Spider and Stone Page 18

  The bugbear was going to die, but instead of slowly consuming him, the magic hovered like a growing storm, waiting to burst from the creature’s body with violent force.

  Ruen pulled back from the bugbear, breaking the skin-to-skin contact. The bugbear stared fixedly at him. Red light crept into its eyes, and suddenly, the creature smiled, exposing broken teeth and a mouthful of blood.

  “You’ve touched your doom, human,” it said in Common. The voice that issued from the creature’s lips was not the rough, animal rasp of a bugbear, but a smooth, musical murmur that sent a chill crawling over Ruen’s flesh. “The earth shakes, and the walls come tumbling down.”

  Ruen grabbed the bugbear’s head between his hands. “Watching gods damn you all,” he whispered. “We’ll take as many of you with us as we can.” He twisted sharply, breaking the bugbear’s neck. The red light faded from the creature’s eyes, leaving a blank, peaceful stare on the slave’s face.

  Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Ruen sheathed his dagger and ran toward Garn, shouting and waving his arms. His feet felt sluggish and clumsy. He tangled with a crowd of dwarves and drow warriors locked in vicious swordplay. One dwarf turned and almost took his head off with his short sword before he realized Ruen was an ally.

  “Get in the fight or get out of the way!” the dwarf screamed angrily, shaking Ruen by the shoulder.

  Ruen reached for the dwarf, intending to tell him, to shout at them all to fall back. They didn’t realize what was going to happen, that they were all doomed if they didn’t move. The dwarf had already turned away. Ruen ran blindly on, determined to get to Garn. The runepriest would give the order. His booming voice could carry over the entire chamber, warning everyone that death was coming.

  A burst of orange and blue light erupted somewhere over Ruen’s left shoulder. The cavern went silent except for a loud ringing in his ears and a distant pounding. Ruen felt wetness run down his neck. He reached up, touching his ear. When he took his hand away, blood coated his fingers.

  Turning, he saw the orange fireball spreading across the chamber in waves like bright, fluffy orange clouds. It was raining, too—chunks of stone fell around him as the cavern ceiling came down on their heads.

  Another blast came, farther away, or maybe Ruen just couldn’t hear it. It shattered the stone near him and threw him to his knees. He looked up in time to see a third blast as a bugbear standing not far away suddenly shuddered, bent double, and exploded in a brilliant flash of red and gold light.

  Ruen fell into blessed darkness, cool and silent, and he felt no more pain.

  ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

  25 UKTAR

  ICELIN LOOKED UP AND SHIVERED, AS IF A COLD HAND had touched her on the shoulder. Nothing appeared amiss—the books stood silently upon their shelves, behaving themselves, and Zollgarza sat at the table in the middle of the room, eating a bowl of stew the guards had brought him. Icelin shook away the sense of foreboding that had momentarily gripped her and turned back to her book.

  In front of her, suspended above a glass case, gold letters shaped themselves out of the air. As soon as Icelin stopped reading, the letters stopped forming. She removed a gold ring from her index finger and hooked it on a peg protruding from the glass. The writing began to fade, leaving only a faint afterimage on the air, but the memories of the text were forever imprinted in Icelin’s mind.

  The glass case contained one of King Mith Barak’s oldest tomes. According to the seneschal, the last time the pages had been touched by living hands was more than two hundred years ago. No magic had ever been cast on the book, and the pages were too fragile now to be exposed to the air. The text could only be read using the ring to recall it from the book. The seneschal had drawn her attention to it because there was a physical description of the Arcane Script Sphere in the text.

  Mystra inscribed the Arcane Script Sphere with spells known only to the goddess, written across its surface in the tiniest script, unreadable to the naked eye. She’d intended to give them to her faithful. She placed a part of her memory, personality, and Silver Fire inside of it, so the artifact would seek out the wizards she wanted, wizards who would use the sphere, add their own spell discoveries to it, then pass it on to others who would learn from it, a cycle that went on for centuries. These wizards would feel their goddess as they learned, her soft voice like a teacher’s echoing in their heads, encouraging, guiding.…

  Icelin rubbed her chest, where a hollowness had taken root. Her own teacher was gone, killed by her wild magic.

