Spider and Stone

CHAPTER TWELVE

GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

23 UKTAR

" Strip them to the waist, but make the cuts as shallow as you can so as not to break the enchantments,” Levriin Soltif commanded his apprentice.

The younger drow, Kraefmir of House Rirdel, did as his master bade him, but he didn’t bother to hide the look of distaste as he removed the armor and scraps of clothing from the bugbear slaves and cast them in a pile. Staring straight ahead, their vapid gazes fixed on Levriin, the creatures did not react when Kraefmir took a ceremonial knife from the pocket of his robes and began tracing an arcane symbol into the flesh of the nearest creature. Levriin focused half his concentration on maintaining control of the thralls and appraised Kraefmir’s progress with the other.

He’s good, Levriin thought. He’s coming into his own, adding flourishes to the magic that even I might not have considered. In many ways, Kraefmir had entered that perfect period of his apprenticeship-skilled enough that he could truly aid Levriin, yet also dependent upon the wizard to advance him in position. Soon he would grow beyond needing Levriin’s tutelage, but for now, he was quite useful.

“You are distracted,” Kraefmir commented without looking up from his work. Blood coated his hands and the knife. He wiped them on a towel. “Your meeting with the mistress mother did not go well?”

Damn it, Levriin realized, he’s perceptive as well. “I underestimated her,” he admitted. The words tasted bitter in Levriin’s mouth, but he wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t learn from his mistakes. “She is not reacting to the potential shift in the power balance the way I expected. She claims we have not divined Lolth’s will.”

“If the priestesses feel threatened, you can be assured they will defend their positions,” Kraefmir said. “Any female who says differently is a liar or a fool.”

In his mind, Levriin saw the blind priestesses, the abominations altered through the power of the Spider Queen. “Perhaps we are not as weak as they would have us believe,” he murmured.

“Master?”

“Mind your work,” Levriin said sharply, and his apprentice obediently fixed his attention on the bugbear’s hairy flesh. He sliced downward with the knife-too deeply, Levriin realized. He felt the pull of the creature’s will against his magic, the faint echo of terror as the slave tried to mount a resistance to the drow’s violation. Levriin lashed out with a mental command, sharper than any whip, and the slave’s silent cry cut off abruptly. He struggled no more.

“Should we fear the goddess’s will?” Kraefmir said after a moment. “Is this chance she offers us-and the promised reward-genuine?”

Oh, so very diplomatic. Levriin silently applauded his apprentice. He really wants to know if I am afraid, for he is too young yet to fear any doom. The true horrors of the world had not revealed themselves to him. Perhaps it was time he confided in his apprentice. If not now, on the eve of their first major offensive against Iltkazar, then when would he get the chance?

“Does it matter?” he challenged the young drow as Kraefmir finished carving the last symbol on the slave’s back.

“Does it matter that we rise in the Spider Queen’s favor?” Kraefmir wiped his hands one last time on the towel, though the fabric was soaked. “How can you ask that?”

“Because the question does not get asked enough, in my opinion,” Levriin said. “Think about it. All our lives, we have striven to better our positions in this city. We are weaker physically than the females, and they remind us every day, with each glance, bitter word, or strike of the whip that we are mentally the lesser creatures. Yet we are masters of the arcane, warriors whose martial prowess rivals that of any of the cities of the surface world. When the World Above speaks of us in fear, they do not separate male and female, priestess and wizard. To them, we are only drow.”

“None of that seems to matter to the females-or to the Spider Queen,” Kraefmir said. “Yet we continue to strive in Lolth’s name.”

“Precisely,” Levriin said. “The centuries pass, and we grow stronger, more powerful, waiting for the day when the goddess will take notice of our devotion. Had we not been denied her love, her favor, would we have come so far?”

“You can’t be suggesting that we don’t need the goddess?” Kraefmir wiped the blade of the ceremonial knife and sheathed it. “You court blasphemy, Master.”

“You mistake me,” Levriin said. “I simply suggest that Lolth’s favor may not be the blow the females expect. Neither may it be what the males of our race need to achieve glory.”

