Resurrection

Chapter Three

As he stepped through the portal, Pharaun felt for a moment as though he were being stretched between two points, elongated across a vast distance until he was drawn as thin as the finest parchment. For a fraction of a heartbeat, though he knew it to be absurd and illogical, he felt as if he existed in two places at once.

Then it was over. He snapped forward in space and caught up with the rest of himself at the portal’s destination. Healed and refreshed from Quenthel’s and Danifae’s spells, he stood under a nighttime sky on the rocky ground of the Demonweb Pits, Lolth’s domain.

Quenthel stood to his right, regal and serene. Danifae and Jeggred stood to his left, a small,

dangerous spider and her hulking draegloth. A cool wind blew from the...

Pharaun frowned. He had no sense of direction and nothing from which to gain his bearings.

Danifae looked around, one hand absently tangled in Jeggred’s filthy mane. The wind pressed the former battle-captive’s piwafwi against her body, tracing a sensuous line along the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. She smiled and started to speak, but Quenthel interrupted her.

“We have arrived,” Quenthel said in a hushed voice, looking out over the landscape. “The goddess’s name be praised.”

That seems a bit much, Pharaun thought but did not say. He saw little worthy of praise. Lolth might have moved the Demonweb Pits from the Abyss to its own domain, but the plane remained little more than the same blasted wasteland. He recalled that other gods in the drow pantheon—among them Kiaransalee and Vhaeraun—maintained domains somewhere in the Demonweb Pits.

Pharaun could not see where. From what he could see, the whole of the plane was Lolth’s.

They stood in the darkness atop a low rise overlooking a rolling plain of rocks that extended to the limits of their darkvision. In the distance, lakes of some caustic substance bled thick smoke into the air. Great chasms and gorges scored the landscape, open wounds in the earth whose depths Pharaun could not determine from afar. Caves, pits, and craters opened everywhere in the soil, like burst boils, or perhaps screaming mouths. Pharaun saw no vegetation of any kind, not even scrub or fungus. The land appeared dead, blasted as if from a great cataclysm.

Thin, curiously curved and kinked tors of black rock jutted at odd angles from the earth. The smallest of them stood as tall as Narbondel but half as big around, and the wind and weather had left each as pockmarked and hole-ridden as the corpses that had littered the streets of the Braeryn a decade before, when black pox had run rampant among Menzoberranzan’s poor. There were hundreds of them, and several had toppled over the years. The broken chunks lay strewn over the ground.

Pharaun studied them for a few moments more, struck with something about their shape. They were reminiscent of something...

“Are those the petrified legs of spiders?” he asked and was certain of it even as the words left his mouth.

“Impossible,” Jeggred said with a snort.

But Pharaun knew better. The spires of black stone poking out of the ground were the weathered legs of petrified spiders, spiders that must have been as large in life as the stalactite fortress of House Mizzrym. The Pits had buried their bodies long ago, leaving only the legs exposed. Pharaun imagined the bloated stone bodies that must lie below the surface. He wondered if the spiders had died and been turned to stone in whatever cataclysm had left the Demonweb Pits a wasteland.

“If Master Mizzrym is right,” Quenthel said, eyes flashing, “we would have been blessed indeed to have seen such servants of the Spider Queen in life.”

Pharaun thought that he had seen more than enough servants of Lolth already. He put the huge, dead arachnids out of his mind and examined his surroundings more closely.

Webs covered everything, some of ordinary size, some of enormous proportions. They hung like silvery curtains between many of the spires, blanketed the tunnel mouths, shrouded the open ground, blew over the landscape in sticky balls, and floated on the wind like the snow Pharaun had felt on the World Above. Some were larger than the calcified webs of Ched Nasad.

“Her webs encase all,” Quenthel said.

“And the world is her prey,” Danifae added.

Behind them, there was no evidence of the portal. The journey from the old Demonweb Pits to the new had been one way. Spells would have to return them home, if they returned home.

The wind picked up into a gust, spraying dirt and webs. An eerie keening gave Pharaun gooseflesh.

It took him a moment to pinpoint the source of the sound: some of the webs, thick-stranded, silvery nets strung here and there, vibrated when the wind passed through them. The vibrations caused a haunting scream that rose and fell with the breeze. The spinners of the webs were head-sized, long legged, elegant looking spiders with narrow red-and-yellow bodies.

“Songspider webs,” Quenthel said, following Pharaun’s gaze. A hint of awe colored her tone.

“The voice of Lolth.”

She held her viper-headed whip in one hand and the five red and black snakes swayed to the keening, as though hypnotized. Quenthel leaned an ear toward the serpents and nodded at something they mentally communicated to her.

