Spider and Stone

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

23 UKTAR

Standing just inside the library door, Icelin half-hoped the drow had vanished overnight.

After her conversation with Ruen in the plaza, she’d spoken to Mith Barak and accepted his challenge to find the sphere, but Icelin found she didn’t have the strength to begin that search just yet. She’d gone back to the Blackhorn house and rested, helped Sull in the kitchen where she could, stalling, until Ruen left to help Garn and Obrin on a scouting mission. Once Ruen was gone, she knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable.

Her heart sank when she saw the drow sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. One leg propped on the hearth, a book open across his lap, he was the picture of relaxed self-assurance. He looked up when she entered and flashed a lazy smile.

Like a wolf grinning at a lamb, Icelin thought. The image made her indignant. Let him have his fun. His presence wouldn’t intimidate her.

Squaring her shoulders, Icelin crossed the room and stood before the fire, warming her hands against the chill. “Good morning,” she said without looking at the drow.

The drow closed his book and rose smoothly to his feet. Instinctively, Icelin pivoted so her back would not be facing the drow.

His smile grew wider. “We haven’t been properly introduced.” He extended a hand to Icelin. “I am Zollgarza.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Icelin saw the guards stationed at the door tense. She assumed they hadn’t taken their eyes off the drow since she’d entered the room. She offered them a small nod, hopefully communicating that she wasn’t afraid.

“My name is Icelin,” she said, ignoring the drow’s outstretched hand. “It is … interesting to meet you. What are you reading?”

Zollgarza picked up the book and held the spine out to her. “A personal journal of a cleric of Shanatar,” he said.

“Shanatar?” Icelin raised an eyebrow. “Are you a student of dwarf history?”

“Iltkazar is all that remains of the ancient dwarven realm,” Zollgarza explained. “It is … refreshing to see how the mighty are diminished over the centuries. No empire lasts forever.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Icelin said, ignoring the jab at the dwarves, “but I find most historical accounts to be dry, mind-numbing reading.”

“Oh?” Zollgarza said in amusement. “What books do you prefer?”

“Adventure tales,” Icelin said. “Full of hard-won battles against impossible odds … that sort of thing. Add a splash of romance and intrigue and you’ve won my attention forever.”

“If I find any such tales, I’ll be sure to lay them aside for you,” the drow said, bowing before returning to his seat. He spoke amiably enough, but Icelin had the distinct impression he mocked her with every word. “At any rate, I was under the impression you’re here for a purpose other than reading. You’re here to hunt for the sphere, yes?”

Oh, he was definitely mocking her. Anger made Icelin flush. Ruen had been right. What did she hope to gain by talking to the drow? She should just ignore him and focus on finding the Arcane Script Sphere.

At the thought of the artifact, longing rose in Icelin again. What would it be like to hold a bit of Mystra’s essence near her heart, to be so close to the goddess she had never known? Even if the sphere’s Silver Fire didn’t cure her spellscar, the memory of the goddess would be enough.

But when she looked at Zollgarza, those hopes shattered.

Hadn’t she sworn never to work magic she couldn’t control, to knowingly put others at risk, unless there was no other choice? She’d done it to defend Ruen and the dwarves when she attacked the drow wizard, but had one of them been standing too close to her, he might be dead now. What of the guards stationed in the room to protect her? Did they know the danger of using the Silver Fire? The doubts tore apart her resolve.

Needing a distraction, Icelin turned to the bookshelves. Ladders fastened to a track on the highest shelves rested on wheels on the floor, allowing access to all the shelves, even the books she could barely see. No doubt they were covered with an inch of dust and served as a home for countless numbers of tiny eight-legged horrors. Icelin ran her hands absently over the spines. Many of the titles were in Dwarvish or languages she couldn’t even identify, but she found others in Common. Was the Arcane Script Sphere hidden somewhere amongst them? Did Mith Barak expect her to tear apart the room in a mad search for an ancient artifact that likely had all sorts of magical means to conceal itself?

