Extinction

Chapter Two

Halisstra stood on top of the bluff, staring out across the forest. Snow-blanketed trees stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction, here and there dimpled by a lake of an impossibly bright blue or divided by a road as neat and straight as a part through hair. For the first time, Halisstra understood what the word “horizon” meant. It was that distant line where the dark green of the forest met the eye-hurting, white-streaked blue of the sky.

Beside her, Ryld shivered.

“I don’t like it up here,” he said, holding a hand to his eyes to shade them. “It makes me feel... exposed.”

Halisstra glanced at the sweat trickling down Ryld’s ebony temple and shivered herself as the chill winter wind blew against her face. The climb had been a long, hot one, despite the age-worn stairs they’d found carved into the rock at one side of the bluff. She couldn’t explain what had compelled her to lead Ryld up there, nor could she explain why she felt none of the apprehensions the weapons master did. Yet despite his anxiety, Ryld—who stood fully as tall as Halisstra herself, even though he was a male—was in every respect a warrior. He wore a greatsword strapped across his back; a cuirass with a breastplate wrought of dwarven bronze; and vambraces, articulated at the elbows, that sheathed his lean, muscled arms in heavy steel. A short sword for fighting at close quarters hung in a scabbard at his hip. His hair was cut close to his scalp so that enemies could not grab it during combat. Only a fine stubble remained: hair as white as Halisstra’s own shoulder-length locks.

“There was a surface dweller—a human mage—who dwelt for a short time in Ched Nasad,” Halisstra said. The vastness of the sky above them made her speak softly; it felt as if the gods were lurking up there just behind the clouds, watching. “He spoke of how our city made him feel like he was living in a room with too low a ceiling—that he was always aware of the roof of the cavern over his head. I laughed at him; how could anyone feel enclosed in a city that was so loosely woven—a city balanced on the thin lines of a calcified web? But now I think I understand what he meant.” She gestured up at the sky. “This all feels so … open.”

Ryld grunted and asked, “Have you seen enough? We’re not going to find an entrance to the Underdark up here. Let’s climb back down and get out of the wind.”

Halisstra nodded. The wind found its way inside the armor she wore, even through the thickly padded chain mail tunic that covered her from neck to knees, and from shoulders to elbows. A silver plate attached to the tunic’s chest was embossed with the symbol of a sword, standing point-up across a full moon surrounded by a nimbus of silvery filaments. It was the holy symbol of Eilistraee, goddess of the surface-dwelling drow. The padding of the chain mail still smelled of blood—that of the priestess Halisstra had dispatched. The smell haunted the armor like a lingering ghost, even though the blood was several days old.

Halisstra had not only claimed the armor from Seyll after her own armor was stolen, but also Seyll’s shield and weapons—including a slender long sword with a hollow hilt that had holes running the length of it—a hilt that could be raised to the lips and played like a flute. A beautiful weapon, but it hadn’t helped Seyll any—she’d died before getting a chance to draw it. Lulled by Halisstra’s feigned interest in her goddess, Seyll had been utterly surprised by Halisstra’s sudden attack. And despite Halisstra’s treachery, Seyll had told her, “I have hope for you still.” She’d said it with such certainty, as if, even in her final, dying moments, she expected Halisstra to save her.

She’d been a fool. Yet Halisstra could no more get the priestess’s dying words out of her mind than she could get the smell of blood out or the armor she’d claimed.

Was this what guilt felt like: a lingering stench that wouldn’t go away?

Angered by her own weakness, Halisstra shook the thought out of her head. Seyll had deserved to die. The priestess was stupid to have trusted a person who was not of her faith—even more foolish to trust a fellow drow.

Still, Halisstra thought, as she paused to let Ryld descend the stairs first, Seyll had been right about one thing. It would be nice not to always have to watch your back.

Ryld descended the stairs in silence, listening to the faint clink of Halisstra’s chain mail and trying in vain to pull his mind away from the shapely legs he would see if he would just turn around. Where was his concentration? As a Master of Melee-Magthere, he ought to have more control, but Halisstra had ensnared him in a web of desire stronger than any Lolth’s magic could spin.

At the bottom of the stairs, away from the chilling wind of the open bluff, Halisstra paused to finger a crescent shape that had been carved into the rock.

“This was a holy place, once,” she said, looking over the scatter of broken columns that lay among the snow-shrouded trees.

Ryld scowled. In the World Above, vegetation covered everything like an enormous mold. He missed the clean rock walls of the caverns, empty of the smells of wet loam and leaf that choked his nose. He scuffed at the snow with his boot, uncovering a cracked marble floor.

“How can you tell?” he asked.

“The crescent moon—it’s the symbol of Corellon Larethia. The elves who once lived in these woods must have worshiped here. Their priests probably climbed these stairs to work their magic under the moon.”

Ryld squinted up at the ball of fire that hung in the sky.

“The moon’s not as bright as the sun,” he said, “at least.”

“It casts a softer light,” Halisstra replied. “I’ve heard that this is because the gods who claim it as their symbol are kinder to those who worship them—but I don’t know if that’s true.”

