Spider and Stone

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

28 UKTAR

Icelin waited with Ruen and Sull outside the library doors. Nerves tossed about in her stomach, making her fidget and pace, until finally Ruen drew her near him and held both of her hands in his.

“You don’t have to do this,” he reminded her. “You can change your mind.”

“I’m not afraid for myself,” Icelin said. She squeezed his hand. “But I spoke for both of us back there. I never asked if … if you could accept it, if the worst happened.”

Ruen looked at their joined hands. “My scar makes me confront death-the thing I most want to deny. That being said, we’re going to do everything we can to make sure the worst doesn’t happen,” Ruen said firmly. “Do you have a plan?”

Icelin smiled crookedly at him. “Don’t I always have a plan?”

Ruen and Sull shared a groan. “Aye, but sometimes they’re lackin’ in wisdom,” Sull muttered.

Icelin made a face at him. “It’s the seneschal. I think she knows where the sphere is, she just doesn’t know that she knows.”

“Now I’m confused,” Sull said.

“Just trust me,” Icelin told him.

The door to the plaza opened, and Mith Barak and an escort of guards came down the hallway to meet them. Mith Barak’s eyes gleamed with an eager light. Color suffused his face, and everything about his movements suggested new life. Icelin wondered how much of his energy was a mask he wore for his people’s sake. They and she would likely never know what this cost him.

“Are you ready?” the king asked, pulling Icelin from her thoughts.

“I’m ready.”

Zollgarza sat in his customary place by the fire when they entered. When he saw them, he stood, putting his back to the wall as if expecting an attack. Icelin ignored him and called to the empty air. “Seneschal?”

The dwarf woman appeared at her elbow, making Icelin jump. “I am here.”

“I’ve come for the sphere.” Icelin was aware of a palpable tension in the room as the others, even Zollgarza, waited to hear the dwarf woman’s reply.

“I do not know where the sphere is,” the seneschal said sadly. “If I knew-”

“You said that you have access to-that you are-all the books in the library,” Icelin interrupted. “But you also said there was one tome about the Arcane Script Sphere you were forbidden to share. What tome is that?”

“It is forbidden,” the seneschal said. “I’m sorry.”

“Call forth the tome,” Mith Barak commanded her. “You have my permission.”

“I …” Confusion passed over the seneschal’s face. “I … cannot.”

“You can’t because the artifact is inside of you,” Icelin said, grateful that her hunch had proved correct. “It made itself a part of you, just like all the ancient tomes in this room, but it did so to hide.” Behind her, Mith Barak let out a breath. “I don’t know if I’m worthy to wield the Silver Fire or not,” Icelin rushed on, addressing the seneschal and the sphere. “But I want to help Iltkazar. Please, let me help the city.”

The seneschal’s ghostly form wavered, and Icelin thought she was going to disappear. Then Icelin was staring at a tiny silver sphere hovering in the air in front of her, no bigger than a pea. Miniscule letters scrawled across its surface, but they were indiscernible to Icelin’s eyes. Despite its size, when Icelin beheld the sphere, her heart raced with excitement.

Then it began to grow.

The sphere expanded, spinning as it swelled to three, four, then ten times its original size. Transfixed, Icelin watched as the writing on the artifact’s surface sprang into focus. Spells revealed themselves, the incantations graceful, elegant, and unfamiliar, the spells of a lost goddess.

“Written by Mystra herself,” Icelin whispered. A prickling sensation touched the back of her neck.

Out of the corner of her eye, Icelin saw Zollgarza moving toward her, faster than Ruen, faster than she thought possible for anyone to move.

Without thinking, Icelin grabbed the sphere in her two hands and called Mystra’s name in her mind.

Zollgarza charged her, hands reaching for the sphere, but Ruen was suddenly between them, and the two men slammed into each other. Zollgarza howled, grasping for Ruen’s dagger. Ruen twisted out of the drow’s grasp and pinned Zollgarza’s arms behind his back.

The sphere warmed in Icelin’s hands. Tendrils of silver radiance swirled from it and closed the space between her and Zollgarza. The energy enveloped the drow, and distantly, she heard him scream again.

Mystra, Icelin prayed silently, may your memory protect us now.