“The webs call to Lolth’s Chosen,” Danifae added, eyeing Quenthel.

“Indeed,” Quenthel said, giving Danifae a veiled look.

Pharaun thought “Lolth’s Chosen ” a poor choice of words. Even he knew that the Spider Queen did not so much choose as offer. The one who seized her offer—Quenthel, no doubt—would become her Chosen.

In any event, he heard no words in the keening of the webs, though he did not doubt Danifae’s claim. Lolth spoke only to her priestesses, not to males.

He looked up to see a cloudy, starless night sky roofing the ruined landscape. Through a single hole in the cloud cover, like a window, a cluster of eight red orbs glared earthward. Seven burned brightly; one was dimmer. They were grouped like the eyes of a spider, like Lolth’s eyes.

Pharaun felt the weight of them on his back.

Below the clouds but still high in the sky, green, yellow, and silver vortices of power churned and spun. Some lasted a breath, some longer; but all eventually dissolved into a hissing explosion of sparks as new vortexes formed. Pharaun took them to be a byproduct of Lolth’s reawakening, the remnants of divine dreams, perhaps, or the afterbirth of chaos. Often, one of the vortices would eject what Pharaun assumed to be a soul.

The glowing spirits thronged the night sky, a semi-translucent, colorful swarm flitting through the dark like a cloud of cave bats. Most of them were drow, Pharaun saw, though he saw too an occasional half-drow, draegloth, and even a rare human. They paid no heed to Pharaun and his company—if they could even see them from so high up—but instead fell into a rough line and flew off in generally the same direction.

“A river of souls,” Jeggred said.

“Which appears to have a current,” Pharaun observed, watching the souls form up and flow as one toward some unknown destination.

“Lolth has broken her Silence and now draws her dead to her,” Danifae murmured. “They are nothing but shadows now, but they will be re-clad in flesh if their petition is accepted.”

Quenthel stared at Danifae with a look of such contempt that Pharaun could not help but admire the expressiveness of her features.

“Only if they reach Lolth’s city and are found worthy, battle-captive,” Quenthel said. “That is a journey that I, and only I, have already made once.”

Danifae answered Quenthel with an impertinent stare. The expression did nothing to diminish the beauty of her face.

“No doubt the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith was found worthy as a shade,” Danifae said, and her tone made the words more question than statement. More importantly, her choice of honorific suggested that she did not acknowledge Quenthel to be the highest ranking priestess in attendance.

Quenthel’s eyes narrowed in anger, but before she could respond, Danifae said, “And no doubt the Yor’thae too must make the journey to Lolth’s city to be found worthy. Not so, Mistress Quenthel?”

Another strong breeze excited the webs near them and set them again to singing. In the keening, Pharaun fancied he heard the whisper of “Yor’thae.”

Quenthel and the serpents of her whip eyed Danifae. The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith tilted her head at something projected into her mind by her scourge.

“Can you not answer that question without the aide of your whip, aunt?” Jeggred said with sneer.

The heads of Quenthel’s weapon swirled with agitation. The high priestess kept her face passive and strode up to the draegloth and Danifae. Both priestesses seemed lost in the shadow of Jeggred’s bulk.

Jeggred uttered a low growl.

“Did you say something to me, nephew?” Quenthel asked, and the serpents of her whip flicked their tongues.

Jeggred stared down at his aunt and opened his mouth to speak.

Danifae placed a hand on the muscular forearm of his fighting arm, and the draegloth held his tongue.

“You spoke out of turn, Jeggred,” Danifae said and lightly slapped his arm. “Forgive him, Mistress Quenthel.”

Quenthel turned her gaze to Danifae while her whip serpents continued to regard Jeggred with cold menace.

Quenthel stood a full hand taller than Danifae, and with the strength granted her by her magical belt she probably could have snapped the younger priestess’s spine with her hands. The battle-captive kept her hand clear of the haft of her morningstar.

“For a moment, it seemed as if you had forgotten yourself, Danifae Yauntyrr,” Quenthel said, in a tone of voice reserved for scolding children. “Perhaps the planar travel has disoriented you?”

Before Danifae could answer, Quenthel’s gaze hardened and she said, “Allow me to remind you that I am the High Priestess Quenthel Baenre, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Tier Breche, First Sister of House Baenre of Menzoberranzan. You are a battle-captive, the daughter of a dead House, a presumptuous child lacking the wisdom to temper your snide tongue.” She held up a hand to forestall Danifae’s response. “I will forgive your presumption this time, but consider well your next words. When Lolth’s decision is made, her Chosen may feel compelled to right previous insolence.”

Beside Danifae, Jeggred’s rapid respiration sounded like a duergar’s forge bellows. The powerful claws on the ends of his fighting arms clenched and unclenched. He looked at his aunt as though she were a piece of meat.

