Spider and Stone Page 11

  “By my oath to your service, my king, I won’t let anyone harm the drow,” Dorla said steadily. “All the men and women here share that oath. We are yours.”

  “I know it,” Mith Barak said, nodding curtly. “Go and wait for me at the outer door. Keep one of your men with you. We’ll be along in a moment.”

  Dorla raised an eyebrow at we, but she made no comment. She bowed and left the cell.

  Throughout the exchange, the drow had not said a word. He kept his eyes on the floor, and to all appearances was as tame as a whipped dog. Mith Barak knew better.

  He grabbed a fistful of the drow’s black, greasy hair and jerked his head back, forcing the drow to look at him.

  “So it begins again?” Zollgarza said, swallowing. His eyes rolled in their sockets, but he couldn’t escape Mith Barak’s gaze. The dwarf leaned forward until his silver beard touched Zollgarza’s face.

  “I’m not here to interrogate you, Zollgarza,” Mith Barak said. “I thought about killing you, but that’s too easy. It’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s why you killed your guard, why you took a man from his wife and son, made him die horribly just by sticking him with a needle.” He released a breath, leaned back, and dropped the drow. Zollgarza crumpled to the floor. He was weaker than Mith Barak expected—or else he was only playacting.

  Mith Barak shook his head in disgust as he gazed down at Zollgarza. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to deal with these creatures. To him they looked smaller, more pathetic than they had the last time he’d emerged from his sleep. Yet gather enough of them together and they threatened everything he loved. They leaped from dark corners and slaughtered his men with poison and magic. He hated them, not for what they were—it was in their nature to kill and to feel nothing, to revel in wanton destruction—but because they continued to thrive, to press forward while his city steadily declined. Gods’ laughter, it wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

  “Get up,” Mith Barak said. When Zollgarza didn’t move, he took a key from the pouch at his belt and held it up. “I’m taking you from this cell, Zollgarza. On your feet—I know you can walk.”

  The drow fixed his gaze on the metal key in Mith Barak’s hand. “You’re going to kill me, then?” He betrayed no emotion other than curiosity. Slowly, he sat up, braced his feet, and stood. Though bound, he exhibited a grace and strength that reminded Mith Barak how lethal even this small creature could be when free.

  We are all simply shells, Mith Barak thought, our inner natures masked until it’s impossible to tell what is real and what illusion.

  “Walk ahead of me, Zollgarza,” the king instructed. He followed the drow out of the cell and down the hall to the outer door, where Dorla and one of the guards waited. They kept their features schooled, but Mith Barak felt their hatred for the drow. He saw it in their stiff postures, the way their hands gripped their weapon hilts. They held themselves in check only for the love of their king. Seeing them stretched like that to the breaking point gave Mith Barak yet another reason to despise the drow.

  They left the dungeons and ascended to the main caverns. Pools of silvery light splashed on the stone avenues, deserted except for a line of guards deployed at various points between the dungeons and Mith Barak’s private chambers at the back of his hall.

  “You planned this well,” Zollgarza said. “No angry dwarf mob waiting to pelt me with stones, just a quiet execution when no one is around to see.”

  “We wouldn’t waste stones on the likes of you,” Dorla said. “Nor would we stab you in the back or jab you with a hidden needle. You’ll see your death when it comes, drow. I promise you that.”

  Zollgarza chuckled and made no reply.

  When they arrived at Mith Barak’s chambers, the king dismissed the guards, except for Dorla. He led the way through a set of double doors and down a short hall to another pair of doors. The one on the right led to his private bedchamber, though he rarely used the room. He opened the door on the left and ushered Zollgarza through.

  “You can go, Dorla,” the king said. “I’ll tell you what guards I’ll need when I’m finished here.”

  “I’ll be waiting outside this door for you, my king,” Dorla said. “You call if you need me.”

  The king touched Dorla’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.

  Dorla closed the door behind them. Candlelight shone from six silver candelabra lining the center of the room. They rested on a long stone table with fourteen chairs arranged around it. Maps, parchment, and books covered every available surface of the table. A fire burned in a grand gray marble fireplace on the far side of the room.

