Spider and Stone

CHAPTER TWO

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

13 UKTAR

King Mith Barak entered his audience chamber, A cavernous hall with barrel-vaulted ceilings and towering stone columns inscribed with centuries of Dwarvish runes, names of kings and scholars, miners and smiths. His footsteps echoed the long, lonely distance to his mithral throne, where two other figures stood. They heard the heavy tread and turned.

“My king,” they said, more or less in unison, bowing deeply to him.

Mith Barak waved away the gesture. Instead of seating himself upon the throne, he stood before his counselors, though that wasn’t exactly the right word for them. They held no official rank in his court or among the regency when Mith Barak was in his mithral form, but they were the closest a king could have to friends, the two dwarves Mith Barak trusted most.

He allowed himself a heavy sigh. To no other would he show his weariness, certainly not to the damned drow he had caged, and who had been vexing him with his mysteries.

“He told me nothing new,” the king said in response to the dwarves’ unspoken questions.

“The drow will attack in force,” Joya said. “That hasn’t changed. They’re already invading our outposts, as their mistress commanded.” She touched the holy symbols of Moradin and the lost Haela Brightaxe that hung around her neck. The hammer and the anvil, overlaid by the flaming sword-the symbols looked right together. Mith Barak knew Joya touched the symbols not out of fear, but as a way to draw strength from the presence of one god and the memory of another. Every time he saw the gesture, it reminded Mith Barak how much he loved the girl.

“Yes, they will attack,” Mith Barak said, “but if I squeeze that drow long enough, maybe he’ll tell me when and how big an army to expect.”

The other dwarf, Joya’s father, had been silent, and Mith Barak knew what that silence meant, but he waited for the Blackhorn family patriarch to give voice to his disapproval.

“You said yourself you learned nothing new, my king. It’s time to prepare our own forces and put an end to the drow,” the dwarf said. Torchlight reflecting off the walls cast his features into shadow, but the runes tattooed on his left cheek showed clearly, as did the plaited strands of his gray beard. Chips of white stone hung from those plaits, with more runes inscribed upon them in black rivers. “Give the word, and I will see to it.”

“You were never so bloodthirsty before, Garn,” the king said. “What makes you so eager now to kill the drow?”

“Besides the obvious,” Garn said grimly, “that his people are poised to invade my home and slaughter my kin, we still don’t know why he’s been altered. I don’t want the hand of the spider bitch in my city any more than you do … my king,” he said.

Mith Barak nodded. “Do you agree with him, Joya? What does Moradin reveal of this matter?”

“You know I don’t speak for the Soulforger,” Joya replied with a faint smile, but the humor disappeared quickly. Joya was fair-haired, the blond strands cropped close to her chin. Round faced, pretty, and sweet tempered, her dark blue eyes alone betrayed the infinite grief she bore. “I watched him while he was unconscious, dreaming, and while you probed his mind. It’s as you said-the Spider Queen’s power is all over him and terribly strong. It would take an incredible feat of magic to break down the barriers in his mind. I can think of none in this city capable of it. Whatever secrets he’s hiding, someone wanted them buried deeply.”

“If we can’t hope to uncover his secrets, then all the more reason to destroy him,” Garn said vehemently.

Joya shook her head. “If this drow’s purpose is to bring destruction to the city with his dark magic, who is to say his death will eliminate the threat? What if his death triggers the magic? What if it dooms you, my king? You were his target.”

“And the Arcane Script Sphere,” Mith Barak reminded her. “The artifact is of greater importance to the drow than my death.” Damn the thing, anyway. He hadn’t realized how far the sphere’s call echoed through the Underdark until he’d seen the image of Fizzri mooning over it in Zollgarza’s memories. “It’s trying to free itself,” he said.

“I know,” Joya said quietly. “Its call is strong, enticing. It whispers to me in my dreams as well, begging me to take it up into the World Above.”