Yet the king said that if she were worthy, the sphere would find her. Did that mean she was supposed to stay here and wait while the sphere silently considered its decision? Bemused, Icelin imagined the great artifact watching her every move, looking for faults and failures in her character.

Icelin groaned and thought, I’m doomed.

Pacing the room wouldn’t help. She selected one of the books written in Common-a history of the dwarves, similar to what Zollgarza was reading-and took it to the long table in the center of the room. Maybe if she explored the library and cleared her head, inspiration on how to find the sphere would strike.

It was warmer near the fire, but she wasn’t eager to share Zollgarza’s company like that. Reading together in front of a fire had a certain unavoidable intimacy that she wasn’t ready to experience.

She opened the book, inhaled the scent of parchment and age, and began to read.

Zollgarza sat motionless by the fire, pretending to read his book while he watched the girl. Once she got over her initial nervousness and started reading a tome, she seemed to forget he was in the room. She leaned over the book with her elbows propped on the table and pulled one of the candelabra closer. Every now and then she squinted at the text and mouthed the words aloud as she ran her fingers along the page. When she wasn’t doing that, often she hummed to herself softly as she read. She had a steady, melodious voice, but that was the only compliment Zollgarza willingly gave her.

His assessment of her physical features was that she was a small, sickly thing. Whether magic or some other malady had taken its toll on her, he couldn’t say, but if Mith Barak had wanted to threaten him, he’d chosen a poor creature as his ambassador.

He had to give the old dwarf credit, though. Mith Barak knew how to scheme and deceive with the best of the drow. Zollgarza couldn’t believe the king had allowed him access to the library, and the introduction of this newest obscure element in the form of the girl was even more frustrating. What was the wily dwarf up to? Was the Arcane Script Sphere truly so hidden from him that he needed this sickly girl and a drow to locate it for him? This would have amused Zollgarza no end had he not been so suspicious of the girl.

What was her power? Was it something Mith Barak hoped to use against him? But the king had already probed his mind and raked through his memories. There were no secrets for this human child to uncover.

Except the ones being kept from Zollgarza himself. By Lolth, if Mith Barak were to be believed.

Zollgarza clenched the book in his hands, resisting the urge to throw it into the flames. Knowledge and lore surrounded him, yet the answers he sought most were denied him. Who was he truly, and where did he come from? Had Fizzri altered him at Lolth’s command? To what end? Was there some dangerous knowledge he possessed that the mistress mother had stripped from his mind in order to protect Guallidurth? But why deny him his own identity, unless she simply meant to toy with him?

Zollgarza considered the girl. Frustration and rage made him tremble. He wanted to lash out, grab her by her slender throat, and demand her purpose here. He had already begun a search of the library for the sphere and turned up nothing. She would have no better chance than he had of finding the artifact, unless it somehow considered her a worthy recipient.

Perhaps that was what Mith Barak hoped. Was there something special about the girl’s character that he hoped to exploit? Zollgarza thought it might give him some satisfaction to try to root that information out of her, to play with the girl as he was being played, a pawn in some larger game. She might not be worth the trouble, but she was a mystery and a distraction. Zollgarza enjoyed a good mystery, and he certainly needed the distraction.

She tensed and looked up from her book. Zollgarza flicked his eyes to the page and pretended to read but continued to watch her out of his periphery. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Slowly, she walked to the bookshelves and began pacing in front of them, head cocked as if listening for something.

What is she doing? Zollgarza wondered. He almost called out to her to ask, but he clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to betray the fact that he’d been watching her closely.

“Do you hear that?” the girl asked, breaking the silence.

Zollgarza rubbed his eyes and adopted a weary tone. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Just now, did you hear … I thought it sounded like voices … whispers,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she felt a sudden chill. “You heard nothing?”

