R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (128 page)

Ryld sighed and set Splitter on the floor, kicking the blade to within striking distance of Quenthel’s vipers. Valas discarded his kukris as well. With a grimace of distaste, Pharaun stepped up and held out his hands. A Jaelre drow tied his thumbs together with stout cord, a measure that would make it very difficult for the mage to make the complex gestures and passes needed for many of his spells. Jeggred’s large upper arms, the long ones with the wicked claws, were chained together, but his smaller humanoid arms were left free.

The draegloth rumbled.

“Be still, nephew,” Quenthel said, then she turned to the Jaelre captain. “Take us to the priest.”

The watch captain nodded to her soldiers, who formed up in a tight phalanx around the Menzoberranyr, swords drawn. They marched the company out of the guardroom and into the depths of the keep. The company was shown into a large hall or gallery appointed as a shrine to Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord. Ryld studied the temple with some interest. He’d never set foot in a place dedicated to any deity but Lolth. At the upper end of the hall, across from the entrance, a great half-mask the size of a tower shield hung from the wall, overlooking the shrine. The symbol was made of beaten copper, with two black disks to mark the eyes.

Two males waited for them. The first was young, dressed in black leather armor that showed off a well-muscled chest. A curved kukri was thrust through his belt, and a small green asp was coiled around his arm. His left leg was encased in an awkward harness of iron and leather, and he moved stiffly. The second was unusually short and stocky, with brawny shoulders and a bald pate, dressed in a breastplate of black mithral and masked with a ceremonial veil of black silk.

“The visitors, my lords,” the watch captain said.

The veiled priest studied them. His expression was virtually unreadable behind the veil.

“Valas Hune, as I live and breathe,” he said at last. “Well, this is a surprise. I haven’t seen you in more than fifty years.” He hesitated a moment longer, then strode forward boldly and clapped the Bregan D’aerthe scout on the shoulders. “It has been too long, old friend. How are things with you?”

“Tzirik,” Valas said. He smiled back, his dour face stretching with unaccustomed enjoyment, and he took the priest’s hand in a firm grip. He glanced around the chamber. “I see you have finally achieved the Return you were always talking about. As far as how things go with me, well, that will take some explaining.”

Tzirik studied the company carefully.

“A Master of Sorcere,” the priest said, “and another of Melee-Magthere.”

“Master Pharaun Mizzrym, an accomplished wizard,” Valas replied, “and Master Ryld Argith, a weapons master of no small skill.”

“Gentlemen, if Valas vouches for you, you are welcome guests in Minauthkeep,” the priest said. When he looked at the others, his face hardened, geniality fading into sharp appraisal.

“The draegloth is Jeggred,” Valas said, “a scion of House Baenre. The lesser priestess is Danifae Yauntyrr, a highborn lady of Eryndlyn, late a battle captive. The leader of our company is—”

“High Priestess Quenthel Baenre,” Quenthel interrupted, “Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Tier-Breche, First Sister of House Baenre of Menzoberranzan.”

“Ah,” Tzirik said. “We rarely have dealings with those of your persuasion, let alone a priestess possessed of so many impressive titles.”

“You will find me possessed of more than titles, priest,” Quenthel replied.

Tzirik’s face went cold.

“Lolth may rule in your buried cities,” he said, “but here in the night of the surface world, Vhaeraun is the master.” He turned and gestured to the crippled male behind him. “In the interest of common courtesy, may I present my cousin, Jezz of House Jaelre.”

The younger male limped forward.

“You are a long way from home, Menzoberranyr,” he said in a rasping voice. “That, more than anything, spared you. The spider-kissers we feud with come up from Maerimydra, a few miles south of here, but we have not met folk from Menzoberranzan in quite some time.”

He laughed softly, finding humor in some private joke. Tzirik smiled as well, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

“Jezz refers to the ironic fact that we are Menzoberranyr ourselves, or at least were, once upon a time. Almost five hundred years ago the wise and beneficent Matron Baenre ordered our House destroyed for the twin perversions of being governed by males and following the Masked Lord. Many of my kin died screaming in the dungeons of Castle Baenre. Of those who escaped, many more died in the long, hard years of exile in the lonely places of the Underdark. You must understand how ironic it is for a Baenre daughter to place herself in our power. If nothing else comes of whatever business you bring before me, Valas, you will have my gratitude for this.” He moved closer and folded his powerful arms. “So, why do you seek me, Baenre?”