Her stomach clenched, and a familiar sickness took hold of her. The Silver Fire swelled, and Zollgarza’s mind opened to her in a rush. Images-an audience chamber where a drow female sat, then a gathering of drow prepared to go to war. She saw a temple made of crystal spider webs, beautiful and cold, where whispers drifted from the shadows.

“The Black Creeper.”

“Nameless, Houseless wanderer.”

“How does he earn the mistress’s favor?”

“He is nothing.”

Sweat broke out on Icelin’s skin. Fire rose up from the spider’s web, hungrily consuming the temple. Somewhere, she heard Zollgarza’s scream of surprise and fear. This was no memory she pulled from his mind. It was her own memory, mingling with his-fire, the wild magic unleashed within her.

Icelin gasped. She felt herself losing control, her body trembling. Every part of her screamed at her to rein in the spell, to stop now before someone died.

No. I can’t do this.

Then, from the depths of the fire, a new voice spoke directly into her mind: Let it go. I’m here. I will watch over you.

Mith Barak’s voice, Icelin thought, dazed. Yet the rough scrape of the dwarf’s voice changed and distorted in her mind, becoming by turns a woman’s voice, gentle, soothing, and familiar, before turning back the Mith Barak’s again. A presence enveloped her, like cool hands clasping her shoulders, urging her to relax, and fall.

Icelin released a breath and let herself go.

The Silver Fire erupted in a storm.

Distantly, she heard Zollgarza scream again. Perhaps the Silver Fire would tear both their minds to pieces-yet Icelin felt no such madness descend upon her, linked as she was to the drow. Wherever Zollgarza’s pain came from, the Silver Fire wasn’t causing it.

Instinctively, she reached for the drow with her mind, seeking him among the fiery ruin of Guallidurth. She ran down unfamiliar city streets, rearing back as flames surged out at her, forming strange shapes in the air. Spiders, the face of a drow priestess, a demon formed of ripples of melting flesh. Icelin cried out and covered her eyes.

“Icelin! Icelin, wake. Wake!”

Ruen’s voice echoed above the roaring fire. Icelin uncovered her eyes, but a light blinded her. Unseen hands grabbed her and pulled her off her feet. She soared above the city. The buildings shrank beneath her, and the fire and black smoke became a dizzying blur.

“Wake!”

Her eyes snapped open.

She was in the library, lying on her back on the floor, the sphere clutched to her breast. Ruen and Sull’s faces floated above her, their voices calling to her, but faint and jumbled, as if she were underwater and they slowly drawing her up.

“What happened?” Icelin asked. She blinked to clear her vision and tried to sit up.

“Take it easy for a breath or two,” Sull said. He supported her back so she could look around the room. Slowly, the objects and people in the library swam into focus.

Mith Barak lay on the floor not far from her. His face glistened with sweat, and he was pale, so pale that Icelin instinctively reached out to him. “He’s hurt!” she cried.

The dwarf waved away her concern. “I’ll be fine,” he said. He drew in a wheezing breath. “You can hold a lot of power for one little girl.” He coughed and wiped a stream of blood from his chin.

“What happened?” Icelin repeated insistently. “Where is Zollgarza?”

“Here.” Ruen laid a hand on Icelin’s shoulder. Icelin twisted to look behind her.

A figure lay sprawled on the floor, naked, obsidian skin slick with sweat. A thick fall of pure white hair obscured its features. Muscles stood out in rigid lines on bare arms and legs. As Icelin watched, the figure moaned softly and rolled over.

“Oh, gods,” Icelin said, breathless. “What have I done?”

Beside her, Sull grunted and shook his head. “Not what I was expectin’ either.”

The drow lying on the floor was Zollgarza. Echoes of his features shone through plainly in the face.

A face that was also unmistakably female.

Zollgarza’s last coherent knowledge of his surroundings was the thin man holding his arms behind his back. Mith Barak’s eyes glowed silver; then the girl, Icelin, released the sphere’s power. After that, reality faded, and suddenly she was in his mind.

He’d braced for an immediate assault, fully expecting that this was the end. Something was wrong, though. She didn’t try to probe his thoughts the way the dwarf had. She only watched, waited, hovering at the edges of his consciousness. Her terror filled his mind until he gasped with the force of it. What was she frightened of?

Pain tore apart Zollgarza’s world.