“Really? It never speaks in my dreams,” Mith Barak said, though that hardly surprised him. When he slept at all-which was rare-darker voices filled his dreams, waking him in terror. Even if they hadn’t, the sphere knew its appeals were wasted on him. He couldn’t let the artifact go, couldn’t risk it landing in the hands of the drow, especially one so warped by Lolth’s magic as Fizzri Khaven-Ghell. Yet if he killed his drow prisoner now, he might never learn Fizzri’s intent for the sphere and Zollgarza.

“Your daughter is right, Garn, as she usually is,” Mith Barak said. “We can’t risk killing the drow until we know more about Guallidurth’s plan.”

“We’ve got bigger problems anyway,” Garn said, sighing. “There’s a good chance we don’t have the numbers for this fight, my king. If the drow are mustering more than one House against us, we’re in trouble. You know I’d be the last to say it if it weren’t true.”

“I know,” Mith Barak said. “We need to pull back from our outposts, close off as many extraneous routes to the surface as we can. The weaker the drow make us, the more susceptible we’ll be to attack from other quarters. The surface dwellers will take advantage of weakness.” His fists clenched. “They always do.”

THE VILLAGE of THARGRED, TETHYR

20 UKTAR

Arowent Martran did not consider himself a complex soul. He ran a small inn and general store in a village that was little more than a way station north of the city of Saradush. Loving his work as he did, he always chatted with the folk who passed through, whether they were merchants replenishing caravan supplies or adventurers come to purchase one of his own hand-drawn maps of the area.

He prided himself on knowing exactly what sort of folk had walked into his place before they even spoke a word. Tethyrian wine merchants-he could spot them in a breath; escaped Calishite slaves-he’d seen more than one and given them aid; Flaming Fists of Baldur’s Gate-he’d dealt with them too. He was not a complex soul, but he saw clearly all the people who came into his inn.

Maybe that was why the young girl standing before him irritated Arowent so much-he couldn’t immediately see who she was. Well, clearly, she was an adventurer-Arowent wasn’t stupid, after all-but she was so young and yet … not … so fresh, naive looking and yet … she smiled as if she knew something he didn’t-such a damned mystery.

The girl wore dusty road clothes, breeches stained to the knees by dried mud, a cloak with an unseemly tear in the hem, and boots that were too big for her. Stark white streaks ran through her tangled black hair, and her face had more wrinkles at the eyes and mouth than Arowent thought a young girl should have.

“Four candles, lantern oil, two shovels, and a thick blanket, please.” The girl read her order off a scrap of parchment with writing scribbled over every available surface. “Patient gods, Sull,” she muttered, “all you have to do is slow down when you write. Then mayhap normal people could read it.” She glanced up. “Sorry, do you have any spices or … table linens?”

Arowent blinked. “Linens?”

“And spices. I need mint, cinnamon, and ginger, please.” She squinted at the list. “At least I think it says ginger-might be grimoire, but that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”

“Eh?” Arowent was having a hard time keeping up with the girl’s chatter. He heard the front door open and nodded absently to a man leaving the shop. “You’ll have no trouble following that map,” he called after the customer. “Take care, now.”

“Oh, Sull, are you serious?” The girl scowled at her list and read on. “The linens need to be white, but a subtle color on the border is all right too.”

Arowent crossed his arms impatiently. “Are you playing a game with me, little one?” he demanded. “I’m a serious man, and you’ve got no business wasting my-”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, holding up a hand. “I’ll just take the supplies. Forget the linens. Thank you for all your help.”

“Hmph.” Arowent started calculating the girl’s bill when Gelphie, his wife, burst in the back door. Face red, she clutched at her cheeks and uttered a choked little shriek.

“Thief! He took your horse!” she cried.

“Who did?” Arowent ran to the window where he could see out into the stable yard. His heart sank when he saw that the little brown mare he’d bought only a month ago was gone. “Where did he come from?”

“He was in here, you blind ass!” Gelphie shouted, her face getting even redder. “Didn’t you see him?”

