Spider and Stone

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

25 UKTAR

Icelin looked up and shivered, as if a cold hand had touched her on the shoulder. Nothing appeared amiss-the books stood silently upon their shelves, behaving themselves, and Zollgarza sat at the table in the middle of the room, eating a bowl of stew the guards had brought him. Icelin shook away the sense of foreboding that had momentarily gripped her and turned back to her book.

In front of her, suspended above a glass case, gold letters shaped themselves out of the air. As soon as Icelin stopped reading, the letters stopped forming. She removed a gold ring from her index finger and hooked it on a peg protruding from the glass. The writing began to fade, leaving only a faint afterimage on the air, but the memories of the text were forever imprinted in Icelin’s mind.

The glass case contained one of King Mith Barak’s oldest tomes. According to the seneschal, the last time the pages had been touched by living hands was more than two hundred years ago. No magic had ever been cast on the book, and the pages were too fragile now to be exposed to the air. The text could only be read using the ring to recall it from the book. The seneschal had drawn her attention to it because there was a physical description of the Arcane Script Sphere in the text.

Mystra inscribed the Arcane Script Sphere with spells known only to the goddess, written across its surface in the tiniest script, unreadable to the naked eye. She’d intended to give them to her faithful. She placed a part of her memory, personality, and Silver Fire inside of it, so the artifact would seek out the wizards she wanted, wizards who would use the sphere, add their own spell discoveries to it, then pass it on to others who would learn from it, a cycle that went on for centuries. These wizards would feel their goddess as they learned, her soft voice like a teacher’s echoing in their heads, encouraging, guiding.…

Icelin rubbed her chest, where a hollowness had taken root. Her own teacher was gone, killed by her wild magic.

“Finished already?” Zollgarza said, twirling his spoon deftly between his fingers. “Or did you tire of reading messages on the air?”

Icelin sighed and rubbed her burning eyes. “Don’t you think it’s a little exciting? Mysterious? Words conjured out of the air-knowledge preserved with elegant magic.”

Zollgarza snorted derisively. “It’s impractical. Why not simply cast a protective spell over the book and its pages?”

“Such magic can fail or be dispelled.” The seneschal’s gentle voice echoed from across the room, making Icelin jump. She wasn’t used to the dwarf woman’s entrances and exits, which often occurred with little or no warning. At the moment, she sat serenely in a chair in the far corner of the room. “King Mith Barak believes in preserving valuable objects for their own sake,” the seneschal said. “Magic is not always the best way to accomplish that. Magic is a tool, something that should never be relied upon in place of natural skills and abilities.”

“A lovely speech, but I have a difficult time taking you seriously when magic saturates this room,” Zollgarza drawled. “For a dwarf, your king seems to have a particular obsession with the arcane.”

Icelin hated to agree with Zollgarza, but he had a point. She had never seen such a collection of magic and magical knowledge contained in one place before. True, there were many texts on the dwarves’ history, culture, and especially smithcraft, but Icelin was shocked at how much knowledge of the Art she’d found. Her thoughts whirled with all the information she’d acquired, so that she didn’t hear Zollgarza’s approach until he was right beside her. Tensing, she tried to act natural.

“You have … an interesting smell,” Zollgarza remarked, standing at her shoulder.

Icelin pushed the book she held back up on the shelf and selected another without replying. She resisted the urge to run, to put the space of the library between them. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” she said, turning toward him. She didn’t quite manage to look into his red eyes, but she had the passing thought that they were a bit like Ruen’s, masking his emotions well.

Stop treading that road, Icelin silently chided herself. Ruen and this creature are nothing alike.

“Why do you seek the Arcane Script Sphere?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Why does anyone?” she countered, slanting him a look. “It’s a powerful conduit for-”

“Precious arcane energy-I know.” Zollgarza dismissed her explanation with a wave. “That’s what the sphere is. I asked why you want it.”

“I’m a wizard,” Icelin said as if that explained everything.

Zollgarza waited. “And?”

“And what?” She was stalling, scrambling to decide how much she could tell him. She didn’t want to mention the Silver Fire at all, if she could help it.

The drow saw through her tactics. “Why don’t you want me to know?” he asked in a teasing voice. “I’m harmless. I may as well be in a cage.” He nodded to the guards.

“You’re many things,” Icelin said. “Harmless isn’t one of them.”