Zollgarza listened, but all he heard was the crack and pop of the fire and the cave breezes coming down the chimney. The dwarves had a sophisticated ventilation system-he’d utilized it himself sneaking into the city-that kept the smoke emanating from the homes and forges from choking off all the fresh air in the city. “You’re imagining things,” he said, putting a hint of condescension in his voice.

As he expected, her lips thinned and she fixed him with an indignant look. “If you heard none of that, then the reputation you drow have for keen hearing is entirely undeserved. I’m telling you, we’re not alone in this room.”

“If you say so,” he said and turned his attention to his book. He continued to watch her, though. She approached the fire and stood with her back to it, still listening for mischievous phantoms. His attention taken up by her, he didn’t detect the movement out of the corner of his eye until a loud bang echoed in the library.

Instinctively, Zollgarza leaped from his chair and went into a crouch. Beside him, the girl tensed, but as she was in a better position to see the source of the noise, she was the first to relax.

“It’s all right … I think,” she said. Cautiously, she strode across the room to the bookshelves, where a particularly large tome bound in green leather had fallen to the floor near the ladder. “I must have knocked it loose when I pulled my book off the shelf.” She bent to pick it up.

Before she could touch it, the cover of the tome flipped open by itself.

Ruen followed Garn, Obrin, and a contingent of dwarves past the forges to a smaller cavern on the eastern edge of the city. The first thing Ruen noticed was the overgrowth of the glowing silver lichen hanging from the cavern ceiling and in some cases growing in patchy carpets along the ground. The light it created was uneven and pained Ruen’s eyes. No one had tended to the lichen in some time. Ruen soon learned why.

“We’ve evacuated these caverns,” Garn explained as they marched along, joined at intervals by more dwarves, until Ruen counted their group at least a hundred strong. They were a mixture of warriors and clerics. “The population was too thin on our outer fringes-we relocated everyone closer to the city to conserve resources. Water doesn’t have as far to travel, and people don’t have to feel isolated out here.”

Ruen saw the logic in the decision, but by Garn’s tone, he knew the dwarf didn’t like it. “It must have been difficult for so many families to leave their homes,” he said, and indeed, some of the stone dwellings looked as if they had not long been abandoned. Mushroom gardens still thrived around the fringes of the homes, and through open doorways, Ruen saw that much of the furniture remained in the homes, left behind as if their occupants anticipated that someday they would return.

Garn approached one of these open doors and pushed it shut with the toe of his boot, sealing it. “Some folk refused to leave,” he said without looking at Ruen. “A few dozen, maybe-they’re around here someplace, but they won’t show themselves while we’re passing through. They’re afraid we’ll make them pack up and leave. I wouldn’t do it for a dragon’s hoard,” he said and spat on the ground.

The dwarves at the front of the group had begun forming the others into three columns. Ruen watched them as two dozen more dwarves spilled into the cavern. “This is no scouting mission we’re undertaking,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” Garn agreed. “Last night, a couple of scouts reported that the Hall of Lost Voices had been cut off by a cave-in. They claimed they heard fighting on the other side, but the debris was too much for them to clear alone. We’re venturing out to clear the passage and get our people out of there … if any are still alive.”

“What is the Hall of Lost Voices?” Ruen asked.

“A mining outpost three miles straight east of here,” Garn explained. “It’s got lots of long, narrow tunnels emptying out into wider spaces, like knots on a rope. We’ve been filtering troops to the outpost for a tenday now because we thought it one of the likeliest places for Guallidurth to assault.”

“Why would they risk fighting on a battleground like that?” Ruen asked. Small spaces and bottlenecks could cut soldiers off from each other quickly. While this would hamper both sides, the dwarves knew the sizes of their own tunnels better than the drow did and could better control the field.