His last customer. Arowent slammed his fist against the countertop in frustration. He’d been too busy trying to figure out the dark-haired girl to pay much attention to the thief other than to sell him a map of the area. At this new calamity, he forgot about the girl, so he was surprised when she spoke up in the wake of his wife’s tirade.

“I saw him,” the girl said. She closed her eyes briefly, deepening the wrinkles at their corners. When she opened them, she looked straight at Arowent. “He had a smooth oval face and a jutting chin with two dark freckles near his lip. Hollow cheeks added a gray tinge to his skin-he looked sick to me, or else drunk and trying not to look it. His eyebrows were thin and brown, as was his hair. The clothes on his back were no better than the ones I wear, so he’s been traveling for quite a while. My guess is someone’s hunting him-he had that look in his eye-maybe the law in another village, or someone he owes coin. If he’s sick, though, he won’t get far. Your constable can catch him, if she hurries.”

Arowent and his wife stared wonderingly at the girl, who blushed deeply when she saw their expressions. After a moment, Arowent shook himself out of his stupor and said, “You heard her, Gelphie; go for the constable! Go!”

The woman nodded; cast a quick, furtive glance at the girl; then hurried out the front door. When she was gone, the girl twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers and fidgeted nervously. “Um … my bill?” she reminded him, glancing at the door.

“Aye. We’re out of mint, though.” Arowent collected her goods, named his price, and waited while she fished the coins out of her neck pouch.

“My thanks,” she said as she took the sack of supplies.

“My thanks as well,” he replied, “but how did you know all that about the thief? I never really noticed the man when he came in, and you talked to me most of the time he was here, so you can’t have gotten a good look at him either. You’re not with him, are you?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“No, I’d never seen him before today,” the girl said quickly. She looked longingly at the door, as if she were a breath away from bolting.

Somehow, in spite of her obvious discomfort, Arowent knew she was telling the truth. He knew people well enough to tell when they tried to deceive him. This girl might have secrets and mysteries hiding in her heart, but she wasn’t a liar.

“Well, my thanks for your aid,” he said again.

She was halfway out the door before Arowent realized she hadn’t bought one of his maps. “Are you sure you can find your way?” he called out to her. “It’s easy to get lost around here if you don’t have a decent map.” He thought that would be a sufficient hint.

“Thank you, but I don’t get lost,” the girl said. “I never forget where I’ve been and where I’m going.” She smiled at him, and that smile jolted Arowent. Gods, she looked so young at that moment. Surely she wasn’t traveling alone. Her flippant answer troubled him, but again, he sensed no deception in her.

After she’d gone, Arowent found himself wondering if he should begin stocking table linens in his store. What the girl could possibly want them for he had no idea, but a man has to keep on top of demand if he wants to stay in business. Arowent wasn’t a complex soul, but he was, if nothing else, a good businessman.

Icelin walked along the dusty road with her sack of supplies and berated herself for being an idiot. Occasionally she glanced back toward the inn and store, which were only a small stone speck on the deepening blue horizon, and was relieved each time to realize that no one had followed her.

She knew as soon as she’d opened her mouth to describe the thief that it was a mistake.

You’re not in South Ward anymore, safe in Waterdeep, surrounded by people who know you, she told herself.

Granted those people who’d known Icelin in her old neighborhood had often regarded her with that same suspicion and sometimes fear, but at least they’d known her, and her craziness was of a familiar sort.

Turning off the road, Icelin took a short track into a wood, retracing her steps back to her campsite. She hadn’t lied to the innkeeper. If she concentrated, she could recall the look of every town, farm field, river valley, and clump of helmthorn she and her companions had passed on their journey. One of her greatest gifts-equally a curse-was that her memory was perfect. She never forgot a face, a name, a lover, or an enemy. She never forgot anything. She didn’t need Sull’s shopping list written out for her-one look and she’d have memorized everything on it-but she didn’t like to draw attention to herself or her gift. Of course, she’d managed to go and do it anyway.