A smile. “True. Come now, if you don’t tell me, I’ll simply hang about your elbow, whispering, until your nerves won’t let you concentrate. You’re already hopelessly distracted.”

Damn him, but he was right. Icelin sighed. “I am spellscarred,” she said, hoping that a small piece of the truth would satisfy him. “The affliction is slowly killing me. The sphere contains a piece of Mystra’s essence, so I hope the artifact’s power may be able to prolong my life.”

Surprise touched Zollgarza’s features. And something else-a hint of consternation? “The sphere contains a piece of the goddess?” he asked.

“According to my research, yes.” She cocked her head. “You also came here looking for the sphere, though not for the same reasons, I assume. Why do you want it?”

He stared hard at her, and Icelin knew he wasn’t fooled by her casual tone. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why did Mith Barak send you here? You’re innocent enough looking, but there’s more to you. I can sense it.”

Icelin took a chance-again, the truth, or at least part of it. “He wants me to learn your secrets.”

Zollgarza scoffed at that. “He thought I’d tell you?”

Now it was Icelin’s turn to smile, though her heart pounded. “You’ve already told me things. For instance, you don’t know everything about the artifact you’re seeking. You didn’t know that it contains a piece of Mystra.”

She’d expected anger from him, but he merely regarded her with a tight, calculating expression. “Well, well. You do have some small talent for interrogation. Perhaps it’s your beautiful, innocent face, so pure and sweet.”

“You’re trying to intimidate me again.”

“I can’t help it. I can’t find the sphere, and the dwarf won’t have left anything else of value here to interest me,” Zollgarza said. “This is just another cage, except-” he lifted a hand and touched a strand of her hair with the tips of his fingers-“he’s left a pretty little bird here to entertain me.”

Icelin did jerk away from him then, and he smiled, which infuriated her. “So that’s all that’s left for you?” she said. “You’ll stay in this room and taunt me until the drow march on Iltkazar?”

“Or until Mith Barak decides I’m no longer of any use to him,” Zollgarza said. The color of his red eyes deepened, betraying his anger. “You must forgive me a few petty pleasures.”

“The seneschal said you were missing pieces of yourself,” Icelin pressed. “What does that mean?”

“It means exactly that,” Zollgarza said. “Memories that I should have are gone. Most of my life is a hazy shadow in my mind.” He hesitated. “Somehow, I never questioned it, not until Mith Barak laid my mind bare. I didn’t even know there was an emptiness inside me. I only ever desired a purpose-what Lolth wants for me.”

“What Lolth wants?” Icelin held her book against her chest. “Isn’t that just as futile as pacing this cage? I’ve read about your kind.” She gritted her teeth at the faint amusement that flitted across his features. “Of course the dwarves have written about you. They’ve chronicled their constant war with your race. They talk about your society too. What has your goddess ever done for you? What has she done to earn your reverence?”

Far from being provoked, the drow actually chuckled. “What a question, especially coming from you. I never expected it.”

“You’re mocking me,” Icelin said, crossing the room to sit beside the fire. “I should have known better than to expect plain speaking with you.”

“Oh, but my surprise is genuine,” Zollgarza said, coming to stand with his back to the fire. Once again, he was too close. Icelin felt her whole body tense, but she tried not to show it. She knew he was doing it on purpose. Everything the drow did was calculated to put his opponents off balance. How could a race live like that? “I wasn’t being boorish when I told you that you have an interesting smell. I was referring to the magic on you. The Art is so strong. It must be terribly hard for you, being spellscarred.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Icelin said. She flipped open the book and stared at the writing without seeing it.

Zollgarza’s soft chuckle mingled with the cracks and pops of the fire. “Of course you do. You know how alone you are in the world. The goddess Mystra, who might once have steered your course in life, the guiding force behind all wielders of the arcane, is lost to you. In fact,” he said, observing her closely, “you’ve never known her at all, have you? My goddess Lolth may be a harsh mistress, but at least I know that when I cry out in the night, someone hears me. You cry out alone. It’s no wonder you seek the Arcane Script Sphere. Even a scrap of a goddess is better than none.”

“I’m not alone,” Icelin said. “I walk with companions who would give their lives to keep me safe. We adventure in the world together, embracing life. Does your goddess care when you cry out in the night? Is she there to give comfort? Can you understand that kind of devotion?”

