Spider and Stone Page 12

  Icelin would have been content to stand in the doorway for a long while, soaking up the dwarves’ mirth and good cheer, but Garn looked up from the fire just then and saw the three of them standing there.

  “Up at last, are you?” he said, giving the fire another good poke. “We thought you’d sleep the day away.”

  Instantly, Obrin and Ingara’s laughter ceased. An awkward silence fell over the room as dwarves and humans regarded each other, neither seeming to know what to say. For Obrin, it was as if a shutter had closed over his face. In silence, he took the rest of the cups and plates from his sister and set them out on a round table across from the fire.

  Icelin’s heart sank a little. She regretted staying now. They’d obviously intruded on a family ritual that was no less sacred for its casualness.

  Thankfully, the silence didn’t last long. Ingara broke it. “Look at us all, standing around as if we’ve never had guests in the house before. Come in, all of you. We don’t have any food on the table yet, but the fire is warm, and you can have some drink. Father, will you show them?”

  “You’re very kind,” Icelin said as Garn laid out a pitcher of something that smelled a little too strongly of liquor for her stomach. Wordlessly, Obrin handed around cups while Ingara retrieved more chairs from the next room. They were large enough for all but Sull, who settled himself on the floor near the fire.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your larder,” Sull said, addressing Ingara before another awkward silence fell over the group. “Lovely stock you’ve got in there, just lovely. I … er, hope you didn’t mind me nosin’ around. I have an eye for cookin,’ see, and you have some herbs that are new to me. For instance, those jars of blue powder—what are they used for?”

  Ingara blinked. “In truth, I’m not sure. Garryin and Foruna look after the house and do most of the cooking.”

  Obrin said something under his breath and tipped his cup back, draining its contents.

  “Yes, that’s true.” Ingara pursed her lips. “We’ve been conserving supplies in case of a siege, so the fare’s been simple of late.”

  “It won’t come to a siege,” Garn said quietly. He’d stopped tending the fire and sat at the kitchen table with a clay mug clasped between his hands. The runes tattooed on his cheek emphasized the lines and wrinkles there, and Icelin saw a pair of scars near his left eye that she hadn’t noticed before. They distorted the skin and made his eye appear half-closed. “The king will throw open the city gates and invite the drow in for a bloody battle before he allows them to starve us out like rats,” Garn said. “Better to have one last glorious fight.”

  Obrin raised his cup at that pronouncement. He and his father exchanged a private, knowing glance.

  “Iltkazar’s outer defenses are formidable,” Ruen said. “The drow could lose hundreds, thousands, trying to break through. After that they still have to take the city.”

  “Their magic is also formidable,” Ingara said. She reached into a belt pouch and pulled out three objects, which she held up to the firelight. “We’ve been pulling these off of drow corpses.”

  They were rings, thick gold bands ornamented by a cluster of rubies and onyxes in the shape of a spider. Icelin’s eyes widened. “I know something of appraising,” she said. “The gems alone would fetch an astounding price at the markets of Waterdeep.”

  “Shame we’re so far from Waterdeep,” Garn said.

  Icelin ignored him and took one of the rings from Ingara’s hand. A tingling sensation danced in her palm, confirming what she already suspected.

  “They’re magical,” Icelin said. “Have you seen them used in battle?”

  Ingara shook her head. “Damned drow are full of magic, so it’s hard to tell where any given spell comes from. You being a wizard, I thought maybe you could tell me its powers.”

  “Take those things over to the forges if you want to play with them,” Garn said testily. “Moradin’s honor, I won’t have drow magic in my house. I’ll tear it down stone by stone myself before that taint soaks into it.”

  Another heavy silence fell over the group. Icelin was beginning to wish she’d taken some of that liquor after all. Her stomach had twisted up into knots.

  She handed the ring back to Ingara. “I’d be happy to come to the forges and examine the rings,” she said.

  “I’ve an interest in seeing this war axe you’re forging,” Ruen said. “I knew a dwarf in Waterdeep who spoke of the smithcraft with reverence. I’ve never seen the equal of the axes your family carries.”

