Author: Jaleigh Johnson
Date: 2012-11-06 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Forgotten Realms
Description: Lolth—patron deity of the drow, Spider Queen, regent of the Demon Web Pits—has once again stirred the dark elves into roiling aggression against the rest of Faerûn, reveling in the chaos born from her dark schemata. This is the Rise of the Underdark. In Iltkazar, the last subterranean kingdom of the once resplendent dwarven realm of Shanatar, King Mith Barak faces a siege of drow soldiers, spies, and assassins looking to seize the powerful city and the ancient magical artifacts hidden there. Somewhere in the city, the Arcane Script Sphere—a mystical orb touched by Mystra, the long-dead goddess
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Rights: Copyright © 2012 by Wizards of the Coast LLC

ALSO BY JALEIGH JOHNSON

THE HOWLING DELVE

MISTSHORE

UNBROKEN CHAIN

UNBROKEN CHAIN: THE DARKER ROAD

SPIDER AND STONE
©2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Cover art by: Raymond Swanland
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6466-6
64049785000001 EN

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v3.1

For my mother.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Other Books by This Author

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five

Epilogue

About the Author

Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

A LAND OF MAGIC

When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

A LAND OF DARKNESS

The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

A LAND OF HEROES

But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

A LAND OF
UNTOLD ADVENTURE

GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

10 UKTAR, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

S HOW ME YOUR FACE, ZOLLGARZA.”

The request echoed in the dark tunnel and surprised the young drow lurking there. Irritation stabbed him. He’d thought his movements had gone undetected by his prey.

Zollgarza stepped from a niche in the wall behind a wide stalagmite and faced Derzac-Rin, a male not much older than Zollgarza but taller and well built. His chiseled features showed signs of strain.

“How did you know?” Zollgarza asked.

Derzac-Rin drew his rapier and raised it, poised like the sharpest needle. “I knew you’d track me. All Fizzri’s lovers meet the same fate. Pride made me believe I would be different. As soon as she cast me out, I knew she’d send you to finish me. May I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

Derzac-Rin tightened his grip on the rapier hilt, as if to pour all of his pent-up hatred and rage into the weapon, that sheer force of willpower might save him when his skill surely could not. “Why does she favor you so?” he demanded.

Zollgarza shrugged. “You should have asked her. I am nobody special.”

“Precisely.” Bitterness thickened the drow’s voice, making the word almost unintelligible. “You are less than nothing, a male with neither exceptional skills nor charm enough to make you a novelty. What have you to recommend yourself to the mistress mother?”

“I’m skilled enough to deal with you,” Zollgarza said. “At the moment, that’s all that matters.”

“Your features,” Derzac-Rin continued as if Zollgarza hadn’t spoken, “are so … misplaced. The crooked nose, lips too thick, as if the sculptor were merely a stuttering novice when he crafted you. I see nothing but contradictions and flaws.”

The mistress mother often spoke of Derzac-Rin’s vanity. Zollgarza supposed that explained his inability to comprehend the defects in Zollgarza’s own appearance.

Zollgarza shifted his stance, the barest motion his opponent would not perceive. Cave breezes stirred his hair. In addition to all the other faults Derzac-Rin had mentioned, Zollgarza’s hair was flat black—an aberration among the drow—with only the barest strands of white at the roots.

Calmly, Zollgarza drew his curved dagger. Attached to the pommel, a second smaller blade curved in the opposite direction, and affixed to the hilt was the figure of a silver spider. A fierce weapon, as beautiful as its wielder was not—at least in Derzac-Rin’s estimation.

“Are you ready to fight?” Zollgarza asked.

Derzac-Rin hadn’t finished his rant. “Where is your passion as you close in for the kill?” he shouted. “Where is the burning spark in your eyes? You refuse even to revel in my death! What moves you, Zollgarza, or should I say, what moves her to tolerate you? I must know this! You cannot—”

“Enough.” Zollgarza glided forward, brought his blade up, and caught the half-crazed drow’s rapier. Derzac-Rin shoved against him, but the frenzied move only put him off balance. Zollgarza pivoted, grabbed Derzac-Rin’s rapier hand, and held it extended. With his other hand, he reversed his dagger and touched one of the spider’s hollow legs on the hilt an instant before he stabbed Derzac-Rin in the flank.

The weapon failed to penetrate the drow’s armor as deeply as Zollgarza had intended, but poison would take care of the rest. As Derzac-Rin doubled over, the catch Zollgarza had touched in the spider’s leg released a watery green liquid that flowed down the blade to mingle with Derzac-Rin’s blood. Zollgarza yanked the dagger out, stepped forward, and spun quickly to face his opponent again, but Derzac-Rin did not attempt another attack. The green liquid smeared in his wound took up all his attention.

“The first leg, the one closest to the center of the blade, contains a paralytic,” Zollgarza explained. His voice didn’t burn with the passion and excitement of the kill, as Derzac-Rin had rightly observed. Instead, he spoke in a detached, analytical way. “A fungi-based poison I designed myself—the brewing required no exceptional alchemical skill, but the results are unquestionable. There is something to be said for efficiency over beauty.”

Derzac-Rin collapsed on his side, limbs jerking as he tried to maintain control of his body, to protect himself from Zollgarza’s impending strike. He failed. The poison froze him in a rigid fetal position, skin stretched taut over his handsome features.

Not so handsome now, Zollgarza observed silently.

Zollgarza bent over the drow and calmly finished his task.

When Derzac-Rin was dead, Zollgarza cleaned the blood and poison off his blade using a specially treated cloth. Then he laid the weapon aside in order to free both his hands. He knelt next to the body, removed Derzac-Rin’s spider silk breastplate, and pulled down the drow’s tunic to expose the obsidian flesh beneath. Finally, he took up his dagger again and laid the tip of the smaller blade against Derzac-Rin’s bare chest.

“For you, Mother Lolth,” Zollgarza whispered and began to carve the Spider Queen’s symbol into the drow’s chest. “His life, my life, my purpose—all for you and all return to you.”

Had Derzac-Rin been alive to hear Zollgarza’s prayer, he might have marveled at the love and loathing that threaded the drow’s voice, how his hands shook with rapture and disgust as he carved the image of the spider into the male’s chest, his passion awakened at last.

After Zollgarza disposed of the body, he returned to his quarters in the city to find a summons from the mistress mother awaiting him. She expected him even then, though she must have known that dealing with her former lover would detain him for a time. Perhaps she’d known that Derzac-Rin would present only a halfhearted challenge. Zollgarza himself had expected the battle to last much longer, but he had taken Derzac-Rin easily, as if fighting in a dream.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Even if he’d won the fight, where could Derzac-Rin go—a lone male cast from his own House to take refuge in the mistress mother’s arms? That final sanctuary lasted but a month.

Zollgarza did not bother to hurry. The mistress mother would punish him for being late or she wouldn’t, depending on her mood. He washed the blood from his hands, replenished the poison in the spider’s leg on his dagger, and walked across the open plaza to the temple, where worshipers had already begun to gather for the evening services.

“Look there—the mistress mother’s pet. Do you know they call him the Black Creeper?”

“I suppose that means he slides along on his belly like a worm when he comes to her bed.”

Zollgarza heard the sneering insult, but it was impossible to locate its source in the thick crowd of drow assembled before the Spider Queen’s temple. He kept walking, never breaking stride as he made his way to Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell’s private audience chamber.

Situated on the temple’s second level, the mistress’s chamber was only accessible—for those without the magical means to reach it—via two crystal ramps that ascended from the east and west corners of the temple and crossed at the top like the interconnected strands of a spiderweb.

The crystals Zollgarza trod upon were worth a fortune, rare, glittering white clusters with specks of red in their hearts. By no coincidence was Guallidurth called the Temple City of Lolth.

He reached the top and turned to look out on the vast cavern that housed the rest of the temples and great manor houses. Hatred surged within him, a vile burn that made his limbs ache. Priestesses could ascend on their drift disks to the temple, and wizards had their own spells. Divine and arcane dominated, while Zollgarza, an unremarkable male warrior, had to walk the spider’s web to reach the mistress mother.

Pushing his emotions aside, he entered the audience chamber. The mistress sat on a maroon silk cushion arranged on a raised bench made of the same rare crystal as the ramps. Ringing her were six elite warriors of House Loor’Tchaan, scouts who often ventured off on long missions into the deep Underdark. Off to one side stood a trio of wizards from the same House, males who spoke among themselves in hushed tones. Zollgarza knew all the assembled drow individually, but to see them here together meant that something momentous had occurred.

Perhaps the mistress intended to send him on a mission for the city, finally, rather than a personal vendetta. There could be few other reasons for her to summon him to a gathering such as this. Usually, she preferred to keep her pet hidden away where no one could see him.

“How very good of you to join us, Zollgarza,” said Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell.

Her cold voice echoed softly, underscored by a faint hiss. Wound around a lock of her white hair was a tiny serpent, a blind creature of the Underdark cave pools, its body no thicker than the female’s smallest finger. As far as Zollgarza knew, Fizzri was never without the tiny beast. She wore it coiled in her hair or on the snake-headed whips that the priestesses used to punish males and slaves. He’d never seen it strike, but he’d heard rumors that the snake’s venom caused intense pain that ultimately resulted in infertility in males. The mistress mother used the threat of the serpent to discourage potential lovers from taking advantage of her in a vulnerable moment. Zollgarza had no doubt the rumors were true, but having just disposed of Fizzri’s latest conquest, he wondered how eager her next potential suitor would be.