“Ah, I see. Once we achieve supremacy, you believe that will breed complacency,” Kraefmir said. “That we will become slaves to Lolth’s desires once we’ve had a taste of her favor.”

Complacency was one extreme, and at the other … some priestesses are drunk on those desires, Levriin thought. The mistress mother had challenged him on that very point, asking him if he was prepared to submit to Lolth’s will. Was he, in truth? Was he ready to give of himself completely, to undergo a spiritual and perhaps physical transformation? Would the goddess ask of him more than he was willing to give?

Levriin felt the bugbears’ collective pull at his magic. He felt a slight throbbing at his temples. He’d held the spell too long.

“Forgive me,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I speak of the future, but we have a long road ahead of us before these questions will demand answers. We must think of battle strategy now.”

“As you wish.” Kraefmir appeared relieved at the shift in topic. “The targets are prepared,” he said. “You’ll be mind-linked to all of them during the battle, and you’ll know them by symbols only your eyes can see. They won’t remember that they’ve been altered, so they won’t try to run.”

“You did well.” Levriin silently banished the spell that held the slaves in thrall. They blinked in confusion and reached around to touch the raw wounds on their backs. Slowly, they gathered their wits and began putting on their armor. With their limited intellect, the bugbears would probably assume the drow had beaten them into unconsciousness for some transgression. Pain was an accepted part of their existence.

Kraefmir dismissed them back to their houses, and Levriin took the opportunity to activate the spell that would single the creatures out to him during the battle. He passed a hand over his face, spoke the arcane phrase, and fixed his gaze on the retreating slaves. A faint red light haloed their heads and shoulders, making their features appear fuzzy and indistinct for a moment. The effect would carry clear across a battlefield, making them easily visible to Levriin.

“Is it working?” Kraefmir asked. “Did I carve the symbols correctly?”

Levriin glanced at his apprentice. Red light bled from Kraefmir’s shoulders, and his features, too, were blurred, but Levriin did not blink or squint so as not to betray the spell that was on the drow. He’d placed the arcane mark himself on the back of Kraefmir’s thigh, while the apprentice slept under a heavy spell.

“The magic is perfect,” he said. “The slaves remember nothing and suspect nothing. We march in the morning.”

Kraefmir inclined his head. He was in so many ways the perfect apprentice, but he would not be so for long. He was the first of Levriin’s apprentices in a long time who had the potential to become a rival. Levriin saw qualities in Kraefmir that he himself possessed: ambition, insight, flashes of brilliance that signaled an assured rise to power.

Under other circumstances, Levriin might have appreciated the challenge, but now was not the time. Instead, Kraefmir would make the ultimate sacrifice for the glory of Lolth, whether he knew it or not.

Caught in the throes of a dream, Mith Barak flew. He followed the spirit road toward the dim horizon of the Astral Sea, streaks of silver stars passing by at impossible speeds. As he flew, the stars whispered to him, fragments of thought and memory that drew Mith Barak’s attention. He reached for these shreds of dreams, but they slipped through his fingers like wisps of cloud. All that remained were the whispers.

“Come back, Arlefin, you’re straying …”

“What was that? The silver shadow, don’t touch it …”

“Please guide me … I beg you … I’ve been lost so long …”

“Gods, I’m flying … it’s … magnificent …” Whispers turned to weeping.

Mith Barak turned away from his fellow travelers. These were old memories, old dreams. Was he doomed to be trapped in the past the way he’d been trapped in the stone?

The sky grew darker as, one by one, the stars retreated from a burning object that appeared in the east. Red-the color of fire and agony, slicing along his flank like steel drawn from the forge. The burning force slammed into his spirit form so hard that he lost himself for a time, spinning into oblivion. Where had the attack come from? Where had the power come from? Had he become so complacent, so safe in his vault deep beneath the earth, behind mithral doors and layers of magic so complex he’d thought them inviolate?

He’d been a fool. No safe place existed in this life.

Darkness engulfed him. Pain raked his back like claws. Feebly, he lashed out, trying to fight back. In the darkness, a single voice rang out, peals of cruel laughter that echoed in Mith Barak’s ears. He opened his mouth to scream. The sound came out as a rough, aged moan, a small cry from a small chest.