“Because if they can take those tunnels, it cuts off one of our major supply routes to the surface and denies us access to a major source of ore,” Garn said. He and Ruen fell into step with the company, walking side by side in two of the columns. Obrin walked in the third column, but as usual, he remained silent. “We’ve tried to keep its importance a secret, but the damn drow spies are everywhere. Some of them are infiltrating the outposts in magical disguise. For all we know, they might have had their scouts in place for months.”

“New faces weren’t noticed?” Ruen asked. “With the diminished population, I’d have thought spies would be easier to detect.”

“Sometimes they are, but other times, the drow kill our people in secret and take their places. We don’t find the bodies until later, if at all.” Garn’s hand tightened on his axe. Ruen saw the rage barely contained by the gesture. The Blackhorn patriarch’s only comfort lay in the promise of spilling drow blood.

“Your family was kind to offer us hospitality,” Ruen said, thinking it wise to change the subject.

Garn looked at him askance. His lips twisted in what might have been a smile, but the bitterness underlying the expression made it difficult to tell. “My daughters offer you their hospitality because they have faith in the king’s judgment. For my part, I think we should have killed that drow prisoner long ago. The king’s wasting valuable time worrying about him. Now your friend has given him another excuse to sit in his hall and fret over the creature instead of focusing on readying our armies. You’ll not be offended or surprised to learn that I am not as glad of your presence as my daughters.”

“I’m not offended,” Ruen said. “Why doesn’t Mith Barak have your loyalty?”

Temper flared in the runepriest’s eyes. Ruen wondered what he had said wrong, but Garn quickly hid the emotion and regarded him with a measured glance. “Perhaps it’s a failing in the language. I don’t count faith and loyalty to be equal. I would die for my king-he is one of my oldest friends-but there are limits to what he can accomplish, especially …”

Garn stopped. He seemed suddenly reluctant to speak. Ruen waited, but he saw the restraint enter the dwarf’s expression, the mistrust, as if he’d just then remembered he was talking to an outsider and not one of his own people.

They walked on in silence. Ruen’s thoughts were troubled. If the dwarves of Iltkazar doubted their king, it was yet one more obstacle they had to overcome in their struggle with the drow. Was it age or infirmity in Mith Barak that brought out Garn’s doubts? Ruen had not noticed any such deficiency in the king during their audience. Mith Barak had come across as strong, cunning, and dedicated to his people. Perhaps there was a deeper, unknown madness that Garn feared.

The thought stirred the blood in Ruen’s veins. He pictured Icelin sitting in the library with the drow prowling around her. He dreaded the prospect of leaving the city, of leaving her unprotected.

Though she probably wouldn’t welcome his company, Ruen thought, not after what he’d told her in the plaza. He shook his head. He owed her the truth, no matter how much it hurt her-or him-to say it.

Sull had sworn to look in on her as often as he could, which was no small thing. The butcher was a tenacious protector, especially where Icelin was concerned. He’d stayed behind to help Joya handle the wounded soldiers returning from the outpost attacks and had appointed himself an unofficial camp cook at the temple of Moradin.

Still, Ruen was uneasy. He reminded himself that obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere and prolonging Icelin’s life was worth the risks they took, but the words didn’t give him as much comfort as they marched along increasingly narrow tunnels and left Iltkazar behind.

Icelin froze in the act of reaching for the fallen book, which now lay open to the third page, blank but for an inscription written in an elegant hand.

Icelin read the words aloud, “ ‘To my lovely Aribella, on the occasion of the end of a life.’ Strange.”

Zollgarza walked over and stood beside her. “You read Elvish?” he asked.

Icelin blinked at him. “You’re mistaken. The language is Common.” She pointed to the text. She wasn’t brave enough to pick up the book. One of the first things she’d learned in her study of magic was never touch anything magical without first knowing the nature of the magic-a lesson she’d already been reminded of with the drow rings.

Zollgarza went down on one knee and squinted at the inscription. “It appears the book alters the appearance of the text to suit the preferences of its reader. I’ve encountered such tomes before.”