  “Finished already?” Zollgarza said, twirling his spoon deftly between his fingers. “Or did you tire of reading messages on the air?”

  Icelin sighed and rubbed her burning eyes. “Don’t you think it’s a little exciting? Mysterious? Words conjured out of the air—knowledge preserved with elegant magic.”

  Zollgarza snorted derisively. “It’s impractical. Why not simply cast a protective spell over the book and its pages?”

  “Such magic can fail or be dispelled.” The seneschal’s gentle voice echoed from across the room, making Icelin jump. She wasn’t used to the dwarf woman’s entrances and exits, which often occurred with little or no warning. At the moment, she sat serenely in a chair in the far corner of the room. “King Mith Barak believes in preserving valuable objects for their own sake,” the seneschal said. “Magic is not always the best way to accomplish that. Magic is a tool, something that should never be relied upon in place of natural skills and abilities.”

  “A lovely speech, but I have a difficult time taking you seriously when magic saturates this room,” Zollgarza drawled. “For a dwarf, your king seems to have a particular obsession with the arcane.”

  Icelin hated to agree with Zollgarza, but he had a point. She had never seen such a collection of magic and magical knowledge contained in one place before. True, there were many texts on the dwarves’ history, culture, and especially smithcraft, but Icelin was shocked at how much knowledge of the Art she’d found. Her thoughts whirled with all the information she’d acquired, so that she didn’t hear Zollgarza’s approach until he was right beside her. Tensing, she tried to act natural.

  “You have … an interesting smell,” Zollgarza remarked, standing at her shoulder.

  Icelin pushed the book she held back up on the shelf and selected another without replying. She resisted the urge to run, to put the space of the library between them. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” she said, turning toward him. She didn’t quite manage to look into his red eyes, but she had the passing thought that they were a bit like Ruen’s, masking his emotions well.

  Stop treading that road, Icelin silently chided herself. Ruen and this creature are nothing alike.

  “Why do you seek the Arcane Script Sphere?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “Why does anyone?” she countered, slanting him a look. “It’s a powerful conduit for—”

  “Precious arcane energy—I know.” Zollgarza dismissed her explanation with a wave. “That’s what the sphere is. I asked why you want it.”

  “I’m a wizard,” Icelin said as if that explained everything.

  Zollgarza waited. “And?”

  “And what?” She was stalling, scrambling to decide how much she could tell him. She didn’t want to mention the Silver Fire at all, if she could help it.

  The drow saw through her tactics. “Why don’t you want me to know?” he asked in a teasing voice. “I’m harmless. I may as well be in a cage.” He nodded to the guards.

  “You’re many things,” Icelin said. “Harmless isn’t one of them.”

  A smile. “True. Come now, if you don’t tell me, I’ll simply hang about your elbow, whispering, until your nerves won’t let you concentrate. You’re already hopelessly distracted.”

  Damn him, but he was right. Icelin sighed. “I am spellscarred,” she said, hoping that a small piece of the truth would satisfy him. “The affliction is slowly killing me. The sphere contains a piece of Mystra’s essence, so I hope
the artifact’s power may be able to prolong my life.”

  Surprise touched Zollgarza’s features. And something else—a hint of consternation? “The sphere contains a piece of the goddess?” he asked.

  “According to my research, yes.” She cocked her head. “You also came here looking for the sphere, though not for the same reasons, I assume. Why do you want it?”

  He stared hard at her, and Icelin knew he wasn’t fooled by her casual tone. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why did Mith Barak send you here? You’re innocent enough looking, but there’s more to you. I can sense it.”

  Icelin took a chance—again, the truth, or at least part of it. “He wants me to learn your secrets.”

  Zollgarza scoffed at that. “He thought I’d tell you?”

  Now it was Icelin’s turn to smile, though her heart pounded. “You’ve already told me things. For instance, you don’t know everything about the artifact you’re seeking. You didn’t know that it contains a piece of Mystra.”