Mith Barak sat up in his bed, clutching his face. He ran his hands over his flanks and combed his fingers through his beard. The pain was slow to leave him. Even in dreams, the memory was so fresh that for a moment he couldn’t move. His skin was on fire, and sweat poured down his face, soaking his beard. For a moment, he stroked the coarse hair, as if his own skin were unfamiliar to him.

On the spirit road, there were no limits, Mith Barak thought, but his body creaked with age and old wounds, his skin stretched taut over his spirit. Sometimes the confinement was so harsh that he wanted to tear his skin with his teeth like a beast.

He rose from his bed and set bare feet against the cold stone floor. The chill chased away the sleep phantoms and returned, if not peace, then a bit of clarity to his mind. Stretching out his awareness, he felt the echoes of heartbeats and footsteps coming from the room next to his. His own room sealed in all sound, so Icelin and Zollgarza would not have heard his dream cries, nor would the guards stationed outside the door and in the library.

Icelin’s awareness concerned him most. He knew Zollgarza would do no physical harm to her-after his escape attempt, the guards had searched him thoroughly for hidden needles or other poisonous substances, and Mith Barak’s own protections on the library would come to her aid if needed. Besides that, it wasn’t in Zollgarza’s interest to attack her, not while he had the opportunity to search for the sphere.

Not that any of it mattered. Mith Barak would not fool himself into thinking Icelin was completely safe around the drow. He was too old to take comfort in self-deception.

He hovered around her, not so close that she would sense him, but close enough to detect the quickness of her heartbeat, the tightness in her movements. He couldn’t actually see her, but then he didn’t need to. She was afraid-of course she was-and Mith Barak was the cause. Alone in a room with a strange, alien creature such as Zollgarza-she’d be insane not to be afraid.

Mith Barak turned his attention to Zollgarza. Dark magic still swirled around him, creating an impenetrable wall that rebuffed Mith Barak’s own spells. He sighed. Perhaps he’d been hoping for too much, thinking that she would be able to find the sphere when it had hidden itself so thoroughly from him. He supposed it was still possible Icelin would change her mind and refuse his bargain, even with the enticement of the sphere’s Silver Fire.

Mith Barak severed the connection to the library and began donning his clothes and armor. A thought struck him. Perhaps he could offer Icelin something else, an added recompense for the danger he had placed her in. She sought knowledge of spellscars, the means to tame her wild magic, and his library was a vast resource.

Abruptly, Mith Barak sent out a mental call. It had been so long. Would she still answer his summons?

Seneschal. Lady of the Tomes, do you hear me?

Silence met his call. Mith Barak felt an unexpectedly sharp stab of sorrow in his heart. Had she gone to sleep for good?

Lady, forgive me. I did not mean to leave you in the dark so long.

How sweetly you talk, Old Master. What would you have of me?

Mith Barak smiled as the familiar voice wrapped him like a warm blanket. Tears pricked his eyes. I have missed you, Seneschal. It has been too long.

Centuries, the clear, feminine voice chided him. I feel the pages stirring. You have guests.

Some more welcome than others, Mith Barak agreed. The girl needs aid. Will you show yourself to her?

The seneschal made no immediate reply. Mith Barak waited in respectful silence. He knew what he asked of her.

I have offered my services to none but you for a thousand years, Old Master, she replied. Is this truly important to you?

It is, Mith Barak said. Many things are come to an end, Lady. Our time together, I fear, is short. Will you grant me this one last favor?

For you, Old Master, I will, the seneschal said. Mith Barak felt her affection and love through the mind-link. His sorrow returned, for a moment threatening to overwhelm him. Clenching trembling hands into fists, he mastered himself and finished tying the laces of his tunic. He needed to meet with the regents and the master armswoman, and to speak to Garn about some specific defenses for the city gates.

His thoughts lingered on Icelin and the seneschal. Mith Barak allowed himself a wry chuckle. To see the look on her face when she realized all the library had to offer … he would have given much to observe that moment.