Quenthel kept her face impassive.

“We need you to commune with Vhaeraun,” she said, “and ask your god a few questions on our behalf. We are willing to pay and pay well for your trouble.”

Tzirik’s eyebrows rose.

“Really? And why would Vhaeraun want me to do this for you?”

“You will, of course, discover what it is that brings us here, and what your god knows of it.”

“I could torture you for a few years and discover as much,” the priest said. “Or, for that matter, having agreed to ask the Masked Lord your questions, I might not see fit to share the answers.”

“True, perhaps,” Quenthel said, “though I think you might find that we are far from helpless, even with our weapons back in our chambers. Before we make a trial of that, let us see if we can reach an agreement of sorts.”

“She’s bluffing,” Jezz remarked. “Why deal with these venomous creatures? Spare your friend if you like, but slay the priestesses at once.”

“Patience, young Jezz. There is always time for that later,” Tzirik said. He paced away, then looked back to Quenthel. “What is it you wish to learn?”

Quenthel squared her shoulders and met the priest’s gaze evenly.

“We wish to know what has become of Lolth,” she said. “The goddess refuses us our spells, and has done so for many months now. Since we do not have access to the magic she normally grants us, we have no way to ask her ourselves.”

“Your fickle goddess is testing you,” Tzirik said with a laugh. “She’s withholding your spells simply to see how long you remain loyal.”

“So we thought at first,” Quenthel said, “but it has been nearly four months now, and we can only conclude that it is her will that we should seek the answer for ourselves.”

“Why ask a priest of Vhaeraun?” Jezz asked. “Surely the priestesses of a neighboring city could be persuaded to intervene on your behalf.”

“They have lost contact with the goddess, too,” Danifae answered. “I came from Ched Nasad, where we had experienced the same silence as the priestesses of Menzoberranzan. We have reason to believe that all the drow cities throughout the Underdark are in the same situation. Lolth is speaking to no one, drow and lesser races alike.”

“That would explain the retreat of Maerimydra,” Jezz said quietly to Tzirik. “If their priestesses are powerless, they might be too busy with their own difficulties to cause any trouble for us.”

“The facts would seem to fit,” Tzirik replied. He turned his attention to Pharaun. “What of your vaunted wizards? Could they not summon up demons and devils aplenty and question them as to your goddess’s mysterious silence, or use divination spells of their own?”

“We found that the infernal powers knew little more than we did,” Pharaun said. “It seems as if Lolth has barred contact with the neighboring layers of the Abyss, sealing the borders of her realm against other powers.” He raised his thumb-bound hands and made a small self-deprecatory gesture. “That is what I surmised from the reports of my colleagues investigating the matter, at any length. I did not do so personally, as the archmage has instructed me not to conjure such beings on pain of a particularly grotesque death.”

Tzirik studied the Menzoberranyr, then paced over to consult with Jezz. The two Jaelre spoke together quietly, while the Menzoberranyr waited. Ryld surreptitiously studied the guards nearby, calculating which of them he could disarm in order to provide himself with a weapon if it came to that. He still wore his dwarven breastplate, and felt reasonably confident that he could wrest a halberd away from one of the guards before he was run through—though it might be a better move to use his belt knife to sever Pharaun’s bonds as the first step in any kind of fight.

He was interrupted in his planning when Tzirik and Jezz returned to the company.

“I will intercede with Vhaeraun on your behalf,” the high priest of the Jaelre said, “not least because I, too, would like to know what Lolth is up to. However, I think it is fair to expect a service for a service, and as you have approached me and not the other way around, I will seek Vhaeraun’s guidance only after you have completed your task.”

“Fine,” grated Quenthel. “What do you wish us to do?”