  Mith Barak advanced into the room, but Zollgarza lingered at the door, openly staring at the walls.

  Carved into the stone were hundreds of bookshelves, containing what must have been thousands of tomes. The hoard of books was so large that Mith Barak had stopped counting them over the years. The most ancient tomes he kept under glass in one corner of the room, preserved by the strongest spells. Those books were too fragile to handle with anything other than magic anymore, Mith Barak reflected sadly. A shame it was, too, for he still remembered what the cracked leather felt like under his hands, the crisp pages, and the musty book scent that had gradually settled into the whole room.

  These tomes were memory, poetry, power, and lore. They were Mith Barak’s oldest friends.

  “Impressed, are you?” he barked at Zollgarza. “So you should be. Even one as corrupt as you must feel the power here.” He touched one of the open books on the table, lifting the cover to close it. “I used to bring only my most trusted advisers and friends to this room, to speak on matters of import,” he said and uttered a bitter laugh. “How things have changed.”

  He walked back to Zollgarza and again removed the key from his pouch. “Turn around,” he said. The drow did, and Mith Barak removed the chains that bound his wrists. “You’re free,” the king said, “in a manner of speaking.”

  “I don’t understand,” Zollgarza said. He rubbed his wrists, his gaze wandering over the vast library. “What game are you playing?”

  “Surely you’re accustomed to intrigue and deception in Guallidurth?” Mith Barak said, his laughter echoing eerily in the quiet chamber. “You should feel right at home. Or don’t you enjoy playing these games among the dwarves? You think we can’t manipulate and cheat with the best of your kind?”

  The drow took a step back. Mith Barak suddenly realized he’d raised his voice to the point of shouting. With an effort, he controlled himself. He didn’t want Dorla storming in and skewering Zollgarza.

  Every encounter with the damned drow was an engagement, a battle of wills. He needed to win this fight, though he wished he had a weapon in his hands. It might make him feel more in control—or it might increase the already overwhelming urge he had to crush this spider, this invader in his private space.

  No, I need him. I must bring him and the girl together.

  He’d decided to let Icelin talk to the drow here. It was a risk, letting him out of his cage, but if Icelin saw the drow imprisoned, she might start to feel for the creature. He needed her power, and he couldn’t afford to let pity shake her resolve. Besides, if Icelin were going to claim the sphere and the Silver Fire, she would have to do it here in the library. The artifact itself had determined that.

  Joya had said Icelin’s power was a humbling sight. Joya had never said that about anyone, save perhaps her father. Maybe Icelin really could break the grip of the spider bitch’s magic.

  “My library will be your new prison,” Mith Barak said. “You’ll be under guard, but as long as you don’t leave this room, you have the freedom to explore and learn all that you desire.”

  He listened as Zollgarza gradually made his way across the room. So soft were his footfalls, so gracefully and stealthily did he move that it sent a shiver even through the dwarf king. He did not fear an attack from the drow. He had protections in place against such treachery, but.…

  Can I truly leave her
alone with this creature? the king asked himself. Am I that desperate, or cruel? Perhaps I’ve slept in the stone too long. It’s infected my heart.

  “What is it you want in exchange for this grand gift you offer me?” Zollgarza said. “You’ve already stripped bare my mind. What else could you possibly want from me?”

  “That’s for me to worry about,” Mith Barak said. “Your concern, Zollgarza, is living moment to moment. I’ve given you new life, taking you out of that dungeon cell. Loyal as they are, it is only a matter of time before one of my guards refuses to stay his hand against you. I’m offering you a degree of freedom, comfort, and access to the secrets of this city, the history and lore of countless generations. You’d be a fool not to take advantage of the knowledge here.”

  “You’ll kill me before you’ll let me use such knowledge against Iltkazar,” Zollgarza said. “I see no advantage here.”

  “Ah, what a shame,” Mith Barak said. He clasped his hands behind his back and clucked his tongue. “Have you given up all hope of escape, then, since your grand potato scheme failed? I expected better of you, drow. You should be planning your next bid for freedom even as we speak. Where is the cold calculation, the survival instinct of your race?”