He remembered once, long ago, he’d been hit by a spell that sent dark bolts of black lightning rippling across his skin. He didn’t remember who had cast the spell at him, but the energy had seized his heart and threatened to explode it out of his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and he’d lost all control over his muscles.

That pain had been nothing compared to what he felt now.

Muscle ripped off his bones, swelling and reshaping while he howled in agony. Then even his voice failed him when one by one his bones shattered and reformed, grating against each other and pushing at his skin. Zollgarza squeezed his eyes shut. The pain made him weep. He didn’t think he could stand to witness whatever transformation his body was undergoing. It would drive him mad. He gritted his teeth and tried not to bite through his tongue as his body convulsed and slammed against the stone floor.

It was over faster than he’d expected, or more likely, the pain had made him lose consciousness. When he opened his eyes, the first thing Zollgarza noticed was the curtain of white obscuring his vision. He reached up to brush it away. That was the moment he realized he still had hands and hair-though the latter had lost all its black color and was now pure white.

Pushing the hair out of his face, Zollgarza noticed something curious about his hands. He held the left one up in front of his face and tried to discern what the curious thing was.

His hands were larger than they had been before-larger, yet the fingers were long and slender, ending in finely sculpted nails. Had he seen such hands on a female drow, Zollgarza would have called them exceptionally beautiful. Running his thumb along his palm, Zollgarza discovered more curiosities.

His calluses, those hard skin patches where his dagger always pressed into his palm, were gone. For some reason, this absence disturbed Zollgarza more than anything else that had happened to him. His hands trembled, and an oily knot of panic welled in his stomach.

Wrong-this is all wrong. What have they done to me?

A soft moan escaped Zollgarza’s lips. But the voice-the voice wasn’t his. The sound that came from his throat was soft and rich as velvet. It put him in mind of the mistress mother as she whispered in his ear.

Zollgarza could bear it no longer. He rolled over and pushed himself up so he could look at the rest of his body. What he saw was stranger than anything he could ever have imagined.

Breasts.

Naked, Zollgarza could take in the full extent of his alteration. Hard muscles had reshaped themselves into feminine curves. The muscles were still there, and the power, but that power came from a different source. He no longer had the body of a drow warrior, one who fought with a dagger and crept in the shadows. The lithe body he inhabited now most closely resembled that of a drow priestess. Female drow were naturally bigger and stronger than males-what they lacked in a warrior’s training they made up for in sheer physical girth.

Zollgarza licked his lips-even those felt different, strangely full under his tongue-and angled his naked body toward Icelin and the others. Mith Barak had collapsed several feet away, no doubt spent by the force of the magic needed to transform him into this.

“Why?” he asked in his new, unfamiliar voice. “Why did you change me?”

The four of them stared at him without speaking for several breaths. Zollgarza swallowed, trying to force down that knot of panic that continued to swell within him. Why were they staring at him that way, their mouths open like dumb beasts? Were they playing with him?

Finally, Icelin answered. “The Silver Fire didn’t change you,” she said, “but it stripped away the magic that did.”

She was lying, of course. Zollgarza laughed at the absurdity of it. Did she really expect him to believe she and the others weren’t responsible for his condition?

“You’re all mad,” he said.

A chill passed over him. With his nakedness came awareness of how vulnerable he was. Zollgarza crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his knees up close to his body. The empty space between his legs jarred him. Gods, they’d taken everything from him. Goddess, why? The question wracked him. What’s the purpose of it all?

“Watch him … her, I guess,” the red-haired man crouched next to Icelin said. “She’s goin’ wild through the eyes.”

“Gods,” the thin man said, addressing Mith Barak. “If this is her true form, she had no idea.”

“She must be one of their higher-ups,” Mith Barak said. “A priestess or some other ranking female-must be why they’re coming after us now. They want her back.”

“Stop calling me a female!” Zollgarza screeched. The high-pitched sound mocked him. He wanted to kill every one of them. Hatred roiled in his belly, suppressing the panic for a moment. “You did this to me! You-”

“No,” Icelin said, interrupting him. Compassion shone in her eyes, which made Zollgarza hate her more. “Hear me, Zollgarza,” she pleaded. “I don’t know why this was done to you, or what it means, but this is your true form. There is no more magic left on you.”

