument of Lolth’s will, to earn her love over and over until my death. Tell me, how is that blasphemous?”

  “Because it is presumptuous!” Fizzri cried. “What makes you worthy of being Lolth’s instrument in anything? Is your pride and arrogance so great that you think yourself her equal?”

  “Never that.” Zollgarza bowed her head. “I hear your words, and I take your warning, but I must have the answers to my questions.”

  There must have been a hint in her tone, for Fizzri spun in the act of dressing. Her breath caught audibly. “What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ve prepared a ritual to summon a yochlol.”

  “Alone?” Fizzri’s eyes narrowed. “That is too bold. You should have more priestesses present to satisfy Lolth.”

  “My request is personal and private,” Zollgarza said. “I would only have one other.”

  She knew that would appeal to Fizzri’s vanity, but she did not truly expect her lover to agree. Fizzri risked too much personally helping Zollgarza with what she considered a fool’s presumption.

  The bedroom memory faded, and Zollgarza saw herself back in the temple, kneeling before the altar as Fizzri broke their kiss.

  “What made you change your mind?” Zollgarza asked, half-grateful, half-suspicious of her lover’s motives.

  Fizzri’s forehead creased in irritation. “You planted doubt inside me,” she muttered. “I told myself over and over that you are a fool, but then a voice inside whispered, what if you’re right? What if the goddess does favor us and this bold venture? So I am here. Let us proceed.”

  Fizzri gestured to the shadows, where two slaves waited. They dragged forward a bound captive. Through dirt and ragged clothing, Zollgarza recognized a young female elf, her golden skin covered in bruises, her eyes bulging with fear.

  “Tie her to the altar,” Fizzri commanded.

  As the slaves hurried to comply, Zollgarza smiled at Fizzri and offered her a half bow. “You honor me,” she said. “I know she is a favorite of yours.”

  Fizzri waved it away. “A bold act requires an item of value,” she said. “You may risk the full brunt of Lolth’s ire, but I do not.”

  The slaves finished their work and retreated. Zollgarza took up her dagger with the figure of the spider affixed to the hilt. With the tip of the blade, she opened a deep cut on her forearm. She held the bleeding append
age over the elf and let her blood drip on her exposed skin. Fizzri removed her own dagger from the sheath at her belt and repeated the gesture, their blood mingling on the elf’s stomach and dripping down to fill the carvings in the altar.

  The candles in the room flickered and flared red for an instant before returning to their normal color. Fizzri began to chant, her eyes closed, her body swaying back and forth as she praised the goddess.

  Zollgarza stood over the elf. She writhed on the altar, whimpering around the gag in her mouth. Ripping away the rags covering her belly, Zollgarza held the knife poised in the air. “We offer this flesh to you, Mother Lolth. Hear your servants’ prayer and share your wisdom in our time of need. We call upon you, and as we give you this life, put our own lives into your hands.”

  She brought the knife down in a quick, brutal arc. The moment the blade passed through the elf’s flesh, Zollgarza felt a burning explosion of pain in her gut.

  She collapsed, writhing on the floor in front of the altar. At the same time, the elf’s lifeblood flowed through the carvings and glowed a brilliant red.

  Somewhere behind her, Fizzri began to laugh. “Yes! Goddess, yes!” she cried, exultant.

  Only then did Zollgarza begin to realize the depth of her lover’s betrayal.

  Fizzri bowed deeply before the yochlol. The beautiful demon stood over Zollgarza, lip curled in disgust. Agony kept Zollgarza on her back, watching the blood drip from the altar.

  “On your feet,” the yochlol commanded and, without waiting for Zollgarza to comply, made a gesture and spoke a word that pounded against Zollgarza’s temples. Unseen force yanked her to her feet and held her suspended in the air. “See what your ritual has wrought this day, Priestess,” the demon said. “Behold your offering to Lolth.”

  Fizzri looked at Zollgarza, and her face contorted with a mixture of triumph and revulsion.

  I remember it now. This was the moment when my memories twisted. I am Zollgarza.

  A priestess born in the city of Guallidurth.

  Lie.

  A renegade male seeking refuge in the Temple City of Lolth.

  Lie.

  Who am I?

  I am Zollgarza.

  “You desired knowledge of the males in Guallidurth,” Fizzri said, running a sculpted fingernail along Zollgarza’s throat. “At first I dismissed your worries, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized you were right. The balance is shifting, and we must assure our dominance. You gave me the answer, my love, when you said you wanted to be Lolth’s instrument.” A wicked light burned in Fizzri’s red eyes. “You shall. Female becomes male. By arcane power is the divine transformed. When the time comes for Lolth’s ascension, you will be the nexus, the conduit for the creation of the Demon Weave. You will have purpose—a sacrifice to Lolth’s greater glory.”

  My purpose. To die. Even that is fading. They took my memories, remade me completely.

  I presented myself to Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell and offered my services as an assassin and master of poisons. She took me in, protected me.

  Is that what you really are?

  Show me your face, Zollgarza.

  No, I am a high priestess of Lolth. I serve none but the goddess. Fizzri is my equal. I know her flesh as intimately as my own.

  So many contradictions in your flesh—unremarkable male. Unworthy … lesser creature.

  No! Goddess, forgive! Don’t do this.

  Too late. I am already lost.

  I am Zollgarza.

  They call me the Black Creeper. I must keep my head down. I have felt the sting of the snake-headed whip too often.

  No!

  Yes.

  I am Zollgarza.

  Zollgarza screamed as the scene faded. Her last sight was of her male form standing in a pool of elf blood, gaze fixed beseechingly on the yochlol’s cold face as the demon stole her memories, filling her with Lolth’s dark power.