Icelin sighed, but she couldn’t stop the small grin that spread across her face when she recalled the innkeeper’s bewildered expression. Her perfect memory, used in the right profession, might have made Icelin a very wealthy woman. From a young age, she’d shown an aptitude for the study of magic. Her teacher, Nelzun, had said her memorization of the Art was extraordinary.

He never anticipated what would happen to the magic when Icelin tried to wield it.

When the first of her spells went wild, he attributed it to the inexperience of a novice. Soon, however, it became clear that though Icelin’s memory was perfect, that very gift tampered with her magic and prevented her from controlling her Art.

In Waterdeep, folk had called her gift an aberration. A more accurate word for it, a word used outside the City of Splendors, was spellscar.

Voices up ahead in a clearing made Icelin quicken her step. The scent of wood smoke and savory hints of chopped garlic filled the air. Beyond the trees, her companions, Ruen and Sull, crouched before a campfire, arguing.

“I’m sayin’ you can’t just throw more wood on the fire whenever you feel like it!” Sull bellowed. His cheeks flushed bright red, matching his frizzy hair and sideburns. In his hand, he clutched a skillet with three fillets of white fish swimming in butter and spices. A giant of a man, he towered over the smaller, scarecrow-like figure that faced him over the blaze.

“I’ve always understood the purpose of a fire is to keep its maker warm, frighten away forest vermin, and to cook meals,” said the thin man calmly. “It’s much less effective if you let the blaze die out, wouldn’t you say?”

Icelin grinned and felt some of the tension ease out of her, though Ruen Morleth was hardly the sort of man to inspire such a reaction on first glance. Tall, and so thin as to appear brittle, he was dressed in black and wore a dirty leather hat on his head that looked perpetually like it was about to fall apart. Beneath the hat’s brim, his eyes were red-brown, the muddy color seeping oddly into his pupils. This was the only outward sign of his affliction, a spellscar of his own, which carried its own unfathomable burden.

The two men had been Icelin’s companions on the road since she’d left Waterdeep several months ago. What would the innkeeper have thought if she’d brought the pair with her to buy supplies? Which would have been the more remarked on: Sull, a former Waterdhavian butcher, who wore his apron to bed so he’d have his meat cleaver and mallet within easy reach? Or Ruen, the former monk, current thief and con artist, with the most unsocial, taciturn, and blunt disposition of anyone Icelin had ever met?

“Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” she called out as she entered the circle of firelight. “I’m not some roving brigand come to rob you and steal your virtues, I’m just the wench returned with the supplies-the heavy supplies, I might add.”

Sull turned, and his furious expression melted into a welcoming grin. “Did you get the seasonin’s, lass?” he asked eagerly.

“They were out of mint.” Icelin dropped the sack at his feet and waved the shopping list under his nose. “And table linens! Are you completely mad? The innkeeper almost had a fit.”

“What?” Sull put the skillet down next to the fire and flaked off a bite of fish with his knife. “I thought we could have a fancy dinner is all. Travelin’ folk can’t have a few home comforts while they’re out in the world?”

“Such as a warm fire?” Ruen muttered.

Sull shot him a deadly look. “I turn my back for one breath, and you get the flames so hot, they dried the fish to a crisp. You won’t be able to taste none of the flavors now. Look what he did.” He swung the skillet under Icelin’s nose.

Steam hit her in the face, and Icelin breathed in the scent of melted butter, lemon, and ground pepper. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything since that cold morningfeast they’d had at dawn. “Yes, it’s an atrocity, a horror. Put some on a plate immediately,” she said, swallowing a sigh of longing. She glanced at Ruen and smiled, though she felt the expression was a bit forced. “What, no greeting from you, Morleth-and after I got that extra blanket you asked for?”

“I heard you coming,” Ruen remarked, taking the fish Sull angrily slapped on his plate. He handed it to Icelin. “Likely so did the rest of the forest. You should learn to walk more quietly.”