  “It isn’t lost, not yet,” Zollgarza said. Mith Barak heard the hate in his voice. Zollgarza’s eyes scanned the room in a quick, assessing glance. Mith Barak knew what he was looking for.

  “Oh, yes, Zollgarza. Even the sphere is somewhere in this room,” Mith Barak said. “You see, it’s hidden itself—from me and everyone else in this city. It will only reveal its presence to one it considers worthy. Perhaps you might root it out from its hiding place.”

  “You’re lying. You would never give me that chance.”

  “I admit I’m fairly certain the sphere will never give itself over to a drow. But don’t you enjoy a challenge, Zollgarza?”

  “Always.” Zollgarza stood next to the fire, the orange flames bringing a bit of life to his dull red eyes. “I accept your hospitality, King,” he said, offering a mock bow. “I’ll play your game. Let it lead us where it will.”

  Mith Barak again suppressed the urge to cut the drow down where he stood.

  Irrevocably, I have tainted this place, he thought. Whatever happens, there’ll be a price to pay.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  22 UKTAR

  ICELIN AGAIN DREAMED OF WATERDEEP.

  She sat on a stool in her great uncle’s shop, a book propped on her knees. Eagerly, she flipped the pages, but each one was blank. She went through the entire book, one page at a time, searching for the story, but it eluded her. Slamming the book shut in frustration, Icelin hurled it across the shop.

  It’s not there, said a familiar woman’s voice in her mind. She recognized it from her dream the night before, the soothing voice that spoke to her while the boardinghouse fire raged. You’re not looking in the right place.

  “Then where is it?” Icelin cried, waking herself up.

  Groggily, she pushed herself to a sitting position. The blanket covering her slipped off her shoulder, awakening her body with a quick draft of cold. Her hips and legs ached with little pains and complaints, and her arm was stiff from lying on it on the hard bed. A low fire burned in a hearth nearby, but even by its light, Icelin had trouble sorting out where she was. Her sleep-fogged brain was slow to react to her new surroundings.

  She took a breath, and the thick stench of forge fires entered her lungs, eclipsing the more subtle, sweet smoke coming from the hearth fire. With the smell, the events of the previous day came back to her in a rush.

  She was miles beneath Faerûn, in the dwarf city of Iltkazar.

  The room she’d been given contained a bed, a small stone table with a basin of water on it, and a fireplace. On the walls were empty hooks where weapons used to hang, and discolored patches of floor marked where other pieces of furniture had once rested. These phantoms gave the room an empty, cheerless aspect, broken only by the fire, which cast a golden glow over everything.

  Ruen and Sull slept across the hall. Sull’s snores carried to Icelin’s ears through two closed doors. She wondered how Ruen could sleep in the same room with the butcher.

  Icelin sat up and reached for her pack and her spare set of clothes. She’d been too tired the night before to change. After their audience with the king, Joya had escorted them to a large stone dwelling in one of the smaller caverns. Icelin hadn’t known it then, but it was the private residence of the Blackhorns. Neither Garn nor Obrin had been at home when they arrived, so Joya had led them to a pair of rooms at the back of the house, which faced the cluster of forges in the back of the cavern.

  “These are Ingara’s rooms,” Joya had explained. “Most of her things have already been moved to the house she and her husband will share, and she’s been eating and sleeping at the forges while she finishes her wedding gift, so you’re welcome to them. These days, the house is empty. My father and brother are out on patrol for days at a time, and when I’m not with them, I’m at the temple. It’ll be nice to have some voices in the house to make it feel lived-in again.”

  Joya was right. The large, empty rooms felt lonely and neglected. It had taken a long time for the fire to chase the chill away.

  Icelin lifted the water basin and set it before the fire. Whoever had left it for her—Joya had said there was a pair of dwarves, a husband and wife, who looked after the house and would see to their needs—had left a washcloth and soap as well. Icelin splashed cold water on her face and used the cloth and soap to clean the sweat and road dust off her. When she’d finished, she slipped quickly into her spare clothes and sat close to the fire to warm herself. Her hair was full of tangles and knots. She leaned over the basin and dipped it into the soapy water. Shivering, she wrung out the strands and combed them with her fingers. She pointedly ignored the gray streaks that stood out against the darker black.