“I’ve come as requested, Mistress. I apologize for the delay.” Bowing, Zollgarza took his place at the rear of the chamber, to Fizzri’s left. He felt the burning gazes of the wizards and scouts follow his movements. He could guess their thoughts. Like the unnamed drow outside in the crowd, they knew him only as the Black Creeper, the mistress mother’s pet.

He held no official rank in House Loor’Tchaan, though most of the household assumed he was the mistress’s lover. None of them knew where he came from, or how he’d earned Fizzri’s favor. The not knowing bothered them the most, made him more of a threat in their eyes. Zollgarza assumed it was only a matter of time before one or more of them decided to strike, to remove the impediment, real or imagined, that kept them from rising in power. They had no idea that Zollgarza disdained the notion of becoming Fizzri’s lover, no matter what status it might bring. He walked the spider’s web, but he would not become its prey.

Rather than meet the gazes of the watching drow, Zollgarza put his hand on the curved dagger at his belt. Let the weapon and its poisoned spider speak for him. He was no castrated dog.

“We are discussing a matter of great importance to Guallidurth—to all drow who faithfully serve the Spider Queen.” The mistress mother addressed the assembled drow, but her gaze lingered on the three wizards, and Zollgarza saw the flash of distaste in her eyes. “Change is coming. No doubt, you have all heard the whispers, the rumors that Lolth has tasked her priestesses with a vital mission.”

Her words caused a minute stirring among the wizards. Fists clenched and expressions darkened—spasms of fury quickly hidden. Zollgarza alone noticed the unrest and only because he looked for the reaction.

“She requires ancient and powerful magic, artifacts of Mystra, the dead goddess of magic,” Fizzri continued. “As we gather these artifacts, Guallidurth will prosper and expand its territory. The city of Iltkazar is our first target. We are going to claim it and its magic, once and for all, for the glory of Lolth.”

This time, an audible murmur went through the crowd. Zollgarza raised an eyebrow but otherwise made no comment. Iltkazar was a relic of old Shanatar, the ancient civilization of the dwarves. The drow had been trying to conquer the city and surrounding territory for centuries, and though they’d slowly worn down the dwarves’ impressive defenses, Zollgarza thought the mistress mother a bit premature in her declaration of victory.

That aside, he was more interested in the reaction of the three wizards to this news. Levriin Soltif was the elder amongst them. He bowed at Fizzri’s announcement, but a gleam of triumph burned in the ancient male’s eyes. Zollgarza recognized it, for a similar stirring had taken root in his breast, a flare of passion dredged up from somewhere deep inside him. True, he was no wizard, but he was male, and he comprehended as well as Soltif what the mistress mother’s announcement truly meant, no matter how she couched it as the edict of the priestesses.

In the past few months, Lolth’s commandments to her faithful had caused increasing unrest in the city. Traditionally, arcane magic was the purview of the males of drow society, but though they might attain great power in the Art, they would never rise above the female clerics of Lolth. The Spider Queen loved chaos and rewarded her most loyal followers, but she had never favored her male children as much as she did the females.

For the first time, the balance of power appeared on the verge of shifting. The dark goddess required ancient magic, and she called on the practitioners of the arcane arts to serve, to raise themselves as equals to their sisters in the eyes of their goddess.

No matter what the benefits were to Guallidurth, Zollgarza knew that Mistress Fizzri privately seethed at this turn of events.

“I want reconnaissance reports on the city’s outer defenses,” the mistress mother instructed. She hid her distaste behind a stern mask of command. “You scouts bring me numbers. I want to know how many soldiers we can expect. Our first strikes will be to their outposts. Draw them from their stronghold, strike from the shadows, and cull their numbers while we plan a larger assault. Fear will weaken them, and the dwarf city will fall.”

Restlessness again took hold of the wizards. Zollgarza shared their curiosity. What magic could the dwarf city, even one as ancient as Iltkazar, hold that would draw the eye of the Spider Queen? That, the mistress mother had not revealed.

What could she want with me? Zollgarza wondered.

Mistress Fizzri dismissed them, and the scouts bowed and filed out of the audience chamber. The wizards followed a moment later.

“Stay, Zollgarza,” Fizzri said when Zollgarza turned to follow them. “I have more to say to you.”

Zollgarza came forward and stood before the mistress, keeping his eyes downcast. He waited, but the silence stretched in the chamber. He felt the female’s gaze hard upon him, appraising him, studying his features as Derzac-Rin had done.

“I want you to infiltrate the city of Iltkazar,” she said at last.

A smile ghosted across Zollgarza’s lips. “Is that all my mistress wishes?” he asked. “Has she tired of my services so soon that she sends me to my death at dwarf hands?”

“Be silent! Look up at me.”

Zollgarza looked up, beholding Fizzri’s red eyes. The serpent glided from her hair to rest on her shoulder. “I jest, of course,” he said with faint mockery.

“You will infiltrate the city,” she repeated. “I know you are capable. Your task is to seek out the city’s ruler, King Mith Barak the Clanless. He has held the throne of Iltkazar for centuries and is in possession of the oldest magic in the city.”

“Am I to kill this King Mith Barak?” Zollgarza inquired.

“Perhaps you won’t have to,” Fizzri replied. “According to intelligence we have already gathered, Mith Barak is not always the leader of the city. He goes to the stone for seventy-five out of every one hundred years of his reign.”

“I don’t understand,” Zollgarza said. “Is that a dwarf expression?”

The mistress’s lips pulled back in a sly smile. “You might well think so, but in this case, I’m being quite literal. Mith Barak spends seventy-five years seated on his throne in the form of a mithral statue.”

“If that’s true, he is no ruler.” Zollgarza shook his head in disgust. The ways of stone-shapers and dirt-scrapers made no sense to him. “Why has no one killed him before now?”

Fizzri waved her hand dismissively. “I couldn’t say, but if that is the state you find him in, your task will be simpler.” Again, she flashed that sly smile. “You can manage to swing a hammer, can’t you?”

“Mithral is not so easily destroyed, as you know, and nor do I expect I’ll find the king unguarded in such a state, but I understand your meaning,” Zollgarza said. “His death is all that is required, then?”

“Not quite.” The mistress mother rose from the bench and approached Zollgarza. Her black silk gown trailed behind her like a shimmering stain. She held up her hand, palm out toward him, and spoke a word that sent an electrical charge arcing from one of her rings through the air between them. The snake recoiled, burying itself in the female’s hair.

A silvery-blue sphere appeared in the air above her palm. Inscribed upon the surface of the sphere scrawled writing Zollgarza could not read.

“Beautiful,” he said in that same detached, analytical voice.

“Yes, it is.” With her free hand, Fizzri traced the air around the sphere in a covetous gesture. “Every night when I go to sleep, this object haunts my dreams. It whispers to me.” Her eyes took on a dreamy glaze.

“Is it in the king’s possession?” Zollgarza asked, unnerved by the sudden change in Fizzri’s demeanor.

“Not for long.” Fizzri’s expression hardened. “It is called the Arcane Script Sphere. There is old magic in the city, but none is nearly as powerful as this artifact. See and remember it.” She clenched her fist, and the illusion disappeared. “I want you to kill Mith Barak if possible, but no matter what, you must retrieve this artifact. If it comes down to a choice between slaying the king and retrieving the sphere, you will get the sphere. Is that understood?”

Zollgarza bowed. “May I ask what interest the sphere has for the Spider Queen? Why do we seek a dwarven relic for her glory?”

“It is not and never was a dwarven relic,” Fizzri said. “More than that, I won’t tell you.”

“Then I will leave you,” Zollgarza said. He bowed and turned to go.

Fizzri laid a hand on his arm, her nails digging into his flesh. Zollgarza looked up and met the female’s gaze. Were those hints of silver he saw in her red eyes? He’d never noticed those hints before, and for a moment, he stood frozen, staring into that hypnotic silver light.

“Is that all?” the priestess asked softly. Emotion deepened her voice. Gone was the hissing undertone of the serpent. “So cold you are, Zollgarza. Why do I favor you so? You are less than nothing, a male with neither exceptional skills nor charm enough to make you a novelty. What have you to recommend yourself to the mistress mother?”

“What?” Zollgarza tried to step away, to escape those eyes, which were full silver now, gleaming with anger and frustration. She’d echoed Derzac-Rin’s words exactly. “What are you talking about?”

The female’s grip on his arm tightened, threatened to crush his bones. Zollgarza cried out in pain. Suddenly, her hands were everywhere, pinning his arms, driving him to his knees. He couldn’t move. What was happening? Had she poisoned him, used magic to bind his limbs?

Tell me why she sent you, the mistress mother snarled. Her voice was no longer the husky purr of a drow female. The voice that invaded Zollgarza’s mind was ancient, male, and filled with a shattering power that made him tremble. It had to be more than the sphere, more than my death, the voice cried. What do you want with Iltkazar? What is your power?

Zollgarza screamed. Fizzri’s audience chamber blurred and darkened. A wave of dizziness sickened him, cut off his scream. When his head cleared, he found himself in a small prison cell, his back numb against a cold stone floor. Chains bound him at the hands and feet.