  The library faded back into focus around Zollgarza. Shadows shrouded the room, and the whispers still hissed from the empty corners.

  Show me your face, Zollgarza.

  Lost child, helpless male, newly born female.

  The voices mocked her. Zollgarza pawed the air as the shadows crept closer, taunting. Was it the seneschal’s books—whispers Zollgarza was too lost to hear? Or was she truly going mad?

  Who am I? Goddess, please tell me!

  “There’s no hope for questioning her,” Mith Barak’s deep voice drowned out the whispers briefly, but Zollgarza could not see the dwarf’s face. She’d fallen into darkness, and the shadows wouldn’t let her go. “She’s half-mad already. Look at her.”

  Show me your face, Zollgarza.

  Yes, look at me, Zollgarza wanted to scream. Someone, look at me. Tell me who I am.

  During those times in her life when she’d felt lost, Zollgarza had taken comfort from the knowledge that she was strong in her goddess’s love. But that was a lie. Hadn’t she also felt strong as a male, knowing she would one day earn Lolth’s favor?

  I am not beloved by my goddess. I am cursed, an abomination ripe for sacrifice.

  Dark laughter bubbled up inside Zollgarza.

  Goddess, behold your servant. Mother Lolth, behold Zollgarza—smile at your instrument, your broken disciple.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  28 UKTAR

  YOU NEED HEALING,” RUEN SAID. “WE’LL GET YOU TO Joya.”

  Trying to be as gentle as possible, he and Sull helped Mith Barak to his feet. The dwarf swayed unsteadily, breathing hard, but he waved off their support. “Don’t worry about me. I’m thinking about that one,” he said, nodding at Zollgarza.

  The female drow lay on her back, chest heaving, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Every few breaths, she laughed, a horrible sound that raised the flesh on Ruen’s arms.

  Icelin walked carefully up to the drow and spread a blanket over her to cover her nakedness. “Can we leave her like this?” she asked.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Mith Barak answered. “If we can’t question her, then we’ll use her as bait. I’ll send the scouts out with a message, see if her mistress wants to parlay for the return of her pet—or whatever this is.” Mith Barak looked at the drow in disgust.

  Ruen met Icelin’s gaze. Surely he saw the compassion there and the guilt. He must have known she felt responsible for Zollgarza’s current state. “We have hope for the battle now that we didn’t have before,” he told her. “And she may recover in time. You’ve given her back her true form.”

  Whatever reply Icelin might have made was interrupted when Mith Barak succumbed to a fit of coughing. “Are you well enough to fight?” Icelin asked the dwarf, “or even to parlay with the drow?”

  “Aye, I think I can manage not to plunge my axe in the mistress mother’s skull while we have a conversation—a short one,” Mith Barak said with a dark smile as he wiped a blood smear across his lips. “Whatever’s amiss inside me isn’t going to be cured quickly. May as well live with it while I can.”

  When Icelin stepped out of the hall, she swallowed an awed cry.

  The dwarves of Iltkazar had assembled.

  Bodies filled the plaza as if again in preparation for a wedding feast. The difference was the light from the glowing lichen that reflected off thousands of swords and axes, and the finest suits of armor in all Faerûn, by Icelin’s judgment. Beyond the plaza, they stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the city streets. Banners from the dwarf clans waved when King Mith Barak emerged from the hall behind Icelin. Grim-faced and deadly, Iltkazar’s sons and daughters had gathered for a fight. They awaited only their king.

  The master armswoman stepped forward. “The scouts have reported in,” she said. “We know the location of two of their attacking forces for certain—the western and southern walls. They must be planning to break through the magical barriers. The rest of their forces, if there are more, have the advantage in that we don’t know where they will strike.”

  “My thanks, Dorla,” Mith
Barak said. He turned to the gathered army. Icelin heard him mutter a word under his breath, and a tingling sensation kissed the back of her neck, a momentary flush of arcane power.

  “Warriors of Iltkazar!” Mith Barak cried, and his voice carried to the farthest corners of the cavern, amplified by magic. “We knew this day was coming, and now we stand on the precipice. The drow press us from all sides, attacking from the west and the south. They have already desecrated the Hall of Lost Voices, slain thousands of our people in these endless battles, century upon century. We have suffered, bled, but we have not fallen!”

  A deafening roar arose from the crowd. Boots stomped and blades pounded on shields, striking sparks in the cold cavern air. Gooseflesh rose on Icelin’s arms at the fervor in the dwarves’ faces.

  Mith Barak raised his hands, and the army quieted. “There are those who would have us believe we are a doomed people. They would have us roll over quietly and accept our fate, abandon our city to the shadows.”

  “Never!” cried a single voice, and the cry echoed through the crowd like wildfire. “Never!”

  Mith Barak raised his hands again for silence. He hesitated, gazing with shining eyes over the army, though only those standing closest to him saw the tremor that passed over his face, the breath of sorrow and joy that seized him. “I have lived long enough to dwell among the greater and lesser races of this world. Along that path, I’ve seen the towering spires of mighty empires and the hovels of the poorest, meanest wretches. I have walked alone and with others at my side. In all that time, I have never claimed a true home or family for myself. Clanless, I called myself, and clanless I remained. Until now.”

  Icelin expected shouts and cheers from the crowd, but a hush had fallen over the army. Thousands of dwarf bodies pressed close, hanging on the words of their king, a kind of desperate longing in their eyes. Tears standing in her own eyes, Icelin reached behind her for Ruen’s hand.

  Mith Barak bowed his head; then, gazing at those dwarves nearest him in turn, he nodded. A peaceful stillness descended over his weary face. “This day, I say that Iltkazar is and ever was my home, my clan.” He moved forward, passing into the gathered throng.