“Ah, your protector,” Zollgarza said. His smile turned cruel. “An animal protects its master with an equal fervor. I can train beasts to answer my command, so yes, child, I understand the devotion you speak of.” He took a step toward her. “Of course, an animal is usually willing to offer affection to its master in addition to service. Does your animal fulfill this role as well?”

“Stop,” Icelin said. “That’s enough.”

“But why?” Zollgarza crouched in front of her. Icelin didn’t move. She didn’t trust herself. “To me your existence shares as many echoes of tragedy as you see in mine. You stand on the edge of oblivion, spellscarred, victim of a lost goddess’s power. So you adventure in the world, embracing life, as you call it, even taking on the dwarves’ burden as your own-whatever it is that will fulfill you, ease the emptiness inside. All this I understand. We all do what we have to do to survive the darkness. I am surprised because you are the last person in Faerun who should pity me for my existence. Pity yourself.”

He left the fire, retreating to the other side of the room. Icelin felt the heat burning into one side of her face, but she couldn’t move. If she moved, she would fall apart.

“What troubles you?” the seneschal asked. She’d remained silent during Icelin’s exchange with Zollgarza, but now she came to stand beside her. “Can I help?”

“I don’t think anyone can,” Icelin said. She tried to push the drow’s taunts from her mind, but they lingered like a poison. “I’m lacking inspiration,” she added, “and a clear head.”

“The latter is easily remedied,” the seneschal said. “You’ve not been outside this room in many hours. Walk about and clear your mind. As for inspiration …” A frown marred her smooth features.

“What is it?” Icelin asked. “You have a book to recommend?”

“Perhaps.” The seneschal glanced uneasily between Icelin and Zollgarza. “It might aid both of you, in fact. Or it might drive you mad.”

Zollgarza said, “You have my attention, spirit. Speak.”

“Don’t be so eager,” the seneschal cautioned him. She held her hands palms up in front of her. A black leather-bound book appeared, heavy and intimidating, with two brass locks to secure it. “If inspiration is what you seek, this tome may provide the answer.”

“What is its power?” Icelin asked. A faint reddish aura surrounded the book, which intensified the longer she stared at it. Power-barely contained, Icelin thought. Whatever knowledge was stored within, it must be significant.

“Inspiration,” the seneschal said enigmatically. “The book itself contains no knowledge, no words.”

“Then what purpose does it serve?” Zollgarza asked.

“The purpose is to draw from the user the true question he or she wishes to ask,” the seneschal explained. “For clouded thoughts, it brings clarity. For troubled minds, certainty.”

“Clarity and certainty are two friends I don’t often converse with,” Icelin said. “Why are they dangerous?”

“Because of the method used to arrive at them,” said the dwarf woman. “The tome delves into the deepest parts of your mind, draws out secrets, confronts truths you may be unable-or unwilling-to see.” Saying this last, the seneschal looked pointedly at Zollgarza.

The drow laughed scornfully, but Icelin thought she detected a spark of eagerness in his eyes. “You cannot frighten me, spirit. Let your tome work its magic. I’ll master it.”

The seneschal inclined her head, seemingly unsurprised at Zollgarza’s bravado. She turned to Icelin. “What say you?”

Icelin raised her hands in a defensive gesture. “I think you’re right. I need to walk outside and clear my head. When I return, I’ll make my decision.”

“A wise choice.” The seneschal smiled at her. “Go, then. All will be ready when you return.”

Icelin stepped out into the plaza and breathed the cool cavern air. Immediately she felt better. The open space was a buzz of activity, as a couple dozen dwarves moved about, setting up tables and benches and rolling in casks of ale and cider. Shouts, jests, and laughter greeted her ears-a sharp contrast to the attitudes she’d glimpsed when she’d first come to the city, and a welcome relief after the oppressive silence and strange whisperings of King Mith Barak’s library.

“Careful with that! Aw, gods-here, let me help with it, I’m beggin’ you.”

A wide smile spread across Icelin’s face at hearing Sull’s voice. He followed a pair of dwarves carrying a large metal cauldron between them into the plaza. Thick, bubbling liquid sloshed in the pot, threatening to spill over onto the ground.

“Ignore him. He gets grumpy when his food’s in peril,” Icelin called to the dwarves. Laughing, she hurried across the plaza, dodging ale casks and bumping into a woman carrying a handful of torches. Smiling an apology, she ran up to Sull.