Bent over him was an ancient dwarf, thinner than most creatures of his kind and not so muscular, but his spotted, calloused hands betrayed a strength Zollgarza couldn’t doubt. He gripped Zollgarza’s upper arms with such force that he thought his bones would snap. Between those hands flowed a silver beard that turned yellowish around his thick lips. His face bore the crags of the mountains spoken of in hundreds of dwarven tales, and a scar beneath his left eye made him look just as fierce as those tales portrayed the stout folk.

Those eyes—those silver eyes—Zollgarza felt himself falling into them again, spiraling back into his memories of that day in Guallidurth, when the mistress gave him his mission to infiltrate Iltkazar. Mith Barak—he recognized the dwarf king now—was making him relive the scene, reaming his mind for information.

With an effort, Zollgarza tore his gaze away from those stunning silver orbs. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, hoping the pain would clear his head.

“You’re strong willed,” the dwarf king said. His deep voice washed over Zollgarza, rough and gravelly with age but bearing an underlying power that Zollgarza felt through his whole body. “Do you remember where you are?”

“Iltkazar,” Zollgarza whispered. His throat burned from thirst. He swallowed several times to return moisture to his mouth.

King Mith Barak leaned back and reached for something in a corner of the cell. He brought a ladle of water to Zollgarza’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded, and Zollgarza obeyed without thinking. The king’s influence was strong. Whatever spell he’d used on Zollgarza lingered in him, forcing him to obey.

Mith Barak cast the ladle aside and lifted Zollgarza by the shoulder, forcing him to sit up against the wall. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“You captured me,” Zollgarza said. “That much I understand.”

“I could have killed you, you know.” The king stood up, crossing his arms. “That’s what you came to do to me. Are you still wondering where the sphere is, Zollgarza?”

“You have the information you wanted,” Zollgarza said. He couldn’t risk looking directly into the king’s eyes again. “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“It’s true your mind is wide open to me, yet there are still … gaps,” Mith Barak said carefully. “What is your family name, Zollgarza?”

The weight of the dwarf’s compulsion flowed through him, but when Zollgarza opened his mouth to speak, no words came. He swallowed, tried again. Nothing.

Grunting, the dwarf scratched his beard. “Who sired you? Where were you born? Who was the last person you killed, before Derzac-Rin?”

The questions pounded in Zollgarza’s mind, strengthened by dwarf magic. He focused on the first, the one that disturbed him most due to his inability to answer it: his family name. Such a small thing, but when he searched for it, there was only blackness, an impenetrable shroud.

“What did you do to me?” he snarled. It had to be the dwarf’s magic that clouded his memories.

The king shook his head. “I did nothing except search your mind for those same answers. They aren’t there,” he said. “Someone has used magic—stronger than any I’ve ever encountered—to wall off parts of your memories. They’ve even denied you access to them. I want to know why.”

Zollgarza heard the threat in the dwarf’s voice, but he paid no attention. More questions swirled in his thoughts. His knowledge of poisons: Where had he learned those skills? Where had he come by the dagger with the spider on the hilt? He served Mistress Mother Fizzri, but what had he done before that? No one knew his place in House Loor’Tchaan.

Except Fizzri.

“Fizzri,” Zollgarza growled, straining suddenly against his chains. What had that bitch done to him?

Mith Barak chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “If your mistress did this to you, then she had help, I can tell you that.”

“What do you mean?” Zollgarza demanded, hating himself for appealing to the dwarf.

“I mean if it was her who cleaned out your memories, she did it with her goddess’s blessing and power,” Mith Barak said. “Divine magic—Lolth’s magic—is all over you, in your mind and in your body as well. It’s penetrated your flesh down to the bone. Whatever happened to you, you’ve been completely remade.”

“You’re lying.” He said it automatically, the denial rising easily to his lips. He looked down at his body, fettered by chains and bleeding from wounds he’d received during his capture. Nothing had changed there. He was himself. He was Zollgarza.

Your features are misplaced, the voice of dead Derzac-Rin taunted him. The sculptor was merely a stuttering novice when he crafted you.

“No!” The word tore from Zollgarza’s throat. He stared hatefully up at the king. “Why haven’t you killed me?” he repeated.

“Oh, you’ll die soon enough, but not before I’ve turned you inside out a few more times.” The king rapped on the door to the cell and a guard stepped inside. “We’re done here,” he said. “Make sure he’s fed, and fetch more water. I don’t want him too weak.”

“What do you want with me?” Zollgarza said, louder.

The king ignored him and followed the guard out of the cell.

Zollgarza lunged forward, straining against his chains. He landed on his face as the cell door slammed shut. “Why don’t you kill me!” he screamed, his face pressed against the dirty floor.

Silence answered him.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

13 UKTAR

KING MITH BARAK ENTERED HIS AUDIENCE CHAMBER, A cavernous hall with barrel-vaulted ceilings and towering stone columns inscribed with centuries of Dwarvish runes, names of kings and scholars, miners and smiths. His footsteps echoed the long, lonely distance to his mithral throne, where two other figures stood. They heard the heavy tread and turned.

“My king,” they said, more or less in unison, bowing deeply to him.

Mith Barak waved away the gesture. Instead of seating himself upon the throne, he stood before his counselors, though that wasn’t exactly the right word for them. They held no official rank in his court or among the regency when Mith Barak was in his mithral form, but they were the closest a king could have to friends, the two dwarves Mith Barak trusted most.

He allowed himself a heavy sigh. To no other would he show his weariness, certainly not to the damned drow he had caged, and who had been vexing him with his mysteries.

“He told me nothing new,” the king said in response to the dwarves’ unspoken questions.

“The drow will attack in force,” Joya said. “That hasn’t changed. They’re already invading our outposts, as their mistress commanded.” She touched the holy symbols of Moradin and the lost Haela Brightaxe that hung around her neck. The hammer and the anvil, overlaid by the flaming sword—the symbols looked right together. Mith Barak knew Joya touched the symbols not out of fear, but as a way to draw strength from the presence of one god and the memory of another. Every time he saw the gesture, it reminded Mith Barak how much he loved the girl.

“Yes, they will attack,” Mith Barak said, “but if I squeeze that drow long enough, maybe he’ll tell me when and how big an army to expect.”

The other dwarf, Joya’s father, had been silent, and Mith Barak knew what that silence meant, but he waited for the Blackhorn family patriarch to give voice to his disapproval.

“You said yourself you learned nothing new, my king. It’s time to prepare our own forces and put an end to the drow,” the dwarf said. Torchlight reflecting off the walls cast his features into shadow, but the runes tattooed on his left cheek showed clearly, as did the plaited strands of his gray beard. Chips of white stone hung from those plaits, with more runes inscribed upon them in black rivers. “Give the word, and I will see to it.”

“You were never so bloodthirsty before, Garn,” the king said. “What makes you so eager now to kill the drow?”

“Besides the obvious,” Garn said grimly, “that his people are poised to invade my home and slaughter my kin, we still don’t know why he’s been altered. I don’t want the hand of the spider bitch in my city any more than you do … my king,” he said.

Mith Barak nodded. “Do you agree with him, Joya? What does Moradin reveal of this matter?”

“You know I don’t speak for the Soulforger,” Joya replied with a faint smile, but the humor disappeared quickly. Joya was fair-haired, the blond strands cropped close to her chin. Round faced, pretty, and sweet tempered, her dark blue eyes alone betrayed the infinite grief she bore. “I watched him while he was unconscious, dreaming, and while you probed his mind. It’s as you said—the Spider Queen’s power is all over him and terribly strong. It would take an incredible feat of magic to break down the barriers in his mind. I can think of none in this city capable of it. Whatever secrets he’s hiding, someone wanted them buried deeply.”

“If we can’t hope to uncover his secrets, then all the more reason to destroy him,” Garn said vehemently.

Joya shook her head. “If this drow’s purpose is to bring destruction to the city with his dark magic, who is to say his death will eliminate the threat? What if his death triggers the magic? What if it dooms you, my king? You were his target.”

“And the Arcane Script Sphere,” Mith Barak reminded her. “The artifact is of greater importance to the drow than my death.” Damn the thing, anyway. He hadn’t realized how far the sphere’s call echoed through the Underdark until he’d seen the image of Fizzri mooning over it in Zollgarza’s memories. “It’s trying to free itself,” he said.

“I know,” Joya said quietly. “Its call is strong, enticing. It whispers to me in my dreams as well, begging me to take it up into the World Above.”

“Really? It never speaks in my dreams,” Mith Barak said, though that hardly surprised him. When he slept at all—which was rare—darker voices filled his dreams, waking him in terror. Even if they hadn’t, the sphere knew its appeals were wasted on him. He couldn’t let the artifact go, couldn’t risk it landing in the hands of the drow, especially one so warped by Lolth’s magic as Fizzri Khaven-Ghell. Yet if he killed his drow prisoner now, he might never learn Fizzri’s intent for the sphere and Zollgarza.

“Your daughter is right, Garn, as she usually is,” Mith Barak said. “We can’t risk killing the drow until we know more about Guallidurth’s plan.”

“We’ve got bigger problems anyway,” Garn said, sighing. “There’s a good chance we don’t have the numbers for this fight, my king. If the drow are mustering more than one House against us, we’re in trouble. You know I’d be the last to say it if it weren’t true.”