  Icelin heard the simple honesty in his words. Ruen was not the kind of man to flatter in order to gain favor. She knew enough about him to know that when he offered a compliment, he meant it. If he did not respect a person, he remained silent.

  The dwarves must have felt his sincerity too, for a bit of the tension slipped out of the air. Ingara smiled. “My thanks,” she said. “We can go over now, if you like.”

  Sull, Icelin had noticed, was fidgeting at his place by the fire. At Ingara’s words, he could contain himself no longer. “That’s it!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Maybe you people can sit around the fire chewin’ on nothing but words, but I have to have meat or bread or … something.” He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  “Poor Sull.” Icelin giggled before she appealed to Ingara. “Will you let my friend aid you in the kitchen? He’s completely tame, I promise you, and he’s able to make a feast out of very few rations.”

  “Of course,” Ingara said, smiling at Sull. “The larder is yours, Sir Butcher. We’d be happy for the, ah, aid.” She glanced at her father, who nodded, though his eyes seemed fixed on faraway matters. Obrin said nothing at all.

  Ruen stood. “Icelin and I will go with you,” he said to Ingara. “We’ll come back for the food,” he told Sull.

  The butcher was already headed for the pantry. “I’ll bring you a bowl of whatever I whip up,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Are you sure you won’t get lost?” Icelin said.

  “I’ll follow the smell of the forge fires,” Sull assured her. “How hard could it be?”

  “We should go,” Ruen said. Icelin could tell he was eager to be out of the house, and she was all for it, too.

  She wondered why the Blackhorns had invited them to stay in their house, since they were obviously so unwelcome by the men of the family. Was it truly out of respect for the aid they’d given the family, or was there more to it? Judging by what Icelin had seen so far, Joya, at least, had the ear of the king and spoke more familiarly to him than any of the other dwarves she’d seen. Had the king instructed Joya to watch his “guests” during their stay? If so, for what purpose?

  GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

  22 UKTAR

  I’VE RECEIVED REPORTS OF THE ARMY’S PROGRESS TAKING Iltkazar’s outposts,” the mistress mother said to the assembled wizards. “The attacks are proceeding far too slowly. I expected you to work with the soldiers to have a path cleared to their main gate by the end of the tenday. At this rate, it’ll be midsummer before we’re at the city heart!”

  “We have provided aid wherever we were called, Mistress.” Levriin Soltif cast a sharp glance behind him, as if to quell any protestations or denials before they rose to the lips of his fellow wizards.

  Oh no, Fizzri thought. Let your dogs speak, Levriin. I’ll enjoy ripping out their tongues.

  “Ah, well, perhaps the Spider Queen’s faith in your power was misplaced, Levriin,” Fizzri said sweetly. “You would not be the first of the faithful to be tested and found lacking.”

  She saw the effort it took for Levriin to hold his tongue and chuckled to herself. She hadn’t expected the elder to lose his patience so quickly.

  “Perhaps,” Levriin said in a controlled voice, “my mistress is anxious to hear news of her lost scout, and that is why she pushes the armies so hard to break down Iltkazar’s walls. In which case, I perfectly understand your concern but advise you not to act rashly and jeopardize the success
of the attack.”

  For a breath, silence reigned in the chamber. Fizzri stared at Levriin so long and so hard that the other wizards shifted uncomfortably in their places, but most kept their eyes on the ground. The mistress mother felt a stinging pain in her hand. She looked down and saw a trail of blood dripping off an exposed piece of crystal at the edge of the padded bench where she sat. She’d been clutching the sharp crystal so hard, it had punctured her skin.

  “What news of Zollgarza?” she said, rising and fixing Levriin with a cold glance. “I assume you’ve learned something, else you wouldn’t have spoken.”

  Levriin shook his head. “Forgive me, Mistress. There has been no news.”