“Lass!” Sull spared her a wide grin, but it quickly turned sour when the dwarves plunked the cauldron down in the middle of the plaza. “How’s it going to feed three dozen mouths if you spill it all over the stones?” he bellowed.

In unison, the dwarves made a rude gesture and walked away. Icelin covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Gods it felt good to hold in laughter instead of worry and fear.

“What’s all this?” she said, bending over to sniff at the brew in the cauldron. Rothe meat juices, mushrooms, and broth-her mouth watered at the scents. “Are you cooking for the whole of Iltkazar?”

“Almost,” Sull said. He affected weariness, but the pride was clearly discernible in his voice. “Joya had me helping out with the wounded. We’re set up in Haela Brightaxe’s old temple, and I was bringin’ food over two, sometimes three times a day. I didn’t really have anyone to cook for since Garn and Obrin left, and Ingara spends all her time at the forge.” Sull looked affronted. “Well then, what do you think happens? Ingara shows up and wants me to help with the cookin’ for her wedding feast. She said they weren’t plannin’ to have any food at all because of supply shortages. They were just goin’ to drink. Then Ingara said since I loved to cook so much and had a bit of talent makin’ a little bit of food go a long way, could I cook for her wedding?” Sull’s chest puffed up with pride. “How could I say no to that? Not have a feast on a weddin’ day-rubbish, that’s what that is. I don’t care if there’s a battle comin’.”

“Of course. But what’s this?” Icelin said, pointing to the pot. “Surely you’re not cooking already.”

“Ah, this is just a test batch,” Sull replied. “Goin’ to feed it to the wounded.” He glanced anxiously in the direction the dwarves had gone. “Think they’ll be comin’ back soon?”

“Don’t count on it,” Icelin said, grinning. “It’s good to see you, Sull. I’ve missed your grousing.”

“Anything’s better than that drow you’re shut up with.”

The butcher looked down at his hands. Something in his tone, the slump of his shoulders, caught Icelin’s attention. Fear stirred in her belly. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothin’ to be worried about yet,” Sull said hastily, but his guilty expression made Icelin’s heart speed up.

“What is it? What have you heard, Sull?” she demanded.

“Well …” Sull hesitated, and then he uttered a weary sigh. “Joya mentioned … well, you knew Garn and Obrin had gone out with Ruen and a bunch of other soldiers to secure the Hall of Lost Voices,” he said.

Icelin waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, I knew they were going on a scouting mission, but I thought they’d be back by now. What happened?”

“Some scouts brought word a little while ago that they fought with the drow in the Hall, and it was a big one,” Sull said. “There was some kind of explosion, and it sealed off the tunnels between there and Iltkazar.”

“Explosion?” Icelin felt lightheaded. “What happened to Iltkazar’s forces? Were they caught in the blast?”

“Nobody knows,” Sull said. “They’re tunnelin’ through to send reinforcements. We won’t know anythin’ until they clear the debris and make sure the tunnels are safe.”

“Ruen’s with them.” Icelin didn’t know why she said it. Of course, Sull knew that. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner, as soon as you found out?” she said, her voice rising. “We have to do something, go after them.”

“Icelin,” Sull said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “They’re already doin’ everythin’ they can. We just have to wait.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Icelin said, trying to quell the panic that gripped her. “All this time, I’ve been in the library reading, sitting in front of a warm fire like nothing was wrong, while Ruen …” She couldn’t finish. For all she knew, Ruen could be dead, his body lying somewhere in a dark cave. Maybe the dark elves had taken him prisoner, the way the dwarves took Zollgarza. What would they do to him? Hands trembling, Icelin covered her mouth. She thought she might be sick.

“It’s where he wanted you to be,” Sull insisted. “You’re helpin’ Ruen by gettin’ the sphere.”

No, I’m not, Icelin wanted to scream. She was no closer to finding the sphere than she had been when she’d first set foot in the library. All that time, she should have been out there with Ruen.

“What about the king?” Icelin asked.

“What about him?”

“I’ve heard the dwarves whispering about him, how he sits in his empty hall alone day after day.” Icelin spread her hands, encompassing the plaza. “Will he sit there, worrying about Zollgarza and what he might be plotting, while all this is wiped away? While his soldiers are dying in the Underdark?”

“Keep your voice down, lass.” Sull looked around, uneasy. A few of the dwarves had paused in their work to stare at them. “You can’t speak of their leader that way in their own home.”