“Three days west of here lie the ruins of Myth Drannor, once the capital of the old surface elf realm of Cormanthyr,” Tzirik said. “During the course of our exploration of the ruins, we have come to suspect that a book containing secret and powerful lore—the Geildirion of Cimbar—is buried in the secret library of a ruined wizard’s tower. We have need of the knowledge that is in the Geildirion, for it will help us to master the ancient magical wards our long-lost surface cousins raised about their realm. Unfortunately, demons, devils, and fiends of all kinds plague the city’s ruins, and the tower itself is home to an unusually powerful beholder mage. We have sent two expeditions to the tower, but the beholder destroyed or drove off our scouts with ease. I have no wish to throw away the lives of more of my charges, but I would dearly like to possess that book. Since you seem to be the best Menzoberranzan has to offer, perhaps you can succeed where our warriors have so far failed. Bring me the Geildirion, and I will seek Vhaeraun’s insight regarding Lolth’s silence.”

“Done,” Quenthel replied. “Provide us a guide to this place, and we will get your book for you.”

Jezz laughed softly and said, “You might not be so quick to agree, if you knew how dangerous the beholder really is. You will earn our aid, that is for certain.”

At nightfall, Seyll, accompanied by a young drow woman and a pale elf maiden, came for Halisstra. The priestess of Eilistraee was armed and armored beneath her green cloak, a long sword at her hip. She wore high leather boots, and carried a bundle under one arm.

“It’s raining,” she said as she entered the cell, “but our senior priestesses say it will be clear later on, when the moon rises. Tonight we will go to honor our goddess.”

Halisstra shifted in her chains and rose.

“I will not honor Eilistraee,” she said.

“You need not participate. I am simply offering you the opportunity to observe and draw your own conclusions. You challenged me to demonstrate that my goddess is not a cruel or jealous one. I stand ready to offer proof.”

“Doubtless you think to ensnare me with some beguiling enchantments,” Halisstra said. “Do not think I will be duped so easily.”

“No one will attempt to work any magic on you,” Seyll replied. She set down her bundle and unwrapped it. Inside was a large leather case, boots, and a cloak not unlike her own. “I have brought your lyre, in the hopes that you might honor us with a song if you feel so inclined.”

“I doubt you will take much pleasure in the
bae’qeshel
songs,” Halisstra said.

“We will see,” the priestess said. “You’ve been manacled here for three days, and I’m offering you a chance to get out of your cell.” 

“Only to be returned here when you’re done hectoring me about your goddess.”

“As we discussed before, you need only offer Lord Dessaer an accounting of yourself to be free,” Seyll said. She produced a set of keys and dangled them in front of Halisstra. “Xarra and Feliane are here to help me escort you safely to and from the spot of our ceremony tonight, and I’m afraid I must insist on keeping your hands bound.”

Halisstra glanced at the other two women. They wore chain mail beneath their cloaks, too, and also carried swords at their hips. She had little wish to watch some meaningless drivel in Eilistraee’s name, but Seyll offered her a chance to get out of her cell. At the very worst, Seyll’s vigilance would not lapse, and no opportunities for escape would arise, leaving Halisstra no worse for wear. At best, Seyll and her fellow clerics might make a mistake that Halisstra could capitalize on. In either case, she would at least have an opportunity to spy out some of the town and the surrounding forest, which might come in useful if a chance to escape came up later—and there was always the chance of that.

“Very well,” she said.

Seyll unlocked Halisstra’s manacles, and helped the Melarn priestess to don the winter clothing and cloak she’d brought. She knotted a strong silver cord around Halisstra’s hands, and the small party left the palace dungeons and ascended into a cold, rain-spattered night.

Elventree was not really a town, nor an outpost, nor an encampment, but something in between. Ruined walls of white stone crisscrossed the place, hinting at the old ramparts and broad squares of a good-sized surface town, but most were crumbling with age. Many of the original buildings were nothing more than empty shells, but a number of them seemed to have been appropriated by the town’s current residents, who had covered the old buildings with wooden latticework or permanent tents in order to turn the proud old structures into humble, semi-permanent woodsmen’s homes. Great gnarled trees rose from the cracked pavement of ancient courtyards, and many structures actually stood well off the ground in their mighty branches, linked by swaying catwalks of silver rope and white planks. A handful of the town’s original buildings still stood more or less intact.

Halisstra saw that she had been imprisoned beneath an old watchtower. Across the square an elegant palace rose through the trees, illuminated by hundreds of soft lanterns. Lord Dessaer’s palace, she surmised. The sound of distant song and laughter drifted through the air.