  Fizzri came down the steps from the bench and stood before the wizard. The rest of the males had drawn closer to their master. Was it out of fear, or were they preparing to strike at her if she used her scourge on Levriin? Excitement threaded through her veins at that prospect.

  “Forgive you?” Blood dripped down her palm, staining the ring she wore on her index finger. She twisted it, flexing her fingers against the sticky warmth. “What shall I forgive you for, Levriin?”

  The wizard opened his mouth but, perhaps sensing a trap, closed it again and stared straight ahead.

  “Please, Levriin, don’t fall silent on me, especially when you spoke so eloquently just now,” Fizzri said. “Shall I forgive you for failing to clear a path for my army into Iltkazar? Will I forgive you for questioning my strategy of attack? Shall I show you mercy for suggesting that I am not capable of carrying it out?” The last words she spoke in a whisper against Levriin’s ear.

  “Mistress, I meant no disrespect,” the wizard said, but he couldn’t quite hide the derision in his voice. “I serve the Spider Queen’s will, as do we all.”

  “You presume to know Lolth’s will!” Fizzri shouted in the wizard’s ear. Levriin flinched, and Fizzri backhanded him, leaving her blood on his face. “The next time you question, the next time you close your eyes to pray, consider my words carefully, Levriin. When you open your eyes, you will have gained a new understanding of your place in the Spider Queen’s hierarchy.”

  Levriin’s features twisted, betraying an ugly, hateful expression. He wiped the blood from his face but kept his hands suspended in the air. He was a breath away from casting, Fizzri realized, a breath away from beginning a duel that would irrevocably shift the power balance in Guallidurth.

  Fizzri felt a tingling sensation at her index finger as the ring’s magic activated. Her call had been answered.

  The wizards gathered behind Levriin saw them first. Five sets of double doors led from the mistress mother’s private audience chamber. Four of these connected to antechambers used by the highest-ranking priestesses of Fizzri’s House. Simultaneously, these four sets of doors opened, and four priestesses stepped through.

  Two of these were drow females of unearthly beauty. The other two were blind, their empty eye sockets gaping and red with infections never fully healed. Thick chains looped around their hands, chains connected to the collars of two enormous spiders. The doorways were only just wide enough to accommodate the tumors sprouting from the spiders’ deformed, hulking bodies. Mindlinked to their slaves, the females let the monsters guide their steps. They never faltered.

  Priestesses and spiders converged on the center of the room in an instant, surrounding the wizards. None spoke, but those priestesses who still had their eyes looked to their mistress for instruction. Levriin and his fellows remained silent, but Fizzri stood close enough to see the elder wizard’s chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “What are they?” he exclaimed at last.

  “Once this city threatened to dissolve into civil war, Levriin,” Fizzri cooed, like a mother to a child. “Those were dark times. Guallidurth grew weaker instead of stronger because no single power could dominate over the others. Do you remember that time, Levriin?”

  “I remember,” Levriin said quietly. “The blind priestesses—I know their names—”

  “They no longer have names,” Fizzri interrupted. “I stripped their names and identities from them the day I took their eyes. After that, they, and these others”—she nodded to the silent females whose eyes tracked her every movement—“who were once the leaders of six rival Houses, swore an oath to unite under the snake-headed scourge and follow my leadership. Do you know why they did this, Levriin—why they gave up their own ambitions to follow me? They stood where you do now, and made the choice themselves.”

  “Six of them?” Levriin said, swallowing. “There are only four here. Where are the others?”

  Fizzri ignored the question. “I know what you must be thinking, but it wasn’t to preserve their lives that they swore the oath. They did it because I showed them the truth.”

  “What truth is that?” Levriin said. He held his hands at his sides, the wizards forming a close knot of protection around him, but he had to know it was hopeless. There were enough deadly enchantments in this room to distract him and his fellows long enough for the priestesses to close in.

  “That Lolth requires them to submit,” Fizzri said. “For the good of all, some must submit. The handmaiden of Lolth brought those words to the six rivals from the goddess’s mouth. When four of Lolth’s daughters resisted, I pointed at them and condemned their lack of faith. The yochlol responded by ripping out their eyes. When two still refused to submit, the yochlol transformed them.”