“Then let him lead!” Icelin snapped. “Let him come out and show his face to his people-give them hope.”

Sull raised his hands in a placating gesture. “From what Joya’s told me, he has reasons for being the way he is.”

“You mean because that drow-Zollgarza-tried to assassinate him?” Icelin said. “But he’s still-”

“That’s not it,” Sull interrupted her. He guided Icelin over to a bench set against the temple wall and sat down beside her. “Joya told me the king’s been fightin’ the drow for a long time, ten times longer than you or I’ve been alive. He’s worn down with it and with seein’ his city taken apart bit by bit.”

Icelin felt a stab of sympathy for the king, but at the same time, she couldn’t understand him. Perhaps it was the difference between being a dwarf and a human. “He carries a heavy burden, but if it’s too much to bear, he should set it aside for another, for the good of his people.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sull said. He shook his head and chuckled suddenly. “Look at the two of us, discussin’ dwarf politics, kings, and war.”

“A butcher and a shop girl from South Ward,” Icelin murmured, laying her head against Sull’s shoulder. “We’re in the middle of something too big, something neither of us fully understands, but I want to know all the same. Why is it more complicated?”

“Something happened to the king a few years ago,” Sull said, dropping his voice even though they were quite alone in the shadow of the temple. “Joya doesn’t speak of it readily, but being among the wounded and the dead has loosened her tongue. Joya said the king is different from other dwarves. He rules the city for only a quarter of every century.”

Icelin’s brow furrowed. “Only twenty-five years? What does he do for the other seventy-five? Does he leave the city?” Somehow, it didn’t fit with what she knew of King Mith Barak. Why would he abandon the city for so long?

“He stays in the city, but he ‘goes to the stone,’ ” Sull said. “Joya didn’t explain it all, but I figure it’s something to do with his god, Moradin. He transforms into a mithral statue and stays that way, locked in stone, for seventy-five years at a time.”

Icelin lifted her head to stare at Sull, stunned. “Gods,” she breathed, “but why? I’ve never heard of a ritual to any god lasting so long. Why would he leave his city for so long without a leader?”

“A regency council rules in his place while he sleeps,” Sull said, shrugging. “Only, something happened the last time he went to the stone. On the day he was supposed to wake up, he didn’t. Joya said it was awful, frightening. No matter what they tried to rouse him, he stayed in his statue form. Nothing like that had ever happened before.”

“But he woke up eventually,” Icelin said. “How long did he stay a statue?”

“Joya didn’t say, but I got the feelin’ it was a long time,” Sull said. “When he finally woke, he was … different. He’s still king, and strong, but Joya says there are shadows around him now that weren’t there before. The stone took something from him.”

“He didn’t say what had happened to him?” Icelin asked. “Didn’t his people demand an explanation?”

“They’ve enough to worry about with the drow,” Sull said. “Maybe they were just glad to have their leader back.”

Icelin tried to imagine it, a king locked in stone for years. It was a bard’s tale, if she’d ever heard one. She’d never have believed it if Sull hadn’t heard it from Joya. If the king removed himself from his city for so long, how could he truly claim to be a part of it? How could one person, even one as old and wise as Mith Barak, rule Iltkazar when he existed half in the world and half in stone?

“Yet his people are loyal,” Icelin murmured. “What if he’s no longer fit to rule? Will they follow him to their own destruction?”

“I don’t know-maybe,” Sull said, his eyes filling with sadness. “The dwarves are tradition and honor bound, and they need their king now more than ever if they’re going to survive.”

But at what cost? Icelin thought. Ruen and an entire patrol of dwarf soldiers were missing, the city echoed with silence, and Mith Barak stood apart, believing a single drow was the key to it all. Was that true, or was the king losing touch with the world, with his people? Icelin’s mind was more troubled than ever, and she knew she had to go back to the library. She didn’t want to face her task now. It was small in comparison to what the dwarves faced-the extinction of one life compared to the destruction of an entire people, an entire history.

She hadn’t been reading about just the Arcane Script Sphere. She’d read about Iltkazar and Shanatar too. The names of dwarf kings, smiths, and scholars were a part of her now. She wouldn’t forget them, but in the end, what was that preservation truly worth? Death would come for her, too, and the knowledge would still be lost. One thing was certain in all her readings: cities fall and great civilizations end. Was that to be Iltkazar’s fate? If so, who would be left to remember the people who’d lived here and worked the stone?