“Lying bitch,” Zollgarza snarled. He couldn’t contain himself any longer. He lunged at Icelin, a feral cry ripping from his lungs.

Next to her, the thin man reacted, drawing his dagger, but he needn’t have worried. Zollgarza’s strength had not yet returned in the wake of Icelin’s spell, and he was not used to this new body. His limbs refused to obey him properly, and he ended up collapsing on his stomach, the breath knocked from his chest, his long hair spread around him. Sucking in ragged breaths, Zollgarza tried to channel his hate into energy but to no avail. He slammed his fist against the floor and screamed in impotent rage.

“She’s as weak as I am … or nearly,” Mith Barak said. Zollgarza didn’t look at the king. He couldn’t bear to see that smug dwarf face, those silver eyes he wanted to tear out. “If she is someone valuable, we might have the advantage over the drow.”

“But why was she sent here in this form,” Ruen said, “with no knowledge of her true identity?”

“Maybe she was never meant to be a weapon used against Iltkazar,” Icelin said. “Gods know she’s caused enough chaos, intended or not, but what if this is part of some other drow plot?”

At her words, Zollgarza went very still. Like a candle lit in a darkened room, a memory came to him in faint images, whispers. Mith Barak’s voice and the voices of the others faded, replaced by a soothing chant. Zollgarza closed his eyes to hear it.

In his mind, he saw an obsidian altar covered in carvings and stained with the blood of old sacrifices. His perspective hovered above the altar, so that he could not see the face of the female drow who crouched before it, chanting in a soft, velvet-smooth voice. He recognized that voice. It had issued from his throat only a breath ago.

“I knew I’d find you here,” said a new voice, coming from somewhere out of sight.

The figure before the altar halted in her prayers and looked up. For the first time, Zollgarza was able to see his new face, and it struck him, bewilderingly, how beautiful it was, and at the same time how faintly similar to his own male visage. The flaws he’d exhibited in his male form were corrected in the female. Muddy red eyes deepened to a rich scarlet, and high cheekbones accentuated them. The crooked nose was now straight and small. In his vision, his fall of white hair had been tied back, secured with combs studded with onyx and ruby. Taken together, the features looked so symmetrical, so natural, that Zollgarza felt the first twinges of foreboding deep in his gut.

“The preparations have been made. You can’t stop what I’ve begun,” said the kneeling woman. A second figure joined her at the altar. Zollgarza recognized Mistress Mother Fizzri. She angled herself on her knees so she faced the altar and Zollgarza’s double.

“I know. May we both be worthy for the task ahead.” Swaying forward on her knees, she kissed the other female, raising a hand to bury it in her thick white hair.

Zollgarza watched with a sense of detached amazement as his double leaned into the kiss, and his own body reacted, filling with warmth, desire, and frightening affection-for the woman he hated above all other drow.

This can’t be right. He had no memory of such an interlude between himself and the mistress mother, yet the physical sensations coursing through his blood were so familiar. His skin tingled, reawakened by the phantoms conjured before him. More images crowded his thoughts, superimposing themselves over the scene.

The night before-he remembered the two of them lying side by side in a bed covered in white silk sheets. Fizzri’s head rested on Zollgarza’s belly, her fingers stroking Zollgarza’s thighs.

She likes to lie this way, Zollgarza thought, facing away from me, her delicate neck exposed. It makes her vulnerable and excites her at the same time.

“Doesn’t it ever frighten you, just a little,” Zollgarza asked, her voice rough from sleep, “the hatred you see in their eyes?”

“Is that really what you were thinking about just now?” Fizzri purred. “You see, I’ve been contemplating all the wicked things I’m going to do to you in the next few breaths, yet all that consumes your thoughts are the males. Should I be jealous, Zollgarza?”

“I can’t imagine you any other way,” Zollgarza replied. She lifted Fizzri’s hair and scratched her neck gently while the mistress mother gave a soft little sigh. “I worry that we’ve grown complacent, too secure in our power and confidence. Lolth’s plan to become the goddess of magic-it has shifted the balance, given hope to the males. Such a dangerous thing, hope. It may cause them to plot against us in numbers.”

“They’ve given no indication of such a plot,” Fizzri said, leaning into Zollgarza’s touch.