  She’d expected anger from him, but he merely regarded her with a tight, calculating expression. “Well, well. You do have some small talent for interrogation. Perhaps it’s your beautiful, innocent face, so pure and sweet.”

  “You’re trying to intimidate me again.”

  “I can’t help it. I can’t find the sphere, and the dwarf won’t have left anything else of value here to interest me,” Zollgarza said. “This is just another cage, except—” he lifted a hand and touched a strand of her hair with the tips of his fingers—“he’s left a pretty little bird here to entertain me.”

  Icelin did jerk away from him then, and he smiled, which infuriated her. “So that’s all that’s left for you?” she said. “You’ll stay in this room and taunt me until the drow march on Iltkazar?”

  “Or until Mith Barak decides I’m no longer of any use to him,” Zollgarza said. The color of his red eyes deepened, betraying his anger. “You must forgive me a few petty pleasures.”

  “The seneschal said you were missing pieces of yourself,” Icelin pressed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means exactly that,” Zollgarza said. “Memories that I should have are gone. Most of my life is a hazy shadow in my mind.” He hesitated. “Somehow, I never questioned it, not until Mith Barak laid my mind bare. I didn’t even know there was an emptiness inside me. I only ever desired a purpose—what Lolth wants for me.”

  “What Lolth wants?” Icelin held her book against her chest. “Isn’t that just as futile as pacing this cage? I’ve read about your kind.” She gritted her teeth at the faint amusement that flitted across his features. “Of course the dwarves have written about you. They’ve chronicled their constant war with your race. They talk about your society too. What has your goddess ever done for you? What has she done to earn your reverence?”

  Far from being provoked, the drow actually chuckled. “What a question, especially coming from you. I never expected it.”

  “You’re mocking me,” Icelin said, crossing the room to sit beside the fire. “I should have known better than to expect plain speaking with you.”

  “Oh, but my surprise is genuine,” Zollgarza said, coming to stand with his back to the fire. Once again, he was too close. Icelin felt her whole body tense, but she tried not to show it. She knew he was doing it on purpose. Everything the drow did was calculated to put his opponents off balance. How could a race live like that? “I wasn’t being boorish when I told you that you have an interesting smell. I was referring to the magic on you. The Art is so strong. It must be terribly hard for you, being spellscarred.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Icelin said. She flipped open the book and stared at the writing without seeing it.

  Zollgarza’s soft chuckle mingled with the cracks and pops of the fire. “Of course you do. You know how alone you are in the world. The goddess Mystra, who might once have steered your course in life, the guiding force behind all wielders of the arcane, is lost to you. In fact,” he said, observing her closely, “you’ve never known her at all, have you? My goddess Lolth may be a harsh mistress, but at least I know that when I cry out in the night, someone hears me. You cry out alone. It’s no wonder you seek the Arcane Script Sphere. Even a scrap of a goddess is better than none.”

  “I’m not alone,” Icelin said. “I walk with companions who would give their lives to keep me safe. We adventure in the world together, embracing life. Does your goddess care when you cry out in the night? Is she there to give comfort? Can you understand that kind of devotion?”

  “Ah, your protector,” Zollgarza said. His smile turned cruel. “An animal protects its master with an equal fervor. I can train beasts to answer my command, so yes, child, I understand the devotion you speak of.” He took a step toward her. “Of course, an animal is usually willing to offer affection to its master in addition to service. Does your animal fulfill this role as well?”

  “Stop,” Icelin said. “That’s enough.”

  “But why?” Zollgarza crouched in front of her. Icelin didn’t move. She didn’t trust herself. “To me your existence shares as many echoes of tragedy as you see in mine. You stand on the edge of oblivion, spellscarred, victim of a lost goddess’s power. So you adventure in the world, embracing life, as you call it, even taking on the dwarves’ burden as your own—whatever it is that will fulfill you, ease the emptiness inside. All this I understand. We all do what we have to do to survive the darkness. I am surprised because you are the last person in Faerûn who should pity me for my existence. Pity yourself.”