In answer, the heads of Quenthel’s whips hissed into his face.

Out of prudence, Pharaun called to mind the words to a spell that would immobilize Jeggred, should the need arise. He knew where his loyalties would lie if the rift between Quenthel and Danifae became an open battle. Quenthel had just recited her title to Danifae. Pharaun would have added one more: Yor’thae of the Spider Queen. Lolth had brought Quenthel back from the dead. For what other purpose would the Spider Queen have done so?

To her credit, Danifae stood her ground in the face of Quenthel’s anger and showed not the least fear. Her striking gray eyes revealed nothing. She lifted her hand and made as though to raise it to Quenthel’s face, perhaps to stroke her cheek. When the whip-serpents turned from Jeggred to hiss and snap at her fingers, she jerked it back.

“Those days are past,” Quenthel said, through a tight jaw.

Danifae sighed and smiled. “I seek only to see that you fulfill your destiny, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith,” she said, “and to do the will of the Spider Queen.”

While Pharaun mentally dissected the reply for the meaning within the meaning, Quenthel said, “We all know what is the will of the Spider Queen. Just as we all know who will be the Spider Queen’s Chosen. Speaking names is unnecessary. Signs will bespeak the Yor’thae. Let each interpret those as they will. But an unfortunate fate awaits those who misinterpret.”

Danifae’s beautiful face adopted an unreadable veil but she held Quenthel’s eyes. “An unfortunate fate indeed,” she said.

Quenthel gave Danifae a final look, turned back to the draegloth, and asked, “And you, Jeggred. You have had an opportunity to reconsider your course. Is there something you wish to say to me now?”

Pharaun could hardly contain a grin. Quenthel Baenre had arrived in Lolth’s domain a new woman. No longer was she the whispering, diffident female who spoke only to her whip; she was once again the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith who had led them from Menzoberranzan, the First Sister of the most powerful House of the city.

In that moment, Pharaun thought her more sexually appealing than even Danifae.

In the next moment, he realized he had been too long away from his paid harlots.

Jeggred too must have sensed the change in his aunt. Had Pharaun ever pitied anything in his life—he had not, of course—he might have pitied the draegloth. Instead, he found Jeggred’s obvious discomfiture amusing and deserved. The half-demon had thrown his allegiance to Danifae and was facing the consequences of that mistake. Quenthel would not be forgiving.

Jeggred started to speak, but Danifae, still staring at Quenthel, shook her head, once only, a small gesture that quieted the draegloth as effectively as a silence spell.

“Softly,” Danifae commanded.

Jeggred deflated and said to Quenthel, “No... aunt.”

He did not make eye contact. His four hands went slack to his sides, and his eyes dropped.

Pharaun cocked an eyebrow in appreciation. By referring to Quenthel by her familial instead of her formal title, Jeggred had avoided directly offending Quenthel further yet had not contradicted anything implied by Danifae. Perhaps the half-demon was but a half-oaf instead of a whole.

While her whip kept vigil over Danifae and Jeggred, Quenthel turned to Pharaun, insulting Danifae by showing her her back.

“And you, Master of Sorcere,” she asked, “have you any thoughts on this matter?”

Pharaun knew she didn’t really want his opinion; he was only a male, after all. She wanted him to make his loyalties clear. He considered evading the question but quickly decided against it. House Baenre was the First House of Menzoberranzan; Gromph Baenre was his superior;

Quenthel Baenre was or soon would be Lolth’s Chosen. The time had passed for vagaries.

Perhaps as a reward for straightforwardness Quenthel would allow him to kill Jeggred.

“Mistress,” he replied, and his use of the title gave his answer to Quenthel’s question, “it appears that Master Hune has taken his leave.”

Quenthel smiled and her gaze showed approval.

Behind the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Danifae glared hate at him. Jeggred licked his lips and the promise of violence in the draegloth’s eyes was clear.

“Hune served his purpose, Master Mizzrym,” Quenthel replied, “and his absence now is of no moment.” She turned back and looked at Jeggred and Danifae. “All will serve Lolth’s purpose, before the end. All.”

“The world is her prey,” Danifae answered.

Quenthel smiled indulgently, turned on her heel, and walked away a few steps to survey the landscape. She touched her holy symbol and whispered a prayer. Four of the serpents glared over her shoulder at the former battle-captive and draegloth. One, K’Sothra, hovered near her ear.

Danifae stared impassively at Quenthel’s back, then turned to sneer at Pharaun.

You are a fool, as ever, she signed.

Pharaun made no reply except a smirk that he knew to be infuriating.