“I know,” Mith Barak said. “We need to pull back from our outposts, close off as many extraneous routes to the surface as we can. The weaker the drow make us, the more susceptible we’ll be to attack from other quarters. The surface dwellers will take advantage of weakness.” His fists clenched. “They always do.”

THE VILLAGE of THARGRED, TETHYR

20 UKTAR

Arowent Martran did not consider himself a complex soul. He ran a small inn and general store in a village that was little more than a way station north of the city of Saradush. Loving his work as he did, he always chatted with the folk who passed through, whether they were merchants replenishing caravan supplies or adventurers come to purchase one of his own hand-drawn maps of the area.

He prided himself on knowing exactly what sort of folk had walked into his place before they even spoke a word. Tethyrian wine merchants—he could spot them in a breath; escaped Calishite slaves—he’d seen more than one and given them aid; Flaming Fists of Baldur’s Gate—he’d dealt with them too. He was not a complex soul, but he saw clearly all the people who came into his inn.

Maybe that was why the young girl standing before him irritated Arowent so much—he couldn’t immediately see who she was. Well, clearly, she was an adventurer—Arowent wasn’t stupid, after all—but she was so young and yet … not … so fresh, naive looking and yet … she smiled as if she knew something he didn’t—such a damned mystery.

The girl wore dusty road clothes, breeches stained to the knees by dried mud, a cloak with an unseemly tear in the hem, and boots that were too big for her. Stark white streaks ran through her tangled black hair, and her face had more wrinkles at the eyes and mouth than Arowent thought a young girl should have.

“Four candles, lantern oil, two shovels, and a thick blanket, please.” The girl read her order off a scrap of parchment with writing scribbled over every available surface. “Patient gods, Sull,” she muttered, “all you have to do is slow down when you write. Then mayhap normal people could read it.” She glanced up. “Sorry, do you have any spices or … table linens?”

Arowent blinked. “Linens?”

“And spices. I need mint, cinnamon, and ginger, please.” She squinted at the list. “At least I think it says ginger—might be grimoire, but that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”

“Eh?” Arowent was having a hard time keeping up with the girl’s chatter. He heard the front door open and nodded absently to a man leaving the shop. “You’ll have no trouble following that map,” he called after the customer. “Take care, now.”

“Oh, Sull, are you serious?” The girl scowled at her list and read on. “The linens need to be white, but a subtle color on the border is all right too.”

Arowent crossed his arms impatiently. “Are you playing a game with me, little one?” he demanded. “I’m a serious man, and you’ve got no business wasting my—”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, holding up a hand. “I’ll just take the supplies. Forget the linens. Thank you for all your help.”

“Hmph.” Arowent started calculating the girl’s bill when Gelphie, his wife, burst in the back door. Face red, she clutched at her cheeks and uttered a choked little shriek.

“Thief! He took your horse!” she cried.

“Who did?” Arowent ran to the window where he could see out into the stable yard. His heart sank when he saw that the little brown mare he’d bought only a month ago was gone. “Where did he come from?”

“He was in here, you blind ass!” Gelphie shouted, her face getting even redder. “Didn’t you see him?”

His last customer. Arowent slammed his fist against the countertop in frustration. He’d been too busy trying to figure out the dark-haired girl to pay much attention to the thief other than to sell him a map of the area. At this new calamity, he forgot about the girl, so he was surprised when she spoke up in the wake of his wife’s tirade.

“I saw him,” the girl said. She closed her eyes briefly, deepening the wrinkles at their corners. When she opened them, she looked straight at Arowent. “He had a smooth oval face and a jutting chin with two dark freckles near his lip. Hollow cheeks added a gray tinge to his skin—he looked sick to me, or else drunk and trying not to look it. His eyebrows were thin and brown, as was his hair. The clothes on his back were no better than the ones I wear, so he’s been traveling for quite a while. My guess is someone’s hunting him—he had that look in his eye—maybe the law in another village, or someone he owes coin. If he’s sick, though, he won’t get far. Your constable can catch him, if she hurries.”

Arowent and his wife stared wonderingly at the girl, who blushed deeply when she saw their expressions. After a moment, Arowent shook himself out of his stupor and said, “You heard her, Gelphie; go for the constable! Go!”

The woman nodded; cast a quick, furtive glance at the girl; then hurried out the front door. When she was gone, the girl twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers and fidgeted nervously. “Um … my bill?” she reminded him, glancing at the door.

“Aye. We’re out of mint, though.” Arowent collected her goods, named his price, and waited while she fished the coins out of her neck pouch.

“My thanks,” she said as she took the sack of supplies.

“My thanks as well,” he replied, “but how did you know all that about the thief? I never really noticed the man when he came in, and you talked to me most of the time he was here, so you can’t have gotten a good look at him either. You’re not with him, are you?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“No, I’d never seen him before today,” the girl said quickly. She looked longingly at the door, as if she were a breath away from bolting.

Somehow, in spite of her obvious discomfort, Arowent knew she was telling the truth. He knew people well enough to tell when they tried to deceive him. This girl might have secrets and mysteries hiding in her heart, but she wasn’t a liar.

“Well, my thanks for your aid,” he said again.

She was halfway out the door before Arowent realized she hadn’t bought one of his maps. “Are you sure you can find your way?” he called out to her. “It’s easy to get lost around here if you don’t have a decent map.” He thought that would be a sufficient hint.

“Thank you, but I don’t get lost,” the girl said. “I never forget where I’ve been and where I’m going.” She smiled at him, and that smile jolted Arowent. Gods, she looked so young at that moment. Surely she wasn’t traveling alone. Her flippant answer troubled him, but again, he sensed no deception in her.

After she’d gone, Arowent found himself wondering if he should begin stocking table linens in his store. What the girl could possibly want them for he had no idea, but a man has to keep on top of demand if he wants to stay in business. Arowent wasn’t a complex soul, but he was, if nothing else, a good businessman.

Icelin walked along the dusty road with her sack of supplies and berated herself for being an idiot. Occasionally she glanced back toward the inn and store, which were only a small stone speck on the deepening blue horizon, and was relieved each time to realize that no one had followed her.

She knew as soon as she’d opened her mouth to describe the thief that it was a mistake.

You’re not in South Ward anymore, safe in Waterdeep, surrounded by people who know you, she told herself.

Granted those people who’d known Icelin in her old neighborhood had often regarded her with that same suspicion and sometimes fear, but at least they’d known her, and her craziness was of a familiar sort.

Turning off the road, Icelin took a short track into a wood, retracing her steps back to her campsite. She hadn’t lied to the innkeeper. If she concentrated, she could recall the look of every town, farm field, river valley, and clump of helmthorn she and her companions had passed on their journey. One of her greatest gifts—equally a curse—was that her memory was perfect. She never forgot a face, a name, a lover, or an enemy. She never forgot anything. She didn’t need Sull’s shopping list written out for her—one look and she’d have memorized everything on it—but she didn’t like to draw attention to herself or her gift. Of course, she’d managed to go and do it anyway.

Icelin sighed, but she couldn’t stop the small grin that spread across her face when she recalled the innkeeper’s bewildered expression. Her perfect memory, used in the right profession, might have made Icelin a very wealthy woman. From a young age, she’d shown an aptitude for the study of magic. Her teacher, Nelzun, had said her memorization of the Art was extraordinary.

He never anticipated what would happen to the magic when Icelin tried to wield it.

When the first of her spells went wild, he attributed it to the inexperience of a novice. Soon, however, it became clear that though Icelin’s memory was perfect, that very gift tampered with her magic and prevented her from controlling her Art.

In Waterdeep, folk had called her gift an aberration. A more accurate word for it, a word used outside the City of Splendors, was spellscar.

Voices up ahead in a clearing made Icelin quicken her step. The scent of wood smoke and savory hints of chopped garlic filled the air. Beyond the trees, her companions, Ruen and Sull, crouched before a campfire, arguing.

“I’m sayin’ you can’t just throw more wood on the fire whenever you feel like it!” Sull bellowed. His cheeks flushed bright red, matching his frizzy hair and sideburns. In his hand, he clutched a skillet with three fillets of white fish swimming in butter and spices. A giant of a man, he towered over the smaller, scarecrow-like figure that faced him over the blaze.

“I’ve always understood the purpose of a fire is to keep its maker warm, frighten away forest vermin, and to cook meals,” said the thin man calmly. “It’s much less effective if you let the blaze die out, wouldn’t you say?”

Icelin grinned and felt some of the tension ease out of her, though Ruen Morleth was hardly the sort of man to inspire such a reaction on first glance. Tall, and so thin as to appear brittle, he was dressed in black and wore a dirty leather hat on his head that looked perpetually like it was about to fall apart. Beneath the hat’s brim, his eyes were red-brown, the muddy color seeping oddly into his pupils. This was the only outward sign of his affliction, a spellscar of his own, which carried its own unfathomable burden.

The two men had been Icelin’s companions on the road since she’d left Waterdeep several months ago. What would the innkeeper have thought if she’d brought the pair with her to buy supplies? Which would have been the more remarked on: Sull, a former Waterdhavian butcher, who wore his apron to bed so he’d have his meat cleaver and mallet within easy reach? Or Ruen, the former monk, current thief and con artist, with the most unsocial, taciturn, and blunt disposition of anyone Icelin had ever met?

“Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” she called out as she entered the circle of firelight. “I’m not some roving brigand come to rob you and steal your virtues, I’m just the wench returned with the supplies—the heavy supplies, I might add.”