  He left the fire, retreating to the other side of the room. Icelin felt the heat burning into one side of her face, but she couldn’t move. If she moved, she would fall apart.

  “What troubles you?” the seneschal asked. She’d remained silent during Icelin’s exchange with Zollgarza, but now she came to stand beside her. “Can I help?”

  “I don’t think anyone can,” Icelin said. She tried to push the drow’s taunts from her mind, but they lingered like a poison. “I’m lacking inspiration,” she added, “and a clear head.”

  “The latter is easily remedied,” the seneschal said. “You’ve not been outside this room in many hours. Walk about and clear your mind. As for inspiration …” A frown marred her smooth features.

  “What is it?” Icelin asked. “You have a book to recommend?”

  “Perhaps.” The seneschal glanced uneasily between Icelin and Zollgarza. “It might aid both of you, in fact. Or it might drive you mad.”

  Zollgarza said, “You have my attention, spirit. Speak.”

  “Don’t be so eager,” the seneschal cautioned him. She held her hands palms up in front of her. A black leather-bound book appeared, heavy and intimidating, with two brass locks to secure it. “If inspiration is what you seek, this tome may provide the answer.”

  “What is its power?” Icelin asked. A faint reddish aura surrounded the book, which intensified the longer she stared at it. Power—barely contained, Icelin thought. Whatever knowledge was stored within, it must be significant.

  “Inspiration,” the seneschal said enigmatically. “The book itself contains no knowledge, no words.”

  “Then what purpose does it serve?” Zollgarza asked.

  “The purpose is to draw from the user the true question he or she wishes to ask,” the seneschal explained. “For clouded thoughts, it brings clarity. For troubled minds, certainty.”

  “Clarity and certainty are two friends I don’t often converse with,” Icelin said. “Why are they dangerous?”

  “Because of the method used to arrive at them,” said the dwarf woman. “The tome delves into the deepest parts of your mind, draws out secrets, confronts truths you may be unable—or unwilling—to see.” Saying this last, the seneschal looked pointedly at Zollgarza.

  The drow laughed scornfully, but Icelin thought she detected a spark of eagerness in his eyes. “You cannot frighten me, spirit. Let your tome work its magic. I’ll master it.”

  T
he seneschal inclined her head, seemingly unsurprised at Zollgarza’s bravado. She turned to Icelin. “What say you?”

  Icelin raised her hands in a defensive gesture. “I think you’re right. I need to walk outside and clear my head. When I return, I’ll make my decision.”

  “A wise choice.” The seneschal smiled at her. “Go, then. All will be ready when you return.”

  Icelin stepped out into the plaza and breathed the cool cavern air. Immediately she felt better. The open space was a buzz of activity, as a couple dozen dwarves moved about, setting up tables and benches and rolling in casks of ale and cider. Shouts, jests, and laughter greeted her ears—a sharp contrast to the attitudes she’d glimpsed when she’d first come to the city, and a welcome relief after the oppressive silence and strange whisperings of King Mith Barak’s library.

  “Careful with that! Aw, gods—here, let me help with it, I’m beggin’ you.”

  A wide smile spread across Icelin’s face at hearing Sull’s voice. He followed a pair of dwarves carrying a large metal cauldron between them into the plaza. Thick, bubbling liquid sloshed in the pot, threatening to spill over onto the ground.

  “Ignore him. He gets grumpy when his food’s in peril,” Icelin called to the dwarves. Laughing, she hurried across the plaza, dodging ale casks and bumping into a woman carrying a handful of torches. Smiling an apology, she ran up to Sull.

  “Lass!” Sull spared her a wide grin, but it quickly turned sour when the dwarves plunked the cauldron down in the middle of the plaza. “How’s it going to feed three dozen mouths if you spill it all over the stones?” he bellowed.

  In unison, the dwarves made a rude gesture and walked away. Icelin covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Gods it felt good to hold in laughter instead of worry and fear.

  “What’s all this?” she said, bending over to sniff at the brew in the cauldron. Rothé meat juices, mushrooms, and broth—her mouth watered at the scents. “Are you cooking for the whole of Iltkazar?”