Ryld stared for a while at the ruined masonry then said, “The gods of the surface elves can’t be very strong. Corellon let this temple fall into disrepair, and Seyll’s goddess was powerless to save her from you.”

Halisstra nodded and replied, “That’s true. Yet when Lolth tried to overthrow Corellon and establish a new coronal in his place all those millennia ago, she was defeated and forced to flee to the Abyss.”

“The Academy teaches that the goddess left Arvandor willingly,” Ryld said. Then he shrugged. “More of a strategic retreat.”

“Perhaps,” Halisstra mused. “Still, I can’t help but think that what we saw in the Demonweb Pits—that black stone in the frozen image of Lolth’s face—was a lock, a seal that made Lolth’s own temple a prison. A prison fashioned by some other god’s hand. Will Lolth eventually emerge from behind it—or will she remain trapped for eternity, her magic forever stilled?”

“That’s what Quenthel means to discover,” Ryld said.

“As do I,” Halisstra answered. “But for different reasons. If Lolth is dead, or trapped in eternal Reverie, what point is there in following Quenthel’s orders?”

“What point?” Ryld exclaimed. He was beginning to see the dangerous fork in the road down which Halisstra’s musings had taken her. “Only this: spells or no spells, Quenthel Baenre is both Mistress of Arach-Tinilith and First Sister to the Matron Mother of House Baenre. Were I to defy Quenthel, I’d lose my position as Master of Melee-Magthere. The moment Menzoberranzan learned of my treachery, everyone in the Academy would have their daggers out and be thirsting for my blood.”

Halisstra sighed and said, “That’s true. But perhaps in another city?”

“I have no desire to beg for scraps at someone else’s table,” Ryld said bluntly. “And the only city in which I might have made a home for myself—with the sponsorship of your House—has been destroyed. With Ched Nasad gone, you have no home to return to. All the more reason to get in Quenthel’s good favor, so that when we return to the Underdark you can find a new home in Menzoberranzan.”

After a long moment of silence, Halisstra said, “What if I don’t?”

“What?” Ryld said.

“What if I don’t return to the Underdark?”

Ryld glanced at the forest that hemmed them in on every side. Unlike the solid, silent tunnels he was used to, the wall of trees and underbrush was porous, filled with rustling and creaking, and the quick, tiny movements of animals flitting from branch to branch. Ryld couldn’t decide which was worse: the shrinking feeling he’d experienced under the empty expanse of the sky; or the feeling he had then—as though the woods were watching them.

“You’re mad,” he told Halisstra. “You’d never survive out here alone. Especially without spells to—”

As anger blazed in Halisstra’s eyes, Ryld suddenly regretted his rash words. With all Halisstra’s talk of surface gods, he’d forgotten, for a moment, that she was also a priestess of Lolth and a female of a noble House, He started to bow deeply and beg her pardon, but she surprised him by laying a hand on his arm.

Then she said something, in a low murmur he had to strain to hear: “Together we’d survive.”

He stared at her, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him. All the while, he was overwhelmingly aware of her hand upon his arm. The touch of her fingers was light, but it seemed to burn his skin, flushing him with warmth.

“We might survive up here,” he admitted, then wished he hadn’t spoken when he saw the gleam in Halisstra’s eyes.

The alliance he’d just unintentionally committed to would probably be no more solid than his friendship with Pharaun. Halisstra would maintain it as long as it furthered her goals, then would drop it the instant it became inconvenient. Just as Pharaun had abandoned Ryld, leaving him to face impossible odds, when the pair of them were trying to escape from Syrzan’s stalactite fortress.

Ryld’s meditative skills had saved his life then and allowed him to fight his way free. Later, when he’d met up with Pharaun again, the mage had clapped him on the back and pretended that he’d fully anticipated, all along, that Ryld would survive. Why else would he have abandoned his “dearest friend?”

Halisstra gave Ryld a smile that made her look both cunning and beautiful in one. “Here’s what we’ll do...” she began.

Inwardly, Ryld winced at the word “we,” but he kept his face neutral as he listened.

Danifae watched from behind a tree as Halisstra and Ryld stood in the ruined temple, talking. It was clear they were plotting something. Their voices were pitched too low for Danifae to hear, and they leaned in toward one another like conspirators. I was also clear, from the quick kiss Ryld gave Halisstra as the conversation ended, that they had become, or would soon become, lovers.

Watching them, Danifae felt a cold, still anger. Not jealousy—she cared nothing for either Ryld or Halisstra—but frustration born of the fact that she had not seduced Ryld first.

Danifae was more beautiful than her former mistress by far. Where Halisstra was lean, with small breasts and slim hips, Danifae was sensuously curvaceous. Halisstra’s hair was merely white, whereas Danifae’s had lustrous silver tones.

As for Halisstra’s face, well, it was pretty enough, with its slightly snubbed nose and common, coal-red eyes, but Danifae had the advantage of skin softer than the blackest velvet, lips that curled in a perpetual pout, and eyebrows that formed a perfect white arch over each of her strikingly colored, pale gray eyes. An advantage she should have used earlier, judging by the display of mawkish sentimentality Danifae had stumbled upon.