“Perhaps we just aren’t looking at them closely enough,” Zollgarza replied. “The more the males give the appearance of subservience, the more I worry what they are thinking down in the depths of their souls.”

“I assure you, love, you don’t want to know,” Fizzri said, rubbing her cheek against Zollgarza’s belly.

“But I do,” Zollgarza whispered so softly, the mistress mother didn’t hear her.

Zollgarza remembered how she’d felt in that moment. She’d been unsure how much to confide in Fizzri. The threat of betrayal hung between them always, and the more knowledge one had of the other, the more the threat intensified. Fizzri thrived on that threat, and Zollgarza managed it by not giving too much of herself away, but so far neither had had cause for betrayal. Perhaps it was because they had spent so long being stronger together than at odds.

Zollgarza made her decision. She’d struggled too long with her doubts and questions. Despite the risk, it was time for an outside perspective. “I’ve asked Lolth for guidance, but she remains silent to me. I am … worried,” Zollgarza said.

Fizzri’s reaction was immediate. Her lover stiffened and pushed herself up on one elbow to glare at Zollgarza. “How could you be so foolish?” she hissed. “It is not for us to seek Lolth’s aid for trouble with a few males. If we can’t handle the problem ourselves, we are not worthy to be in her service.”

“We have proven ourselves worthy, a hundred times over,” Zollgarza argued. “Lolth sees that and blesses us with her power. Why should we not seek her guidance as well?”

Fizzri slid off the bed and reached for her piwafwi. She shook her head in disgust. “I tire of having this discussion with you, Zollgarza. You have always expected more from the goddess than what you’re owed. It is dangerous and blasphemous.”

“I seek purpose,” Zollgarza said passionately. “I want to be the instrument of Lolth’s will, to earn her love over and over until my death. Tell me, how is that blasphemous?”

“Because it is presumptuous!” Fizzri cried. “What makes you worthy of being Lolth’s instrument in anything? Is your pride and arrogance so great that you think yourself her equal?”

“Never that.” Zollgarza bowed her head. “I hear your words, and I take your warning, but I must have the answers to my questions.”

There must have been a hint in her tone, for Fizzri spun in the act of dressing. Her breath caught audibly. “What do you intend to do?”

“I’ve prepared a ritual to summon a yochlol.”

“Alone?” Fizzri’s eyes narrowed. “That is too bold. You should have more priestesses present to satisfy Lolth.”

“My request is personal and private,” Zollgarza said. “I would only have one other.”

She knew that would appeal to Fizzri’s vanity, but she did not truly expect her lover to agree. Fizzri risked too much personally helping Zollgarza with what she considered a fool’s presumption.

The bedroom memory faded, and Zollgarza saw herself back in the temple, kneeling before the altar as Fizzri broke their kiss.

“What made you change your mind?” Zollgarza asked, half-grateful, half-suspicious of her lover’s motives.

Fizzri’s forehead creased in irritation. “You planted doubt inside me,” she muttered. “I told myself over and over that you are a fool, but then a voice inside whispered, what if you’re right? What if the goddess does favor us and this bold venture? So I am here. Let us proceed.”

Fizzri gestured to the shadows, where two slaves waited. They dragged forward a bound captive. Through dirt and ragged clothing, Zollgarza recognized a young female elf, her golden skin covered in bruises, her eyes bulging with fear.

“Tie her to the altar,” Fizzri commanded.

As the slaves hurried to comply, Zollgarza smiled at Fizzri and offered her a half bow. “You honor me,” she said. “I know she is a favorite of yours.”

Fizzri waved it away. “A bold act requires an item of value,” she said. “You may risk the full brunt of Lolth’s ire, but I do not.”

The slaves finished their work and retreated. Zollgarza took up her dagger with the figure of the spider affixed to the hilt. With the tip of the blade, she opened a deep cut on her forearm. She held the bleeding appendage over the elf and let her blood drip on her exposed skin. Fizzri removed her own dagger from the sheath at her belt and repeated the gesture, their blood mingling on the elf’s stomach and dripping down to fill the carvings in the altar.

The candles in the room flickered and flared red for an instant before returning to their normal color. Fizzri began to chant, her eyes closed, her body swaying back and forth as she praised the goddess.