“In Guallidurth?” Icelin asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Yes …” But the drow paused, uncertain, drawing out the word and staring intently at the book as if he could conjure the other from his memory.

“Was it dangerous?”

“What?”

“The tome you encountered,” Icelin said. “Did it contain harmful magic?”

“I don’t … it doesn’t matter,” Zollgarza said. “This is a different tome. It may have any number of powers or destructive magic stored in its pages.”

“The tome will do you no ill, so long as you intend no ill toward the tome,” said a woman’s voice.

Icelin and Zollgarza both jumped. The sepulchral voice seemed to come from every corner of the room at once. “Show yourself!” Zollgarza shouted. “Another one of your mind probing spells, Mith Barak?”

Ignoring the drow’s tirade, Icelin turned to see how the guards at the door reacted to the voice. There were two of them dressed in the king’s livery, and both wore gleaming mithral maces at their belts, though neither had drawn their weapons. Their gazes were fixed on Zollgarza, but other than the obvious distaste in their eyes, Icelin detected no emotion.

“Did you hear that voice?” she addressed them.

The guard standing to the left of the door nodded. “Nothing to be scared of,” he said, shooting a mocking smile in Zollgarza’s direction. His smile softened when he addressed Icelin. “It’s the king’s seneschal. She means no harm.”

“Never thought I’d hear her voice again,” the other guard said wistfully.

“Is she a spirit,” Icelin asked, “or simply invisible?”

“Better to let her explain herself,” the first guard said. “It’s … complicated.”

Soft, throaty laughter echoed from near the fire. Icelin turned and saw a dwarf woman sitting in the chair Zollgarza had occupied. She rose, spilling golden hair over her shoulders and down to her waist. The woman was shorter than most of the other dwarf women Icelin had seen, including Ingara and Joya. Her bright green eyes matched the robes she wore. The loose sleeves were lined in gold brocade, and she wore tan slippers on her feet.

“Well met,” the woman said, inclining her head. “I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes.” She approached Icelin and held out her hand. Icelin took it. She was half-surprised to find it solid. “King Mith Barak instructed me to aid you. He indicated that time was short.” The woman’s face creased with sadness. “I will be happy to render any assistance I can. I am familiar with the titles and text of every book in the library and can retrieve any tome you wish.”

“You’ve read them all?” Icelin said, stunned. “And you remember everything in them?” She wondered if the woman was afflicted with a spellscar just like her own. Icelin couldn’t imagine trying to find space enough in her head to store the knowledge of all these books. She’d go mad with the effort.

The seneschal smiled. “Yes, I remember-more accurately, instead of reading them all, I am them all.”

Zollgarza scoffed. “She is spirit, not flesh-a magical device for fetching books.” He went back to the fire and sat down, retrieving his book.

“A shame it is to have the library polluted in this fashion,” the seneschal said, eyeing the drow in disgust. She addressed Icelin. “What would you have of me?”

“Um …” Icelin didn’t know how the woman could help her, unless she knew where the Arcane Script Sphere was. But if she did, she would have surely told Mith Barak. “A few questions first, if you don’t mind?” Icelin asked. For some reason, the woman’s deep, wise gaze and aura of serenity made Icelin uneasy. She felt insignificant standing next to her, though the dwarf woman was much shorter.

“Not at all.” The woman smiled kindly. “Ask what you will.”

“Is he right?” Icelin asked, nodding at Zollgarza. The drow seemed not to be paying attention, but Icelin knew he heard their conversation. “Are you a spirit?”

“I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes,” the woman repeated. “I have knowledge and control of all the books you see.” She lifted her hand, and in response, the book on the floor rose into the air and snapped shut. It floated over to Icelin and hovered in front of her face. Hesitantly, Icelin reached up and took it. “Memories of any life I had before my time as seneschal are gone,” the woman continued. “I am bound to one of the tomes in this room, but which one, I will not name. My thoughts are full with the knowledge of thousands of ancient texts. They are enough.”