“Ah, there now, I knew you’d missed me.” Icelin took the plate and tried to ignore the way her stomach clenched when Ruen made sure not to let his hands touch hers in the exchange. At least he occasionally took his gloves off in her presence. He’d only recently begun doing that.

Not that she blamed him for the instinctive retreat. Ruen had spent his entire life keeping himself apart from other people because of his spellscar. The same force that gave Icelin a perfect memory and made her magic go wild had warped Ruen’s form in an entirely different way. Skin-to-skin contact allowed Ruen to know how long the person he touched had to live. It wasn’t an exact knowledge. The few times he’d discussed it, Ruen described the sensation as a general feeling of cold and foreboding that increased the nearer the person was to death. He hated it, not just the feeling of impending death, but also the idea of having knowledge that only the gods should possess. Thus, he preferred isolation and was careful never to touch anyone close to him.

Around Icelin, his caution bordered on the ridiculous, at least in her opinion.

“Did you finish scouting the ruins?” Icelin asked in an effort to distract herself from the path her thoughts had taken.

Ruen nodded. “There are at least three intact passages that go deep into the ground. Dwarvish runes cover the walls, and there is evidence of a temple to Haela Brightaxe. Her flaming sword is among the symbols. I didn’t go any deeper, but so far, the information we bought is good. The Arcane Script Sphere may be hidden somewhere in the ruins.”

“Assuming it wasn’t stolen or reclaimed by the dwarves,” Icelin said. “I didn’t detect any strong magic emanating from the temple.”

“If it’s a stabilizing conduit for the Art, then perhaps it doesn’t give off powerful magic,” Ruen said. “In that case, it’s a good sign.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the sphere will stabilize magic within a human being,” Icelin pointed out, not for the first time. Ruen’s expression darkened, and Icelin suppressed a sigh.

What was supposed to have been a grand adventure had turned into a two-month-old argument between them. When Icelin had left Waterdeep in Ruen and Sull’s company, she’d thought she was going to see the world, to live an adventurer’s life the way her parents had before her. Instead, almost as soon as they’d left the city, Ruen had become absorbed in this search for knowledge of spellscars. He hoped to find a cure for Icelin’s affliction. Again, Icelin couldn’t fault him for his intentions, and she knew that time was not on their side. But in the past two months, the search had taken on such urgency in Ruen’s mind that he rose from his sleep every morning and drifted off in the evening with nothing but the same thought. He’d pressed them hard and fast, traveling down the Sword Coast at a breakneck pace, following rumors and information purchased with coin they couldn’t always spare.

Then, a tenday ago, they’d found a lead: rumors of an artifact kept by the dwarves called the Arcane Script Sphere, a conduit for arcane magic that had existed since before the time of the Spellplague. The trail led them to Tethyr, to the ruined dwarven temple. Supposedly, this was the artifact’s last known location.

“Hurry and finish,” Ruen said curtly, interrupting Icelin’s thoughts. He rose and dumped the rest of his fish into the fire. He hadn’t been eating enough either, a fact that drove Sull-a dedicated cook-crazy. “We need to get to sleep, so we can start early tomorrow.”

“Where are you going, then?” Sull asked when Ruen strode away from the fire.

“I want to check the entrance to the ruins again. I won’t be long.”

“Stubborn, bull-headed, annoying man,” Icelin muttered, just loud enough for Ruen to hear as he walked away. He ignored her, so she turned to Sull. “He’s going to drive himself into the grave if he’s not careful. Can’t you talk to him, Sull?”

The butcher flushed but not from anger this time. Icelin recognized that cornered expression. Sull never liked to get in the middle of their arguments. He always said it was a dangerous place to be. “He means well, lass,” Sull said, “even if he does go about it all wrong sometimes.”

“He burned your fish,” Icelin reminded him, though he really had done no such thing. Why couldn’t Sull take her side when she needed him?

“He’s in a hurry,” Sull said, his gaze following Ruen’s path through the trees. “When you’re young, you don’t notice the way time’s passin’, but when you get older …” He cleared his throat and glanced at her with an uneasy expression. “When you get older, you look ahead of you less and less. You look behind instead, and when you weigh the two together, you realize how much time’s been wasted.”