Sull turned, and his furious expression melted into a welcoming grin. “Did you get the seasonin’s, lass?” he asked eagerly.

“They were out of mint.” Icelin dropped the sack at his feet and waved the shopping list under his nose. “And table linens! Are you completely mad? The innkeeper almost had a fit.”

“What?” Sull put the skillet down next to the fire and flaked off a bite of fish with his knife. “I thought we could have a fancy dinner is all. Travelin’ folk can’t have a few home comforts while they’re out in the world?”

“Such as a warm fire?” Ruen muttered.

Sull shot him a deadly look. “I turn my back for one breath, and you get the flames so hot, they dried the fish to a crisp. You won’t be able to taste none of the flavors now. Look what he did.” He swung the skillet under Icelin’s nose.

Steam hit her in the face, and Icelin breathed in the scent of melted butter, lemon, and ground pepper. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything since that cold morningfeast they’d had at dawn. “Yes, it’s an atrocity, a horror. Put some on a plate immediately,” she said, swallowing a sigh of longing. She glanced at Ruen and smiled, though she felt the expression was a bit forced. “What, no greeting from you, Morleth—and after I got that extra blanket you asked for?”

“I heard you coming,” Ruen remarked, taking the fish Sull angrily slapped on his plate. He handed it to Icelin. “Likely so did the rest of the forest. You should learn to walk more quietly.”

“Ah, there now, I knew you’d missed me.” Icelin took the plate and tried to ignore the way her stomach clenched when Ruen made sure not to let his hands touch hers in the exchange. At least he occasionally took his gloves off in her presence. He’d only recently begun doing that.

Not that she blamed him for the instinctive retreat. Ruen had spent his entire life keeping himself apart from other people because of his spellscar. The same force that gave Icelin a perfect memory and made her magic go wild had warped Ruen’s form in an entirely different way. Skin-to-skin contact allowed Ruen to know how long the person he touched had to live. It wasn’t an exact knowledge. The few times he’d discussed it, Ruen described the sensation as a general feeling of cold and foreboding that increased the nearer the person was to death. He hated it, not just the feeling of impending death, but also the idea of having knowledge that only the gods should possess. Thus, he preferred isolation and was careful never to touch anyone close to him.

Around Icelin, his caution bordered on the ridiculous, at least in her opinion.

“Did you finish scouting the ruins?” Icelin asked in an effort to distract herself from the path her thoughts had taken.

Ruen nodded. “There are at least three intact passages that go deep into the ground. Dwarvish runes cover the walls, and there is evidence of a temple to Haela Brightaxe. Her flaming sword is among the symbols. I didn’t go any deeper, but so far, the information we bought is good. The Arcane Script Sphere may be hidden somewhere in the ruins.”

“Assuming it wasn’t stolen or reclaimed by the dwarves,” Icelin said. “I didn’t detect any strong magic emanating from the temple.”

“If it’s a stabilizing conduit for the Art, then perhaps it doesn’t give off powerful magic,” Ruen said. “In that case, it’s a good sign.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the sphere will stabilize magic within a human being,” Icelin pointed out, not for the first time. Ruen’s expression darkened, and Icelin suppressed a sigh.

What was supposed to have been a grand adventure had turned into a two-month-old argument between them. When Icelin had left Waterdeep in Ruen and Sull’s company, she’d thought she was going to see the world, to live an adventurer’s life the way her parents had before her. Instead, almost as soon as they’d left the city, Ruen had become absorbed in this search for knowledge of spellscars. He hoped to find a cure for Icelin’s affliction. Again, Icelin couldn’t fault him for his intentions, and she knew that time was not on their side. But in the past two months, the search had taken on such urgency in Ruen’s mind that he rose from his sleep every morning and drifted off in the evening with nothing but the same thought. He’d pressed them hard and fast, traveling down the Sword Coast at a breakneck pace, following rumors and information purchased with coin they couldn’t always spare.

Then, a tenday ago, they’d found a lead: rumors of an artifact kept by the dwarves called the Arcane Script Sphere, a conduit for arcane magic that had existed since before the time of the Spellplague. The trail led them to Tethyr, to the ruined dwarven temple. Supposedly, this was the artifact’s last known location.

“Hurry and finish,” Ruen said curtly, interrupting Icelin’s thoughts. He rose and dumped the rest of his fish into the fire. He hadn’t been eating enough either, a fact that drove Sull—a dedicated cook—crazy. “We need to get to sleep, so we can start early tomorrow.”

“Where are you going, then?” Sull asked when Ruen strode away from the fire.

“I want to check the entrance to the ruins again. I won’t be long.”

“Stubborn, bull-headed, annoying man,” Icelin muttered, just loud enough for Ruen to hear as he walked away. He ignored her, so she turned to Sull. “He’s going to drive himself into the grave if he’s not careful. Can’t you talk to him, Sull?”

The butcher flushed but not from anger this time. Icelin recognized that cornered expression. Sull never liked to get in the middle of their arguments. He always said it was a dangerous place to be. “He means well, lass,” Sull said, “even if he does go about it all wrong sometimes.”

“He burned your fish,” Icelin reminded him, though he really had done no such thing. Why couldn’t Sull take her side when she needed him?

“He’s in a hurry,” Sull said, his gaze following Ruen’s path through the trees. “When you’re young, you don’t notice the way time’s passin’, but when you get older …” He cleared his throat and glanced at her with an uneasy expression. “When you get older, you look ahead of you less and less. You look behind instead, and when you weigh the two together, you realize how much time’s been wasted.”

Icelin put her plate on the grass and sighed. “I know that better than anyone, Sull.”

“And you the youngest among us,” Sull said with a humorless chuckle. “The gods have a wearisome sense of humor sometimes.”

“Maybe not,” Icelin said. “I try not to think of it too much, but when I do consider all that I’ve been given, there is a bit of balance.”

“How do you figure that?” Sull asked.

Icelin shrugged. “My spellscar has shortened my life, but it also lets me forget nothing. All my memories of the life I’ve led—growing up in my great uncle’s house; the day I met you in your butcher shop; the night I met Ruen on the harbor, and the first thing I saw was that ridiculous hat of his.…” Her voice wavered. She cleared her throat. “Our adventures together in Mistshore, dangerous as they were, were some of the most exciting times of my life, and I have them all, every detail vivid in my mind. I won’t lose them.”

“Good memories are all any of us can ask for, in the end,” Sull agreed. “Good memories and no regrets.”

“No regrets,” Icelin echoed. She rose and helped Sull gather up the plates and cooking tools.

“Get some sleep,” Sull told her. “I’ll wash these up first thing in the morning.”

Suddenly weary, Icelin didn’t argue. She spread out her bedroll near the fire and burrowed into the blankets.

In Tethyr, the days stayed warm and humid, even in the winter months, but the nights still felt cold to Icelin. She watched the flickering firelight, listening to Sull move about the camp and settle in for his watch. Letting her mind wander, she closed her eyes and pictured Waterdeep, the wagon trails of Caravan City, the perpetual dust in the air and the shouts of the drovers and whicker of dozens of horses. The city’s heart beat with her, even here, in the distant south. Faerûn’s heart beat all around her. She felt it in the swaying oaks and in the cool earth, where fabled cities of light and dark spread deeper roots beneath her.

They were little more than tales to her, legends spoken of by firelight, but Icelin liked to imagine the people moving about above and below. Movement and life reminded her in turn that she was alive, that she took part in it all.

A vast, lively, and aching world. Icelin drifted off to sleep thinking how all the tales spoke truth.

Icelin dreamed of Waterdeep.

The dream was also a memory, five years old, one Icelin slipped into unwillingly. She used to wake from it screaming, sweat and tears streaming down her face. But she had learned to live with the pain, and the nightmare didn’t quite terrorize her the way it used to.

She walked with her teacher down the mildewed quays of Dock Ward, listening to him drill her on what spells she could call to mind quickly if attacked in a crowd. The day had been blisteringly hot. She remembered the stench of rotting garbage in the alley between a tavern with two cracked windows in the front, and a boardinghouse made of old, warped wood. Five people moved about on the top floor beneath a sagging roof, though Icelin wouldn’t know that until later. Glaring sunlight reflected off the water. The day had crystallized in Icelin’s memory, and not just because her spellscar made her recall it with perfect clarity. In many ways, this had been the defining moment of her young life, the day her childhood ended.

As she walked beside Nelzun, up ahead, the door to the tavern crashed open, and men spilled out onto the quay. A fight had erupted within; Icelin had never found out what the fight had been about, but when she saw one man hit the ground in front of her, his face covered in blood, and another follow after with sword drawn, she reacted without thinking. She raised her hands and cast a spell, intending to defend the man on the ground. It should have been a very small fire spell.

She remembered how the incantation trembled from her lips. Fire erupted from her fingertips and spread out before her in a billowing sheet. The men with weapons fell back, surprised by the magical assault, and a small squeal of triumph escaped her lips. She thought she’d done well and looked to Nelzun for his approval.

Then it all went wrong.

She watched as the sheet of fire grew, arching up like a wave. But her horror was supplanted by agony as the wild magic roiled through her small body. She couldn’t contain it. The red wave engulfed the dry tinder of the boardinghouse.

Helpless, screaming, Icelin watched the dream play out. The roof of the boardinghouse collapsed, killing all five people on the top floor instantly. Nelzun helped get the others on the first floor to safety, but the effort claimed his life. He’d died on the quay in front of her.