  Wisdom comes with the gray, her great uncle used to say. Icelin wished she could dream about him instead of cryptic images of blank books and disembodied voices. Then again, she rarely slept through the night anymore. Maybe her spellscar was to blame, or maybe it was just that she wanted to waste as little time sleeping as she could.

  Though, what had brought her awake so early this morning wasn’t hard to guess. Visions of the Arcane Script Sphere floated in Icelin’s mind. Her excitement at learning that the artifact contained a piece of Mystra was eclipsed only by her trepidation when she considered King Mith Barak’s bargain.

  Nothing is settled. You can still back out.

  Would the king truly let her and her friends go if she did? Icelin wondered. Or were they only guests here as long as the king got what he wanted from them? They would find out soon enough.

  For now, her hair clean and with fresh clothes on her back, Icelin felt renewed. Joya had tended her wound the previous night, and she must have slept off the last vestiges of the drow poison, for she detected no lingering weakness. Even the wild magic she’d unleashed the day before hadn’t left her as weary as she’d thought it would, which was a good sign.

  In the next room, Sull’s snores had stopped. He and Ruen must be stirring, Icelin thought. The king had promised to let her speak to the drow today, and Icelin was curious to see more of Iltkazar. The underground city, spread over several large caverns, bore the most intricate carved stonework Icelin had ever seen. Such beauty, all of it buried underground where most of Faerûn would never see it.

  She met Sull and Ruen in the hall. The rest of the house was quiet. Joya must have already left for the day.

  “I’m feelin’ fine today,” Sull said. He stretched and yawned hugely. “Slept better than I have in months.”

  “How were you able to sleep in a dwarven bed?” Icelin asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Didn’t need a bed,” Sull said proudly. “I made myself a nice stack of blankets by the fire. I’m a travelin’ man now, and I can sleep anywhere.”

  Icelin grinned. “And you?” s
he said to Ruen. “Sull’s wild beast snores didn’t keep you awake?”

  “I’ve grown used to them,” Ruen said, “which is frightening in itself. What about you?” he said, looking Icelin over carefully. “Are the effects of the drow poison gone?”

  “Gone completely.” Icelin turned in a circle, lifting her hands in the air. “What do you think? Am I fit for polite company?”

  Ruen pursed his lips. “Polite company?”

  Icelin made a face at him. “Fit for the king’s company, at least, and time’s wasting.”

  “Oh, wait a breath or two, lass,” Sull interjected hastily. “We need to eat something first, don’t we? Joya says the skeleton and I are going out on patrol with the Blackhorns. Who knows when we’ll get to eat again?”

  “The skeleton?” Icelin said.

  “He means me,” Ruen said, sighing. “A new nickname.”

  “It’s for your own good, too,” Sull told her, ignoring Ruen. “You’ll fall asleep on your feet if you don’t have a decent meal.”

  “Let me guess,” Icelin said. “You found the larder last night, and you have some new recipes you want to try?”

  Sull’s smile took in his whole face. “You should see the seasonin’s,” the excited butcher said. “Dried mushrooms, roots—I’ve never heard of half of them! You think the Blackhorns would let me take a few samples back to Waterdeep with me?”

  “You can ask them yourself,” Ruen said. “I think they’re home.”

  Icelin listened and heard movement and voices coming from the front of the house. The Blackhorn family chattered away at each other in Dwarvish. She couldn’t understand a word, but they sounded cheerful, more cheerful than they had on the journey to the city.

  The three of them entered the kitchen to see Ingara and Obrin taking plates and cups from a shelf, while Garn stoked the kitchen fire. Obrin laughed at something his sister said. The boisterous sound echoed in the room, and Icelin marveled at how the humor transformed the dwarf’s features. The hard lines at his eyes and lips softened. He stroked his beard excitedly, twirling the mahogany strands around his index finger. He and Ingara laughed like a pair of mischievous children, and they looked and sounded so alike in that breath that Icelin, with a sudden insight, realized the two were likely twins.