All of this filled her mind, but her fear for Ruen overrode everything. Gods, please don’t let him be dead, she prayed silently. She’d lost too many people close to her-her parents, whom she’d never gotten to know, and her great-uncle, taken from her far too soon. Now Ruen.

“Making me worry like this, weeping and blubbering-one thing’s certain, Sull,” Icelin said, her voice quivering. “When Ruen gets back, you’ll have to hold me back from throttling him.” When Sull chuckled, she added, “I mean it this time.”

“Oh, I believe you, lass,” Sull said, “but I won’t be holdin’ you back. I’ll be gettin’ a good seat to watch.”

The seneschal placed the book on the table in front of Zollgarza. The black cover bore a single onyx gem nestled in gold embellishments, and a forked black ribbon marked the section where some unknown reader had left off. The reader was likely dead now, Zollgarza thought, but then perhaps so am I, if this is another of the king’s plots.

He reached for the book, but the seneschal’s voice stopped him.

“Will you not wait until she returns?”

She referred to Icelin, of course. Zollgarza scoffed at the notion. “What difference could her presence possibly make?” he said. “If I’m to go mad, as you claim is a distinct possibility, she can’t save me, nor would she want to.”

“Isn’t it preferable, even for one such as you, to go into the unknown with someone by your side?” the seneschal asked. “While she is present, you will know you are not alone.”

“You’re mistaken. ‘Alone’ to me means safety, Seneschal,” Zollgarza replied. “It means there is no knife poised at my back, no enemy waiting to take advantage of a weakness.”

“Icelin is not a drow. Her sense of treachery does not stand as a virtue,” the seneschal pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter. Vice or virtue, when it comes to survival, everyone has a drow heart,” Zollgarza said.

He flipped open the book. What he’d been expecting, Zollgarza couldn’t truly say. He’d avoided thinking about the consequences of delving into the tome, focusing instead on the seneschal’s promise of clarity and certainty.

If this tome will tell me who I am, he thought. I will risk madness. I will embrace it.

The first page of the book was blank. Zollgarza scowled and flipped to the next. Blank. He turned the pages rapidly, searching for the words, but there were none. “Are you playing with me?” He whirled angrily on the seneschal, but she was gone. Zollgarza slammed his fist against the tabletop.

He picked up the book, intending to cast it into the fire, but he stopped. Shifting his grip, he held the book open flat on his palms. He thought he must have been imagining what he was seeing.

The book’s pages stood upright-held by an unseen force. Zollgarza reached out with his index finger to touch a page. It turned over slowly, ever so slowly, and fell from the right side of the book to the left.

Zollgarza released the breath he’d been holding. The air felt different-heavier, somehow. Dust motes drifted in front of his face, hanging like miniature stars, crystal clear. He reached up to touch one, and the ground dropped out from underneath him. A dark void yawned, and Zollgarza felt himself falling, his stomach heaving.

A trap. I should have known.

He landed in a crouch on a cold stone floor. Zollgarza instinctively reached for weapons he did not have and turned in a quick circle, looking for enemies.

The library had vanished. He was in a room lit by bluish arcane light. The source was an altar at the back of the room. Zollgarza rose to his feet, but he felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever. He recognized that altar. Once he’d run his hands over the symbols carved upon the obsidian surface, symbols now outlined in fresh blood.

But when? When had he done these things? This was a priestess’s private chamber-he knew that as surely as he recognized the texture of the altar and the lingering camphor scent of incense-a sanctuary where a drow of his rank would never be allowed to go. Yet everything about it felt familiar, welcoming, as if he were coming home.

“Kneel,” said a voice from the darkness.

Zollgarza tensed. Was that Fizzri’s voice? No, this was deeper, colder. Pulled from the darkness, the voice crawled over his skin, a seductive whisper, and a command so forceful Zollgarza felt his knees give way before it. In a breath, he was on the ground with his back to the altar.

A figure stepped from the shadows. Zollgarza recognized it and fell prostrate upon the floor.

“Mother Lolth!”

The yochlol smiled at Zollgarza. She was the goddess’s handmaiden, a demon appearing as a young drow female with silky white hair, a form-fitting black dress with the figure of a spider belted at her waist, and a necklace of diamonds that glittered in the arcane light. She stood before Zollgarza’s prostrate body. The scent of night-blooming flowers wafted from her, but there was an underlying odor, a hint of decay.