The accident had made Icelin swear off the Art forever. For a long time, she’d kept the wild magic contained within her, until she’d met Ruen and Sull and had her adventure in Mistshore. She’d never completely forgiven herself for the fire, the lives she’d inadvertently taken, but she’d learned to live with the scars of the past, to look to the future instead.

She expected the dream to end here, as it usually did, with Icelin cradling her teacher’s body in her arms. Yet it didn’t. The fire burned on, and as she crouched on the quay, Icelin felt a presence behind her, as if someone were watching her from the shadows.

Are you a wizard? A soft, feminine voice echoed inside her mind.

I tried to be. Icelin buried her face in her teacher’s robes. But that day, I was a monster.

You attempted to tame a force far beyond your control. It was not your fault.

Icelin shook her head. She would not deny her responsibility. I could have chosen not to cast the spell.

You are a wizard. Would you ask a bird not to fly?

A bird cannot set the world on fire with its wings.

Icelin thought she heard the unseen woman’s tinkling laughter. You’ve not seen phoenixes leap from the fires of their own deaths. Stand too near their beauty, and you will burn.

The fire, the screams of the dying, Nelzun’s body, all of it faded, leaving only darkness and the woman’s voice. Icelin felt a chill fall over her. Who are you? Why do you speak to me in dreams?

Set me free, said the woman’s voice, a plaintive, hollow echo in Icelin’s mind. All traces of amusement were gone, replaced by a longing that pulled at Icelin’s heart. I can help you control the force within you. I am meant for you.

Who are you? Icelin repeated, trying to free herself from the darkness, to wake.

You know. You are already looking for me, the voice said. Come to me. Find the sphere, and you will find me.

“The sphere?” Icelin woke with a start, realizing she’d said the words aloud. Her voice was raspy from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and went back over the details of the dream, which due to her gift, did not fade the longer she was awake. Rather, they became clearer, and the more she thought about it, the more unsettled Icelin became. She’d dreamed of the boardinghouse fire many times, especially in the first year after the tragedy happened, but never before had the dream mixed with details of her present life the way this one had.

The Arcane Script Sphere must have been more on her mind than she realized. Of course, that was hardly surprising. It was the closest thing they’d found to a lead on a cure since they’d left Waterdeep. Yet the woman’s voice had seemed so real, as if she’d crouched next to Icelin and whispered in her ear.

As if she were calling to me.

Icelin shook her head. More likely she was just overtired and her imagination was getting away from her, though she must have slept longer than she’d thought. The sky had begun to lighten, and there were not so many stars visible as when she’d lain down. Icelin noticed she was no longer cold, either. Blinking, she looked down at herself and realized an extra blanket covered her. Icelin recognized the blanket she’d bought the day before at the shop—the one Ruen had asked her to buy for him.

Oh, damn the man, anyway, Icelin thought, but she felt warmth spreading through her chest, warmth that had nothing to do with the extra blanket. She buried her face in the softness and allowed herself a soft smile.

Her head snapped up. Ruen wasn’t in camp, and neither was Sull. Icelin thought they might have gone off to wash the cooking utensils, but those still lay in a pile near the fire, the butter congealed in the bottom of the skillet.

“Sull? Ruen?” Icelin called. It was silly, this sudden uneasiness that enveloped her. Icelin told herself they were probably just attending to their needs in the trees somewhere or washing up at the little stream nearby.

Ruen strode into the camp then, and the expression on his face made Icelin’s heartbeat quicken. “Sull’s gone,” he said. “He told me a while ago he was going to look for some mint growing wild, but he hasn’t come back yet. I was going to look for him, but I didn’t want to go too far while you were sleeping.”

Dreams and warmth forgotten, Icelin sprang from her bedroll and grabbed her boots.

OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE OF THARGRED, TETHYR

21 UKTAR

ICELIN HASTILY BROKE CAMP WHILE RUEN WENT TO search for Sull in the woods. She doused the fire and threw the still-dirty pots into a sack. Sull would scold her for neglecting them. He hated dirty pots. Icelin’s fingers shook as she tied the sack shut. Why hadn’t Sull come back yet?

When Ruen returned to camp, he was alone. Icelin’s heart sank. “I found his trail,” Ruen said. “It looks like he wandered near the dwarven ruins. I even found a patch of mint growing near a broken stone circle. Then a cluster of other tracks join up with his, but these were coming from the ruins.”

Icelin nearly dropped the waterskin she held. “I thought the temple was abandoned.”

“So did I, but we were wrong. I think whoever came from there took Sull back with him to the temple,” Ruen said grimly.

“Did you see any blood? Any bodies? Was there a fight?” Icelin kept her voice steady, but she felt the tension all through her body.

“No,” Ruen said. “Whatever happened out there, it wasn’t violent, and it ended quickly.”

That comforted Icelin somewhat, but still she had a sick feeling inside. If something happened to Sull …

She grabbed her staff, which was engraved with arcane markings and capped with a cage of thin, polished wooden branches. It had been a gift to her from a very old wizard who’d lived in Mistshore. He hadn’t communicated to her all its powers before he died, but Icelin knew it helped to control her wild magic, and she was grateful. At that moment, she simply wished it would quiet the fear that clawed at her throat, made her movements jerky and graceless.

“Leave any extra gear there,” Icelin said, pointing to the underbrush. “It’ll slow us down once we’re in the ruins. What about our horses?”

“Let them go,” Ruen told her. “Someone else will claim them. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

The cave that led down to the temple ruins had a line of fist-sized stones arranged at the foot of both walls like small sentinels. Symbols were carved into the stones, though Icelin couldn’t read the writing. It may have been a warning, a welcome, or perhaps travelers’ offerings to the dwarves’ lost goddess. Icelin preferred to think it was one of the latter.

“Four sets of tracks,” Ruen said. “Sull’s are the largest, though a couple of the others are almost his equal in weight. They’re human or dwarf, I think.”

“Maybe they’re pilgrims,” Icelin said, pointing to the stones.

“Pilgrims, or possibly bandits,” Ruen said. He pulled a torch from his pack and spent a moment lighting it. “Though why they would kidnap him and not just kill him—” He stopped at Icelin’s gasp of dismay. “The tracks lead straight ahead. Let’s see how deep this center passage goes.”

They walked in silence, listening for any signs of movement in the tunnels. Gradually, as the passage descended, the natural cavern became a carved stone passage with empty sconces along the walls ready for torches. Smaller passages branched off the main hallway, and from them echoed the sounds of scurrying movement, small animals fleeing the scents and light from above ground.

The tracks became harder to distinguish. More than once, Ruen scowled at the ground, trying to discern if the group they followed had stayed together in the main passage or branched off. Icelin knew he was doing his best, but he was not an expert tracker, especially over this type of terrain.

“Let me try something,” Icelin said after they stopped for the third time to reorient themselves. She moved to cast a spell, but Ruen caught her wrist in his gloved hand.

“Don’t,” he said. “We’re on the right track. We’ll find them without magic.”

“It’s a minor spell, hardly more dangerous than conjuring light,” Icelin tried to reassure him. “Trust me, it won’t go wild.” She smiled crookedly. “As much as you annoy me, you know I wouldn’t risk hurting you.”

“Why would you …?” Ruen hesitated. A strange expression passed over his face, but it was difficult to read because of his eyes. The colors masked much of Ruen’s emotions. “I’m not worried about you hurting me,” he clarified. “I’m worried about what the spell will do to you.”

Icelin lowered her hands. Ruen still gripped her wrist slackly. “Small magic isn’t going to drain my vitality,” she said gently. “Even a few of the larger spells won’t do lasting harm. Only the most aggressive spells I have, the ones that are truly deadly when they rage out of control, will affect me. I’ve told you this before.”

“Even cantrips cause you pain,” Ruen said. “You told me that, too.”

“So I did. Your memory needs no enhancement.” Icelin started to lay her hand on top of his, but Ruen pulled away. She clenched her teeth together and tried not to let it show in her face how much his rejection hurt.

“Cast your spell,” he said, not looking at her.

Icelin nodded. She cupped her hands in front of her nose and mouth and whispered a phrase. In her mind, she saw the words perfectly formed in glowing script, imagined the letters swirling in her cupped palms like specks of gold mingling with her breath. The magic rose up, filling the silent passage.

The spell took effect. Breathing deeply, Icelin fought back a brief, intense wave of dizziness and nausea. Ruen was right about the magic weakening her, but that wasn’t the only reason for the nausea. The smell of damp earth rose strongly in her nose, mingled with underlying hints of a dozen varieties of fungus and cave moss and the unmistakable odor of decay. Her spell had heightened her sense of smell ten times over, bringing the layers of scents in the tunnels to life in an overwhelming tapestry. Icelin stretched her awareness outward down the passage, seeking beyond the cavern odors, searching for familiar scents, beloved smells that had become like home to her.

“There,” Icelin said, drawing in another breath. “Mint, hints of fish and butter—it’s very faint, but it’s coming from the main passage. We’re going the right way.”

“Well done,” Ruen said. “Anything else? What about the group that has him? Can you detect their scents, how many there are?”

Icelin’s brow furrowed. “No … there’s nothing,” she said. “That’s odd. I only smell Sull.”

“It’s enough,” Ruen said. “Let’s go.”