“It’s just … how long have you been here?” Icelin asked.

The seneschal smiled. “Do you mean, how long have I been here in this room, or how long have I been with King Mith Barak? In truth, I have lost count of the years. No future exists here, only the past.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, but a pang struck Icelin’s heart. No thoughts of the future-Icelin knew something of living that way. “Since I’ve been in the library, I’ve thought I heard voices, whispers,” Icelin said. “Was that your voice?”

“Not me.” The woman reached out and ran her fingers gently over the book spines on the nearest shelf. “You’re hearing their voices.”

“The books?” Icelin stammered. “You mean they-”

“Many of them are no more than what they appear,” the seneschal said. “Others are living entities, sleeping for centuries at a time, stirred awake by the breath of life-the presence of a seeker of knowledge.” The seneschal removed a tome from the shelf and pressed it to her chest reverently. She spoke a word Icelin didn’t understand, and then she returned the book to the shelf. “When they sense such a person, the pages whisper and sing, and the ink may as well be blood in living veins.”

Caught by the seneschal’s voice, Icelin couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s face. For the first time, fear of the library and this ancient spirit shivered through her body. The fire cast long, ominous shadows on the walls. Whispers that had lingered at the edge of her consciousness grew louder, more insistent. Icelin didn’t want to listen to those voices, not like this. Whatever secrets she heard, she would never be able to forget.

“You’re frightening her, spirit,” Zollgarza spoke up. “Cease with your romantic prattle and make yourself useful.”

Icelin blinked and freed herself from the seneschal’s penetrating gaze. She dipped her head, rubbing her temples, which had begun to throb.

“Forgive me,” the seneschal said, bowing. “Understand I mean you no harm. It has been a very long time since I spoke to another person like this. I fear I am out of practice.”

“No, it’s all right.” Icelin stifled a groan. She’d let herself be trampled on by a ghost-albeit a very powerful one-and had to be rescued by the drow. Ruen would be appalled.

She’d been trying not to think about him or worry about where he was at that moment. Likely, he was with one of the dwarf patrols. He might even be fighting right now. If a drow slew him, she might not find out for several days.

Stop it, she told herself. You’re here to find the sphere.

“Very good,” the seneschal said. “You have strong mental discipline for one so young and afflicted.”

“You can read my mind?” Icelin’s head snapped up. “You might have mentioned that earlier!”

“Again, forgive me.” The spirit smiled wider. “Please don’t be uneasy. I doubt any thought you entertain would surprise me.”

“What about the other books-spirits of books-in the library?” Icelin said. “Can they read thoughts too?”

“No,” the seneschal replied. “Their intellects are not so well defined. They are objects of power, presence, and memory, but only in the most primal sense. I was surprised you heard their voices so soon. However, you are not without power yourself, and as I said, they are drawn to the true seeker.”

“Is that why they remain silent to me, spirit?” Zollgarza said, smirking. “Because I am not a ‘true seeker’?”

The seneschal stared at Zollgarza coldly. “Lost child, what you seek cannot be found within this room.”

Zollgarza met her stare with a look that made Icelin shiver. “Pitiful specter, you have no idea what I’m looking for.”

“I see the emptiness in your soul,” the spirit countered. “Memories gone … pieces of yourself you long to reclaim.”

A strange thing happened then. Zollgarza’s cold mask cracked at the edges, and through the broken bits, Icelin glimpsed pain-pain and anger so intense she stifled a gasp. He tore his gaze away from the woman’s face, as if he’d also been caught by her power. Meeting Icelin’s eyes, the drow pulled the mask back into place over his features.

I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see, Icelin thought. A weakness or a desire-what was it the drow sought? Was it somehow tied to the magic that cloaked him? Judging by the mask Zollgarza had adopted, he would not speak of those desires, especially not to her. Not that it mattered. She had her own desires and her own task to complete.