Icelin put her plate on the grass and sighed. “I know that better than anyone, Sull.”

“And you the youngest among us,” Sull said with a humorless chuckle. “The gods have a wearisome sense of humor sometimes.”

“Maybe not,” Icelin said. “I try not to think of it too much, but when I do consider all that I’ve been given, there is a bit of balance.”

“How do you figure that?” Sull asked.

Icelin shrugged. “My spellscar has shortened my life, but it also lets me forget nothing. All my memories of the life I’ve led-growing up in my great uncle’s house; the day I met you in your butcher shop; the night I met Ruen on the harbor, and the first thing I saw was that ridiculous hat of his.…” Her voice wavered. She cleared her throat. “Our adventures together in Mistshore, dangerous as they were, were some of the most exciting times of my life, and I have them all, every detail vivid in my mind. I won’t lose them.”

“Good memories are all any of us can ask for, in the end,” Sull agreed. “Good memories and no regrets.”

“No regrets,” Icelin echoed. She rose and helped Sull gather up the plates and cooking tools.

“Get some sleep,” Sull told her. “I’ll wash these up first thing in the morning.”

Suddenly weary, Icelin didn’t argue. She spread out her bedroll near the fire and burrowed into the blankets.

In Tethyr, the days stayed warm and humid, even in the winter months, but the nights still felt cold to Icelin. She watched the flickering firelight, listening to Sull move about the camp and settle in for his watch. Letting her mind wander, she closed her eyes and pictured Waterdeep, the wagon trails of Caravan City, the perpetual dust in the air and the shouts of the drovers and whicker of dozens of horses. The city’s heart beat with her, even here, in the distant south. Faerun’s heart beat all around her. She felt it in the swaying oaks and in the cool earth, where fabled cities of light and dark spread deeper roots beneath her.

They were little more than tales to her, legends spoken of by firelight, but Icelin liked to imagine the people moving about above and below. Movement and life reminded her in turn that she was alive, that she took part in it all.

A vast, lively, and aching world. Icelin drifted off to sleep thinking how all the tales spoke truth.

Icelin dreamed of Waterdeep.

The dream was also a memory, five years old, one Icelin slipped into unwillingly. She used to wake from it screaming, sweat and tears streaming down her face. But she had learned to live with the pain, and the nightmare didn’t quite terrorize her the way it used to.

She walked with her teacher down the mildewed quays of Dock Ward, listening to him drill her on what spells she could call to mind quickly if attacked in a crowd. The day had been blisteringly hot. She remembered the stench of rotting garbage in the alley between a tavern with two cracked windows in the front, and a boardinghouse made of old, warped wood. Five people moved about on the top floor beneath a sagging roof, though Icelin wouldn’t know that until later. Glaring sunlight reflected off the water. The day had crystallized in Icelin’s memory, and not just because her spellscar made her recall it with perfect clarity. In many ways, this had been the defining moment of her young life, the day her childhood ended.

As she walked beside Nelzun, up ahead, the door to the tavern crashed open, and men spilled out onto the quay. A fight had erupted within; Icelin had never found out what the fight had been about, but when she saw one man hit the ground in front of her, his face covered in blood, and another follow after with sword drawn, she reacted without thinking. She raised her hands and cast a spell, intending to defend the man on the ground. It should have been a very small fire spell.

She remembered how the incantation trembled from her lips. Fire erupted from her fingertips and spread out before her in a billowing sheet. The men with weapons fell back, surprised by the magical assault, and a small squeal of triumph escaped her lips. She thought she’d done well and looked to Nelzun for his approval.

Then it all went wrong.

She watched as the sheet of fire grew, arching up like a wave. But her horror was supplanted by agony as the wild magic roiled through her small body. She couldn’t contain it. The red wave engulfed the dry tinder of the boardinghouse.