Relieved that they were on the right path, Icelin moved forward, Ruen following at her side. For a while, he said nothing, though Icelin sensed him watching her. She picked her way carefully by the wavering light, half her mind fixed on maintaining the spell and letting her heightened senses guide her. She stepped on a loose stone in her too-large boots and stumbled.

Ruen gripped her elbow briefly, steadying her. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I know I’ve been … pushing … making the journey difficult for the three of us. I forget you’ve never traveled before.”

Icelin glanced at him, surprised by the turn in the conversation. “My parents were adventurers,” she said. “I suppose they did a lot of this sort of thing—crawling around in caves, digging through ruins, sleeping on the ground every night. I did want a taste of that kind of life. Well, all except for the sleeping on the ground part. I could do without that and not be troubled.”

“Has it been everything you thought it would be?” Ruen asked.

“And more,” Icelin said with feeling. She glanced at him in the torchlight with a raised brow. “I never thought I’d see the whole of the Sword Coast in a pair of months, for instance.”

Ruen offered her a strained smile. “You did say you wanted to see everything.”

“I’m not going to expire in the next few months, you know,” Icelin said lightly. “I intend to torment you for years and years yet.”

His smile disappeared. “I know that, but our time on the road—it passes faster, somehow, almost as fast as the scenery flashes by on a galloping horse. One day runs into the next, and I keep thinking …”

“What?” Icelin asked. She kept her voice low, but still it echoed in the silent passage. The darkness pressed close, creating the illusion of a small, intimate room in a globe of torchlight. They hadn’t been alone like this for months, and Ruen had never spoken to her as he did now. Icelin found herself holding her breath, though what she was waiting for, she couldn’t quite say.

“It’s not fair,” Ruen said at last. “You’re young, seen almost nothing of the world, and just when you start to come into your own, you discover you’ve been cheated out of a full and happy life.” He gazed at her with such an earnest, intense expression that Icelin felt her cheeks flush. “Others who’ve lived twice as long haven’t lived so well as you.”

“You honor me by saying that, but I’ve made my share of mistakes, and I have my regrets,” Icelin said. She glanced at the cave ceiling above her head, as if she could look through it to greater Faerûn beyond. “You know enough about the world to know things are rarely fair. If I hadn’t had this burden, I might never have left Waterdeep. I’d still be in my great uncle’s shop, reading books about adventures in far-off lands instead of having one of my own.” She dropped her gaze, staring into Ruen’s strange eyes. “If I hadn’t been scarred, I would never have met you or Sull.”

Ruen shifted the torch from his right hand to his left. “Yes, I remember that night well. I was fishing on my boat—”

“You never really caught anything edible from the harbor, did you?” Icelin interjected.

Ruen ignored her. “Happily alone, content with the world, and suddenly this impertinent wench rows up to my boat and demands my aid.”

“I’m certain I asked nicely.”

“Not a coin to her name to induce me to help her, but oh no, that didn’t stop this woman.”

“Didn’t I offer to sleep with you in return?”

“I should have dumped you in the harbor, saved myself a lot of trouble,” Ruen said.

“We did get dumped in the harbor, and you surely never used to jest this much, before you met me,” Icelin pointed out. “I’ve been some good to you. I’ve given you an appreciation for the absurd.”

“Who said I was jesting?” Ruen checked what was left of the tracks. “Is your spell still working? Are they still on this path?”

“Yes,” Icelin said, breathing deeply to confirm that Sull was still ahead of them. “I feel like a tracking hound.” She raised a hand and glared at Ruen before he could speak. “Be very careful with your next words,” she warned him.

Ruen’s lips twitched. “You did say I should jest more.”

Icelin stepped toward him. She’d only intended to swat at his shoulder with her hand, but when Ruen saw her reaching for him, he stepped back and raised the torch between them as a barrier. He said nothing, merely quickened his pace, leaving Icelin lagging behind as she recovered from his reaction.

As suddenly as it had been there, the humor and warmth drained out of that small circle of light. Icelin suppressed the urge to scream in frustration.

Gods above, will you kindly smite him in the arse with a lightning bolt? she thought. Is that truly too much to ask?

She caught up with Ruen at an intersection and snatched the torch out of his hand. He shot her a look. “Now what have I done?”

Icelin scowled at him. “Are you really going to spend the next twenty years flinching and scrambling away like a rabbit every time I come near you?”

“You know why I react that way,” Ruen said calmly, but Icelin sensed the tension radiating from him.

“Of course,” Icelin said. “It’s because of the ever-present reminder of death clinging to me, obviously.” What man in his right mind would want to be near such a person? “I just wish you’d be a bit more subtle about it,” she grumbled.

“That’s not …” Ruen sighed. “Never mind. Nothing good will come of talking about this.”

“Nothing good at all,” said a voice from the darkness of the adjoining passage.

Icelin swung the torch toward the sound. A pair of dwarves stepped into the circle of glowing gold. The nearest one had a cluster of tattoos covering the left side of his face, strange symbols similar to those Icelin had seen carved on the stones at the cave entrance. Engraved stones wove in and out of his plaited gray beard and clicked faintly when he stepped forward. Icelin sensed power in the dwarf, carefully contained but unmistakable magical energy.

The other dwarf was much younger, with a rich mahogany beard and no tattoos, but there were strong echoes of the elder dwarf’s features in his face. They had to be father and son.

“Gods above, you humans will talk yourselves into your graves,” the elder dwarf growled in Common. “We heard your voices echoing down the tunnel.”

Icelin was surprised. The dwarves could not have been very far ahead of them if they’d heard Icelin and Ruen talking, yet why hadn’t she detected their presence with her heightened senses? Even now when they stood right in front of her and she sniffed the air, expecting to inhale the odor of sweat and dwarf breath, she detected nothing but the scents of the damp earth and stone.

The older dwarf must be employing a spell to conceal sounds and scents, she reasoned, to allow them to move in the tunnels and avoid detection. It was the only explanation unless, Gods help her, the tales she’d heard in her childhood about the dwarves were true—that they sprang from the stone itself.

Next to Icelin, Ruen tensed as the younger dwarf stepped forward. He said nothing, but he held a huge axe comfortably in his hands. The single-bladed weapon bore three faintly glowing runes carved along the wicked edge. Opposite this blade sprouted three obsidian spikes that tapered to gleaming points like the horns of a beast. The dwarf’s father carried an identical axe on his belt. Icelin tried not to stare at the magnificent and deadly weapons.

“Where is Sull?” she demanded.

“You’re the trespassers here,” the elder dwarf said, “which means you stay silent.”

“We seek an artifact in the temple,” Ruen said. “We thought the place was abandoned.”

“Abandoned or not, you have no right to be here. You and your companions desecrated our burial grounds when you came to plunder our temple,” the elder dwarf growled.

“Yes, and you snatched our companion,” Icelin said. “We’d like him back.”

“Calass,” the younger dwarf said. Icelin didn’t understand the word. He went on rapidly in the Dwarvish tongue. The elder nodded thoughtfully. “There are no artifacts left here for you to steal.” Ruen cursed in response, but the dwarf ignored him. “As for your friend, our companions took him below to answer for his desecration. We came back when we heard you following.”

“Below?” Icelin didn’t like the sound of that. “How deep do these ruins go?”

The younger dwarf spoke again, and in his dark eyes, Icelin saw a mixture of pride, contempt, and an endless, aching sadness. If she hadn’t been afraid of provoking an attack, Icelin would have reached out to the dwarf. Crazy, she knew, but sadness like that … it urged her to soothe—to do anything to quell it.

“What did he say?” Ruen asked the father.

“Deep,” the dwarf said, “deep into memory.” He pointed to the passage ahead of them. “You come with us now. We’ll take you to your companion and then decide what to do with all of you.”

“Not yet,” Ruen said. “I have questions of my own.” He drew a dagger from his belt and held it at his side, a paltry thing in the shadow of the dwarves’ gleaming axes, but Icelin knew better than to underestimate what Ruen could do with the weapon. In her mind, she searched for a spell to defend them both in the close quarters. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

As she prepared to call on her Art, the elder dwarf suddenly turned and stared at her. “Don’t,” he said quietly. He raised his hand.

Icelin braced for a spell, but the attack was not what she expected.

A symbol flashed in front of her eyes, bright and painful, as if she’d been staring into the sun on a burning hot day. Three slashes of fire in the air—that was all Icelin discerned before a thunderous roar filled her ears.

She stumbled back, managing to hold on to her staff and the torch when all she wanted to do was thrust both aside and cover her ears. The roar was impossible to block out. She closed her eyes. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. The rune had faded, leaving only a blurred afterimage on the inside of her eyelids, but the thunder beat painfully in her ears and sent threads of fiery pain into her temples.

“Stop it!” Ruen shouted at the dwarves, but Icelin barely heard him. She couldn’t call her magic, couldn’t think beyond the roaring.

Dimly, she heard the ring of steel. Icelin opened her eyes and saw the younger dwarf standing in front of his father, blocking a dagger strike from Ruen. The dwarf swung his axe as if to drive Ruen back, but he dodged the swipe and delivered a swift punch to the dwarf’s arm.

His grip on the axe faltered. A flicker of surprise passed over the dwarf’s face, and he stared hard at his thin opponent, as if re-evaluating the threat Ruen posed. Through her pain, Icelin felt a rush of satisfaction.