Zollgarza stood over the elf. She writhed on the altar, whimpering around the gag in her mouth. Ripping away the rags covering her belly, Zollgarza held the knife poised in the air. “We offer this flesh to you, Mother Lolth. Hear your servants’ prayer and share your wisdom in our time of need. We call upon you, and as we give you this life, put our own lives into your hands.”

She brought the knife down in a quick, brutal arc. The moment the blade passed through the elf’s flesh, Zollgarza felt a burning explosion of pain in her gut.

She collapsed, writhing on the floor in front of the altar. At the same time, the elf’s lifeblood flowed through the carvings and glowed a brilliant red.

Somewhere behind her, Fizzri began to laugh. “Yes! Goddess, yes!” she cried, exultant.

Only then did Zollgarza begin to realize the depth of her lover’s betrayal.

Fizzri bowed deeply before the yochlol. The beautiful demon stood over Zollgarza, lip curled in disgust. Agony kept Zollgarza on her back, watching the blood drip from the altar.

“On your feet,” the yochlol commanded and, without waiting for Zollgarza to comply, made a gesture and spoke a word that pounded against Zollgarza’s temples. Unseen force yanked her to her feet and held her suspended in the air. “See what your ritual has wrought this day, Priestess,” the demon said. “Behold your offering to Lolth.”

Fizzri looked at Zollgarza, and her face contorted with a mixture of triumph and revulsion.

I remember it now. This was the moment when my memories twisted. I am Zollgarza.

A priestess born in the city of Guallidurth.

Lie.

A renegade male seeking refuge in the Temple City of Lolth.

Lie.

Who am I?

I am Zollgarza.

“You desired knowledge of the males in Guallidurth,” Fizzri said, running a sculpted fingernail along Zollgarza’s throat. “At first I dismissed your worries, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized you were right. The balance is shifting, and we must assure our dominance. You gave me the answer, my love, when you said you wanted to be Lolth’s instrument.” A wicked light burned in Fizzri’s red eyes. “You shall. Female becomes male. By arcane power is the divine transformed. When the time comes for Lolth’s ascension, you will be the nexus, the conduit for the creation of the Demon Weave. You will have purpose-a sacrifice to Lolth’s greater glory.”

My purpose. To die. Even that is fading. They took my memories, remade me completely.

I presented myself to Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell and offered my services as an assassin and master of poisons. She took me in, protected me.

Is that what you really are?

Show me your face, Zollgarza.

No, I am a high priestess of Lolth. I serve none but the goddess. Fizzri is my equal. I know her flesh as intimately as my own.

So many contradictions in your flesh-unremarkable male. Unworthy … lesser creature.

No! Goddess, forgive! Don’t do this.

Too late. I am already lost.

I am Zollgarza.

They call me the Black Creeper. I must keep my head down. I have felt the sting of the snake-headed whip too often.

No!

Yes.

I am Zollgarza.

Zollgarza screamed as the scene faded. Her last sight was of her male form standing in a pool of elf blood, gaze fixed beseechingly on the yochlol’s cold face as the demon stole her memories, filling her with Lolth’s dark power.

The library faded back into focus around Zollgarza. Shadows shrouded the room, and the whispers still hissed from the empty corners.

Show me your face, Zollgarza.

Lost child, helpless male, newly born female.

The voices mocked her. Zollgarza pawed the air as the shadows crept closer, taunting. Was it the seneschal’s books-whispers Zollgarza was too lost to hear? Or was she truly going mad?

Who am I? Goddess, please tell me!

“There’s no hope for questioning her,” Mith Barak’s deep voice drowned out the whispers briefly, but Zollgarza could not see the dwarf’s face. She’d fallen into darkness, and the shadows wouldn’t let her go. “She’s half-mad already. Look at her.”

Show me your face, Zollgarza.

Yes, look at me, Zollgarza wanted to scream. Someone, look at me. Tell me who I am.

During those times in her life when she’d felt lost, Zollgarza had taken comfort from the knowledge that she was strong in her goddess’s love. But that was a lie. Hadn’t she also felt strong as a male, knowing she would one day earn Lolth’s favor?

I am not beloved by my goddess. I am cursed, an abomination ripe for sacrifice.

Dark laughter bubbled up inside Zollgarza.

Goddess, behold your servant. Mother Lolth, behold Zollgarza-smile at your instrument, your broken disciple.