Quenthel was already in play, though the older, more experienced priestess was not wholly unaware of Danifae’s immediate desires. It didn’t take a genius to see why Danifae had seduced the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. It was almost to be expected.

Danifae anticipated a more complicated time of it when she’d have to take on Pharaun and Valas. The Master of Sorcere was wily. He would surely be difficult to fool once things began to turn, but his open dislike of Quenthel gave her something to use. Valas was bought and paid for by House Baenre, and that kind of gold was something Danifae wouldn’t likely happen upon anytime soon. That would be delicate. And Jeggred, well...

But Ryld, with this strange infatuation with her soon-to-be-former mistress, would be a tougher nut to crack.

What good was playing sava, she thought, if you don’t control all of the game pieces?

Valas strode into the ruins, followed by Pharaun and Quenthel, and, a moment later, by the loping Jeggred. The false smile Halisstra gave Quenthel and the way Ryld deliberately met Pharaun’s eyes, confirmed Danifae’s suspicions. Halisstra was preparing to betray her fellow priestess and Ryld his former friend.

Danifae smiled. She didn’t know what they were up to—yet—but whatever it was, she was certain it could be turned to her advantage. She walked out into the clearing, joining them.

With a quick snap of her whip, Quenthel motioned for the others to gather around her.

“Valas has found an entrance to the Underdark,” she announced. “Once we’re safely below, Pharaun will cast a spell. We’re going back to the Demonweb Pits. But not all of us. One of you will carry a message back to Menzoberranzan, to the matron mother.”

As Quenthel’s eyes ranged over the group, Danifae noted the indecision they held. Quenthel was obviously uncertain whom she could spare—or trust. Seizing her chance, Danifae prostrated herself before the high priestess.

“Let me do your bidding, Mistress,” she said. “I will serve you as faithfully as I have served Lolth.”

As she spoke, she cast a baleful eye on Halisstra, hoping Quenthel would take her point. Halisstra had acted blasphemously during their recent journey to the Demonweb Pits and was not to be trusted.

Or course, neither was Danifae. She had no intention or going to Menzoberranzan if she was chosen. Not when there was a wizard in Sschindylryn who might be able to help her to free herself, once and for all, from the odious Binding that tied her to Halisstra.

Danifae felt Quenthel touch her hair, and she looked up expectantly.

“No, Danifae,” Quenthel said, the touch turning into a gentle stroke. “You will stay with me.”

Danifae ground her teeth. Apparently, she’d done too good a job of seducing Quenthel.

Halisstra stepped forward—and, to Danifae’s astonishment, also fell to her knees in front of Quenthel.

“Mistress,” Halisstra said. “Let me carry the message for you. I know that I failed you earlier, in the shadow of the goddess’s own temple. I beg of you now. Please let me... redeem myself.”

“No!” Danifae spat. “She’s up to something. She has no intention of going to Menzoberranzan. She—”

Halisstra laughed.

“And just where would I go, Danifae?” she asked. “Ched Nasad lies in ruins. I no longer have a House to return to. I need to make a new home for myself—in Menzoberranzan. And what better way to start than by braving the dangers of the World Above to carry a vital message to the First House?”

Danifae’s eyes narrowed. She could sense that Halisstra was up to something.

“You’d travel to Menzoberranzan on the surface?” she asked, spitting out the word. “Alone? Through woods crawling with House Jaelre? You’d be captured again before night fell.”

Danifae was pleased to see Quenthel nodding—she was obviously about to reject Halisstra’s foolish notion and send Danifae, instead. Then Halisstra’s lips quirked into a smile—and Danifae realized that, somehow, unwittingly, she’d just played right into Halisstra’s hands.

“This will see me through,” said Halisstra, patting the leather case that held her lyre. “I know a bae’qeshel song that will allow me to walk on wind. Using it, I could reach Menzoberranzan in a tenday, at most.”

Danifae’s eyes narrowed and she said, “I’ve never seen you use a spell like that.”

“What use would it have been in the Underdark?” Halisstra said with a shrug. “There’s no wind—and if there were, I’d only walk straight into a cavern wall. Regardless, I have not been, nor am I now, in the habit of justifying myself to a battle-captive. Our situation has changed some, Danifae, but not entirely.”

Not yet, Danifae thought, then she grasped Quenthel’s knee and pleaded, “Don’t send her. Send me. If Halisstra dies, I—”

“You’d be very, very sorry, wouldn’t you?” Quenthel said with a smirk. She was well aware of the particulars of the Binding. “Halisstra will go. With you here, we will be able to trace her, and at least know that she still lives. And the two of you Houseless wretches are the most expendable.”

Danifae lowered her eyes in acquiescence, even though inwardly she burned with impotent anger. Halisstra, on her own in the World Above, would almost certainly be killed. It would only be a matter of time.

And when she died, the magic of the Binding would see to it that Danifae died, too.