Helpless, screaming, Icelin watched the dream play out. The roof of the boardinghouse collapsed, killing all five people on the top floor instantly. Nelzun helped get the others on the first floor to safety, but the effort claimed his life. He’d died on the quay in front of her.

The accident had made Icelin swear off the Art forever. For a long time, she’d kept the wild magic contained within her, until she’d met Ruen and Sull and had her adventure in Mistshore. She’d never completely forgiven herself for the fire, the lives she’d inadvertently taken, but she’d learned to live with the scars of the past, to look to the future instead.

She expected the dream to end here, as it usually did, with Icelin cradling her teacher’s body in her arms. Yet it didn’t. The fire burned on, and as she crouched on the quay, Icelin felt a presence behind her, as if someone were watching her from the shadows.

Are you a wizard? A soft, feminine voice echoed inside her mind.

I tried to be. Icelin buried her face in her teacher’s robes. But that day, I was a monster.

You attempted to tame a force far beyond your control. It was not your fault.

Icelin shook her head. She would not deny her responsibility. I could have chosen not to cast the spell.

You are a wizard. Would you ask a bird not to fly?

A bird cannot set the world on fire with its wings.

Icelin thought she heard the unseen woman’s tinkling laughter. You’ve not seen phoenixes leap from the fires of their own deaths. Stand too near their beauty, and you will burn.

The fire, the screams of the dying, Nelzun’s body, all of it faded, leaving only darkness and the woman’s voice. Icelin felt a chill fall over her. Who are you? Why do you speak to me in dreams?

Set me free, said the woman’s voice, a plaintive, hollow echo in Icelin’s mind. All traces of amusement were gone, replaced by a longing that pulled at Icelin’s heart. I can help you control the force within you. I am meant for you.

Who are you? Icelin repeated, trying to free herself from the darkness, to wake.

You know. You are already looking for me, the voice said. Come to me. Find the sphere, and you will find me.

“The sphere?” Icelin woke with a start, realizing she’d said the words aloud. Her voice was raspy from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and went back over the details of the dream, which due to her gift, did not fade the longer she was awake. Rather, they became clearer, and the more she thought about it, the more unsettled Icelin became. She’d dreamed of the boardinghouse fire many times, especially in the first year after the tragedy happened, but never before had the dream mixed with details of her present life the way this one had.

The Arcane Script Sphere must have been more on her mind than she realized. Of course, that was hardly surprising. It was the closest thing they’d found to a lead on a cure since they’d left Waterdeep. Yet the woman’s voice had seemed so real, as if she’d crouched next to Icelin and whispered in her ear.

As if she were calling to me.

Icelin shook her head. More likely she was just overtired and her imagination was getting away from her, though she must have slept longer than she’d thought. The sky had begun to lighten, and there were not so many stars visible as when she’d lain down. Icelin noticed she was no longer cold, either. Blinking, she looked down at herself and realized an extra blanket covered her. Icelin recognized the blanket she’d bought the day before at the shop-the one Ruen had asked her to buy for him.

Oh, damn the man, anyway, Icelin thought, but she felt warmth spreading through her chest, warmth that had nothing to do with the extra blanket. She buried her face in the softness and allowed herself a soft smile.

Her head snapped up. Ruen wasn’t in camp, and neither was Sull. Icelin thought they might have gone off to wash the cooking utensils, but those still lay in a pile near the fire, the butter congealed in the bottom of the skillet.

“Sull? Ruen?” Icelin called. It was silly, this sudden uneasiness that enveloped her. Icelin told herself they were probably just attending to their needs in the trees somewhere or washing up at the little stream nearby.

Ruen strode into the camp then, and the expression on his face made Icelin’s heartbeat quicken. “Sull’s gone,” he said. “He told me a while ago he was going to look for some mint growing wild, but he hasn’t come back yet. I was going to look for him, but I didn’t want to go too far while you were sleeping.”

Dreams and warmth forgotten, Icelin sprang from her bedroll and grabbed her boots.