  Levriin stared at the tumor-ridden spiders in horror. The blind priestesses tugged gently on their chains, and the creatures bent their eight spindly legs in imitation of a bow. Fizzri watched Levriin’s expression rapturously, the moment when he recognized the two twisted human faces staring blindly from the spiders’ distended bodies.

  “They are abominations,” Levriin said in a trembling voice. “They should not live.”

  “Maimed and full of despair, they reached out to me, mewling creatures, and I touched them.” Fizzri stepped toward Levriin and reached out her hand. The wizard kept his composure, letting her stroke his bloodstained cheek with the tips of her fingers. “They felt the power and favor of the goddess within me,” Fizzri said. “Repentant, they swore the oath. They have been mine ever since, and their faith has never been shaken. Do you believe in the goddess that much, Levriin? When the time comes, will you commit yourself so fully to her cause? Or do you still think this is about raising your status, male above female?”

  Fizzri dropped her hand and returned to her seat on the bench. She felt calmer now, and the pain in her hand was barely noticeable, though the blood had left a wide, dripping stain on her gown. One by one, the priestesses withdrew from the chamber, but the smell of the abominations lingered in the room, mingling with the copper reek of Fizzri’s blood.

  “Now,” the mistress said, as if nothing eventful had occurred, “let us discuss the nature of the attacks on the dwarven outposts and how your magic might clear us a path to the city. Perhaps we might speak in private?” she added with a pointed glance at the wizards.

  Levriin exchanged a look with the others and nodded. They, too, filed out of the chamber by the fifth set of doors, keeping well clear of the entrances to the antechambers. When they were gone, Levriin bowed.

  “Speak, Mistress,” he said. “I will listen.”

  Fizzri smiled. Listen, not obey. It was a start.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  22 UKTAR

  ICELIN ENTERED THE FORGE. HEAT AND SMOKE enveloped her. She coughed on the acrid fumes, and her eyes watered, while Ingara’s face glowed like a child’s on coming home.

  “The air’s a little fresher if you stand over here,” Ingara said, pointing to a crescent-shaped slit in the wall where the cave breezes drifted in off the river and thinned the smoke. She went to a stone slab, where an object lay under a black cloth. She lifted a corner of the fabric to expose a section of shining, silvery blade. “My life’s work,” she said.

  Ruen bent to examine the war axe. Icelin stood at his shoul
der. She was not as good a judge of weapons as she was of fine gems, but she knew the purest of metals when she saw it, and this axe was the finest quality mithral she had ever seen in her life. Carved into the blade were runes similar to those she’d seen on the Blackhorn axes, but these had been done with the delicacy and precision of a master artisan.

  “You did the runes yourself?” Icelin asked, resisting the urge to trace the intricate carvings with her fingers. Were those sparks of red fire she saw flashing from deep within the lines of the runes? This was a weapon fit to carry a king into battle—or Ingara’s beloved.

  “My mother didn’t think I had a smith’s hands,” Ingara said. “She told me they were made for delicate work, and I suppose she was right, but I managed both. She would have been pleased with this axe. Oh, that she would have.”

  “How long did it take you to craft the weapon?” Ruen asked.

  “From the beginning of its tale to the end—took me almost a year.” Ingara lifted the war axe in her hands. “I named it ‘Vallahir,’ for the stories Arngam used to tell me of his travels in Faerûn, of the mountains and grassy plains, the openness of the sky. The rune for the name lies here in the center of the blade with my family’s symbol and his on either side.”

  “Will you travel again after you’re wed, or do you intend to settle here?” Icelin asked.

  “Moradin willing, we’re going to see the surface lands,” Ingara said. “Arngam has it in his head to show me the places where he adventured in his younger days.” She laid the war axe back on the table and carefully drew the black cloth over the weapon. “We have a battle to settle here first.”