“I’m ready now,” she said, addressing the spirit.

“Very well.” The spirit put a hand out, though she did not touch Icelin. “Know before you begin that great power surrounds you. There are dangers here, as well as treasures.”

“What sort of dangers?” Icelin asked. Gods, what now?

“I told you some of the books possess souls. Like any living thing, they are capable of compassion and deceit, of manipulation and regret. Some will give up all their knowledge and secrets for a kind word, while others will use any means to deny and destroy you.”

“Can’t you tell me which one is which?” Icelin said, feeling helpless.

The seneschal smiled sadly. “Can you tell that of any living being? Like the depths of any soul, they are changeable, mysterious, and sometimes frightening. Never forget to use your judgment, and you won’t go astray,” she advised. “When you are ready, tell me what knowledge you seek.”

The knowledge she sought-Icelin didn’t have to consider the question long. “The Arcane Script Sphere,” she said. “If I’m going to find it, I need to know more about it. Are there any written accounts of it in the library?”

She expected a long delay while the seneschal explored her memory. Efficient as Icelin’s mind was, the older the memory, the longer it took her to recall all the details. She started in surprise when the seneschal answered her question almost immediately.

“There are four such texts in the library,” she said. “One of these I am forbidden to share.”

“Why?” Zollgarza interjected, surprising Icelin again. She hadn’t expected him to show interest in what she asked the seneschal. Then again, he was seeking the sphere as well.

The spirit’s lips compressed in a line. She repeated, stiffly, “It is forbidden.”

Or perhaps they contained knowledge the drow could use against Iltkazar if they obtained the sphere, Icelin thought. “Can I examine the other texts?” she asked.

The seneschal lifted her hand. Two books floated down from a high shelf and settled in the air in front of her. To Icelin, they appeared to be mundane tomes, but the spirit’s warning rang loudly in her mind, so she assumed nothing. “A Contemporary View of the Arcane and The Goddess Touch, by Ignatius Meifarl,” the seneschal recited, “which contains the most detailed account. I have also included an untitled collection of observations on various powerful artifacts, including treatises on the Crown of Horns and the Death Moon Orb. There is a passage discussing the Arcane Script Sphere written by the archmage Dantheliz Thorn. The other text is protected under glass. When you have finished with these, I will show you how to read it.”

“My thanks,” Icelin said. Her fingers itched to snatch the texts out of the air, but she thought that would be impolite.

“Perhaps you’d like to read by the fire?” The seneschal made a sweeping gesture, and the books sailed across the room and made a neat stack on a table by one of the wingback chairs. A blanket lay folded beside the chair. “If you require anything further, simply call for me.” With that, she vanished as soundlessly as she’d appeared.

Icelin followed in the wake of the flying books and sat down in the chair. The leather cushion was wide enough for her to tuck her legs up, and she draped the blanket over them. The blanket and the fire chased away the chill, and the flames provided ample, if wavering, light to read by. She picked up the first book and opened the cover. As soon as she did so, the whispers lingering at the edge of her hearing quieted. Perhaps they were trying to be polite while she gave her attention to one of their fellows. Icelin smiled slightly to herself at the thought.

Before she began, she risked a glance at Zollgarza. He’d not moved from his own seat, but his book lay discarded before the hearth. He stared into the fire, his face frozen in that same stony mask. She wondered what he could be thinking. For a moment, Icelin felt a swell of pity for him, but she quickly banished the feeling. He didn’t want her pity, and it was dangerous to feel sorry for the drow. She would have to tread carefully around him.

For now, she had information in front of her, the opportunity to learn more than she ever had about the Arcane Script Sphere. Ruen would want her to take advantage of that, to do everything she could to get the sphere. Even though he’d made it clear there was no future for them together afterward.

This was what she wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Icelin closed her eyes briefly as fresh pain and doubt welled up inside her. She took another deep breath and waited for the ache to pass before she began reading.