Bending, she lifted Zollgarza’s chin and forced him to look into her bottomless red eyes. “Why are you asking questions, child? Why are you so lost?”

“I want to know who I am.” It hurt to speak, to look at her. She was a beautiful, all-encompassing creature, and in a breath, she could devour him, taking all the pieces that were left of his mind.

“You are Zollgarza.” The yochlol’s breath ghosted over his face, that same rich smell of flowers and rot, sweet and terrible. “Loyal servant of the Spider Queen.”

“My memories …”

“Do not think on the past,” the yochlol purred, but there was a note of warning in her voice, a deepening of her crimson gaze. “The past clouds your purpose. Identity, self-these mean nothing to the Spider Queen. You must surrender them to her greater glory.”

“I … but there is such emptiness. The void threatens to consume me.” Those places where identity and self dwell, they were gone. If he couldn’t fill them, he had to know why they’d been taken. “I must give the void meaning. I must know my purpose,” Zollgarza begged.

“You’ve failed in your purpose,” the yochlol said, her gaze turning hard. “Mith Barak lives, and you’ve failed to obtain the Arcane Script Sphere.”

“Forgive me,” Zollgarza said. “The dwarves should have killed me, yet I live. My failure in the eyes of Lolth should have meant my death, yet I live. What is the purpose of it?” His voice shook. “Am I meant to be trapped-caged-forever? Is that my fate? I beg you, Lolth, don’t waste me like this! Don’t damn me to a dwarven prison. I can be so much more to you.”

His voice gave out, and he collapsed, pressing his forehead against the ground at the handmaiden’s feet. The yochlol walked past him, pausing before the altar to run her hand over the blood-filled carvings. Zollgarza followed her with his eyes, not daring to breathe, to hope that she would show him mercy. Lolth was not merciful, but she might give him a second chance if she thought him worthy.

“Is that what you believe?” the handmaiden purred. She lifted her hand from the altar, examining the fresh blood on her fingers. Inhaling the scent, she closed her eyes and with obvious pleasure, licked the blood from her fingers. “Do you believe the goddess sees in you a worthy servant?”

Zollgarza raised himself to his knees and parted the folds of his dark tunic to expose his chest. “I would spill my lifeblood for her. She has only to ask.”

The handmaiden laughed-a hard, cruel sound that echoed in the quiet chamber. “And what is that worth, foolish male?” She held up her bloodstained fingers. “This is the blood of a thousand priestesses, beloved of the goddess, mingled upon the altar to Lolth’s glory. They, too, shed blood willingly for Lolth. Do you claim your blood is purer than theirs?”

“I …” The denial stuck in his throat. Questioning the goddess’s view was not only forbidden but would likely result in a slow and excruciatingly painful death. Yet the words burned in his throat, and the urge to shout a denial, to scream at the demon that she had no idea of what greatness he was capable. Instead, he bowed low again to the handmaiden. “I know my place,” he said through gritted teeth, “but I can be more-to Lolth.”

“Perhaps,” the yochlol said. “But not as you are now. In this form, you are beneath her notice and caring. When you spill your blood and lie dying upon the floor, screaming Lolth’s name, she will not be there to comfort you.”

“Why?” The scream burst from Zollgarza’s soul. He was unable to contain it. Let the handmaiden damn him. Do what she will. He needed answers, or he truly would go mad. “Why won’t the goddess accept my offering? Why am I not worthy?”

“Because you are still becoming.” The yochlol knelt before him and put her hand on his stomach. She let her fingers explore his flesh, drifting below his belt, nails digging in, penetrating his armor as if it were silk. Zollgarza closed his eyes and moaned as the pain and pleasure crashed over him. “You are a child, unable to comprehend what lies ahead.” She grabbed his flesh and twisted savagely.

This time the pain was so blinding, Zollgarza could not find it in himself to scream. He stared at the demon servant of Lolth, begging with his eyes, pleading for answers or for an end to it all.

“Don’t worry,” the handmaiden purred as Zollgarza’s awareness slipped in and out. “You’re almost there. You’re standing at the edge of the gulf. Remember the sphere, Zollgarza. The sphere is the key to finding what you seek. I will make sure you do not forget this.”

The pain came again.