Jeggred too stared at Pharaun, his expression hungry. Pharaun met his gaze and smiled insincerely.

The mage looked around at the blasted realm and said to Quenthel, “Hardly hospitable, is it, Mistress? I think Master Hune may have shown unparalleled wisdom in avoiding this leg of our little journey.”

Quenthel made no reply, but Jeggred uttered a growl and snarled, “I should have killed that mercenary and eaten his heart.”

In Jeggred’s words, Pharaun saw an opportunity to reinforce his loyalty to Quenthel. He took it, knowing the draegloth would be easy to manipulate.

“Eat his heart?” he asked. “As you did Master Argith?”

The half-demon bared his fangs in a grin.

“Exactly like Argith,” said the draegloth, smacking his lips. “His heart’s blood was delectable.”

A gob of yellow saliva dripped from the corner of Jeggred’s mouth and splattered in the scree.

Ryld Argith’s death bothered Pharaun not at all, but he could use it, and Jeggred, to make a point to Quenthel. Besides, he enjoyed jibing the half-demon.

“Surely you are not so intellectually infirm as to think that Master Argith’s death excites my sentiments?” he asked.

Jeggred growled, flexed his claws, and advanced a step.

Pharaun continued, “I am, however, stunned that one of your obviously limited intellectual gifts even knows the meaning of ‘delectable’. Well done, Jeggred. At least something you’ve said this night befits a Baenre.”

Quenthel responded with a single laugh, and Pharaun knew he had made his point.

Jeggred lurched forward, his fighting arms outstretched. Danifae clutched his mane and restrained him, her eyes on Pharaun.

“Hold, Jeggred,” Danifae said, her voice and manner both as calm as a windless sea. “Master Mizzrym’s play is transparent to all but fools.”

That last, Pharaun knew, was meant for Quenthel.

“I’ll have another heart before this is done,” Jeggred promised Pharaun, though he did not pull away from Danifae.

Pharaun put his hand to his chest and feigned a wound.

“You’ve scarred me, Jeggred,” he said. “I offer a compliment to your intellect and what do I receive in return? The threat of violence.” He looked past the draegloth to Quenthel as though for support. “I am pained beyond measure. Mistress, your nephew is an ungracious brute.”

Quenthel turned and said, “Enough of this. Follow me. Lolth calls.”

She started slowly down the rise. Danifae whispered something to Jeggred and released his mane.

To Pharaun, she said, “You should be cautious, Master Mizzrym. My hand grows tired on the leash, and things may not be as clear as you think.”

Pharaun gave her his smirk. “I am always cautious, Mistress Danifae,” he said, choosing the title with deliberateness. “And things are what they are. That too is plain to all but fools.”

To that, Danifae said nothing, though her jaw tightened. She turned and followed Quenthel.

Pharaun and Jeggred were alone atop the rise.

The draegloth’s eyes burned into Pharaun. His wide chest rose and fell like a bellows, and his bare teeth dripped saliva. Even from five paces, Pharaun caught a whiff of Jeggred’s vile breath and winced.

“You are an effete fool,” the draegloth said. “And our business is unfinished. I will feast on your heart before all is said and done.”

Without fear, Pharaun stalked up to the hulking draegloth, the words to a spell that would strip all the skin from Jeggred’s body ready in his mind.

“No doubt it will improve your breath,” he said.

With that, he walked past the draegloth.

He could feel Jeggred’s eyes burning holes in his back. He also could feel the baleful stare of the eight satellites in the sky above.

At a dignified hurry, he moved nearer to Quenthel and Danifae. Jeggred followed, his breath and heavy tread audible five paces behind Pharaun.

When he reached Quenthel’s side, he asked, “Now that we are here, where exactly are we to go?”

Quenthel looked into the sky, to the glowing river of souls that shone like the gem-encrusted ceiling of Menzoberranzan’s cavern.

“We follow the souls to Lolth,” she answered.

“And?” he dared.

Quenthel stopped and faced him, anger in her face. The serpents of her whip flicked their tongues.

“And?” she asked.

Pharaun lowered his gaze but asked, “And what, Mistress? Lolth calls her Yor’thae but what is the Yor’thae to do?”

For a moment, Quenthel said nothing. Pharaun looked up and found that her gaze was no longer on him.

“Mistress?” he prompted.

She came back to herself. “That is not a matter for a mere male,” she said.

Pharaun bowed, his mind racing. He wondered if even Quenthel knew what it was that the Yor’thae was to do, what it was that was happening to Lolth. The possibility that she did not troubled him.

Quenthel offered nothing further, and they began again to walk.

Pharaun looked behind him and met Danifae’s gaze. She licked her lips, smiled, and pulled up the hood of her cloak.