Ruen was an uncanny fighter, a bundle of contradictions. To look at him, a hard punch would break him in half, yet Ruen was the one who usually delivered such terrible blows. As with so much in his life, his spellscar was to blame. It left his bones brittle, forcing him to wear a magic ring that kept them strong. That same ring also enhanced his physical strength, which, when combined with his speed and martial training, made him a formidable opponent.

In that moment, however, he was outmatched, at least in bladed weapons. Ruen sheathed his dagger and came at the dwarf again with just his fists.

For all their differences in height and weight, the dwarf was sure-footed. He dodged Ruen’s quick jabs, and Ruen had to use every bit of his speed to keep pace with the dwarf’s movements. It would be a long and bloody fight—the last thing Icelin wanted.

“Please listen to me,” she implored the elder dwarf. Her voice shook with pain. “I swear, we didn’t come here to desecrate this temple. If you give us back our friend, we’ll leave this place and never return. We don’t have to fight!”

The older dwarf’s face remained impassive. He glanced from Icelin to the battle between his son and Ruen. Icelin thought he was going to let it continue, despite her pleas.

Abruptly, the roaring in her ears diminished, leaving behind a dull ache at Icelin’s temples. In her relief, she almost sagged to the floor.

“Ruen, stop!” she called out. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

The combatants paused in their dance of blade and fists. Ruen stood tense, but glancing at Icelin, he took a careful step away from the dwarf. His opponent did the same.

“It’s all right,” Icelin repeated. “Now we can talk—” She couldn’t finish. The cloying scent of blood and a burning substance filled her nose. Icelin choked at the unexpected foulness and covered her mouth to keep from gagging. The dwarves looked at her curiously—Ruen in alarm. They obviously smelled nothing amiss.

It was the scent spell. She’d stopped paying attention to it in the wake of the dwarf’s magical attack on her senses.

“What is it?” Ruen took hold of her shoulder with his free hand, but Icelin shrugged him off.

“Something’s near—gods, that’s awful.” She looked around the torchlit darkness but saw nothing. The dwarves exchanged anxious looks.

Then they all heard it. The scrape of stone and a stirring of air overhead made them look at the ceiling. That brief glimpse was the only warning before a large, hairy body dropped from the ceiling and landed on the younger dwarf’s back. A second weight slammed into Icelin and drove her to the ground.

Icelin caught herself on her hands, but the breath whooshed out of her, and the torch rolled away, sending sparks and fractured light in all directions. When Icelin looked up, a black cage surrounded her, but the bars of that cage were not made of iron. They were jointed and covered with stiff black hairs.

Rolling onto her back, Icelin suppressed a scream. The reflection of her prostrate form shone in the glassy black eyes of an immense spider. Its mandibles hovered directly above her head. Blood from the last unfortunate creature it had encountered stained those mandibles and dripped from its glistening black body. A thick, greenish liquid mixed with the blood, and the scent of burning poison rose in her nostrils again. Icelin dismissed the scent spell so she could breathe, but it was impossible to tear her gaze away from those soulless black orbs.

Icelin lifted her hands and cast the first spell that came to mind. She spoke the arcane phrases haltingly, but in her mind, she screamed her intent: burn.

Her fingers glowed and flames erupted from her hands, shattering her reflection and blocking out the spider’s eyes. The creature recoiled, legs scraping across the stone, tangling in Icelin’s hair. Panic and revulsion rose in her. She had to get out from under the thing before it crushed her.

By the light of her fire spell, Icelin saw Ruen viciously stab the spider’s body, trying to draw it away from her. He danced aside as the monster turned and tried to take a bite out of him. Dropping to his knees, he pitted his weight against the monster and yanked aside one of the spider’s legs. Icelin reached through the gap, and he hauled her out from under the creature.

“Watch out!” Icelin shouted.

A third spider scuttled along the ceiling above their heads. Ruen let her go, ran to the far wall, and using a small stone outcrop as a leaping-off point, propelled himself up the wall, close enough to reach the spider’s bloated body. Before it had the chance to scramble away, Ruen pushed off the wall, ripping the spider off its stone perch. Icelin darted out of the way as he and the monster landed on the passage floor.

Ruen rolled clear just as a backhand swing from the elder dwarf’s axe drove the obsidian horns into the spider’s exposed abdomen. The monster’s legs flexed and clawed the air wildly, but it couldn’t pull itself together for another attack. The deadly axe tore it apart in a mess of gore.

The younger dwarf had thrown the spider off his back. He shouted and hacked at the creature. His axe sliced through the monster’s legs like sticks. He reversed the strike and tore into the spider’s abdomen with the obsidian horns as his father had done.

In its death throes, the spider latched onto the dwarf’s arm and bit deep. Blood and poison drenched the dwarf’s arm. He yelled and bore down with his axe, cutting the spider in half.

Icelin poured more fire into the other spider’s eyes. The room blurred as weakness overcame her. Too fast, she thought, too much. At least the spell hadn’t gone wild.

“Icelin, stop!” Ruen crouched beside her. “The creature’s dead.”

Shaking, Icelin reined in the fire and instinctively grasped her staff. Responding to her touch, red light filled and swirled in its wooden cage. Power, balanced and carefully contained—the symbolism was not lost on her. Focusing her thoughts on the staff, the strength and stability of its magic, Icelin felt a little calmer.

“Are you all right?” Icelin asked, turning to Ruen with a slightly dazed expression.

“You’re asking me that?” Ruen nodded to her hands where she clutched the staff. They trembled still, knuckles white against the wood. “You shouldn’t have spent yourself like that.”

“That’s what my great uncle used to say whenever I did something foolish. I’m sorry, but I’m not fond of spiders,” Icelin said weakly, “especially when they’re bigger than I am.”

The younger dwarf snarled something in his native language as he held a hand against his wound. Black ichor dripped from his axe.

“What did he say?” Ruen asked.

The dwarf’s father nodded at Icelin. “He agrees with her,” he said. He hesitated, then held out a hand to Ruen. “You fight well,” he said grudgingly. “I’m Garn Blackhorn.”

“Ruen Morleth,” Ruen said and clasped the dwarf’s hand briefly. “She is Icelin Tearn.”

“The young one’s my son, Obrin,” Garn said. “Did you get much of the poison?” he asked his son.

The dwarf grunted. He lifted his hand away from his wound. Some of the greenish liquid flowed down his arm. Icelin couldn’t smell the poison anymore, but the pinched look of the dwarf’s face and the pallor of his skin told her he was in pain.

Garn went to his son. He held up a hand and traced a symbol in the air with his index and middle fingers. The short, gnarled digits were anything but graceful, yet that was the only word Icelin thought of when she beheld the glowing orange rune with roots of blue and purple that flowed from the dwarf’s fingertips, hissing in the cold cavern air.

The symbol faded. Garn unfastened Obrin’s gauntlet and rolled up his sleeve to expose the spider bite. A breath later, Obrin’s torn flesh glowed, and the same rune Icelin had seen traced on the air rose up as if from deep within Obrin’s skin.

The delicate shape of the rune fascinated her—two interlocking rings with a horizontal line drawn across both. A symbol impossible to translate, yet its effects lingered in the air long after the rune had faded away completely. Warmth, protection, healing. Be at peace, the magic whispered in a voice without words, strong and firm. The younger dwarf closed his eyes briefly as the rune melted into his flesh, the orange light covering the wound and closing it.

Icelin allowed her eyes to drift closed for a moment. So often she’d only felt the touch of wild magic, but the soothing presence of this kind of stable Art made her breathing slow and washed away the sick feeling in her stomach.

When she opened her eyes, she met the younger dwarf’s curious gaze. Embarrassed, Icelin looked away. “You also fought well, Obrin,” she said. The dwarf shot her an irritated glance and muttered something, again in his own language. “Doesn’t he speak the common tongue?” Icelin asked.

“He speaks it, and he understands everything you’re saying, but he doesn’t speak to outsiders,” Garn said. “It’s beneath his dignity.”

“But not yours,” Ruen observed.

The elder dwarf stroked his beard, his fingers tracing the runes on his cheek in a significant if absentminded gesture. “My son is his own man. He acts as he sees fit, and so do I. You’re both skilled enough in battle, even if you are thieves and plunderers,” he said.

Icelin and Ruen exchanged a glance. “Don’t look at me,” Icelin said wearily. “You’re the thief—and probably the plunderer, too. All I want is Sull.”

“Why did you capture him?” Ruen asked. “If you thought he desecrated your burial grounds, why didn’t you just kill him?”

“Because he told us you’re looking for the Arcane Script Sphere,” Garn said. “That changes things.”

“Do you know of the artifact?” Icelin asked.

A flicker of disdain passed over Garn’s face. “It’s not my place to tell you of it. We’ll take you to your friend, but it’s a long way down, deeper than I think you intended to go.”

“Will you let us come back out again?” Ruen asked.

Garn didn’t answer. He examined his son’s wound one more time and, appearing satisfied, helped him to his feet. “Your lady looks exhausted,” he said, nodding to Icelin. “She can rest once we get to the city. Our king will want to speak to you about the artifact.”

“A city?” Icelin said as Ruen helped her to stand. “And a king? I suppose we were just discussing new adventures, weren’t we?” she said to Ruen. “I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. The gods have a way of listening when I start going on about adventure.”

Ruen picked up the torch. “Lead on,” he told the dwarves.

GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

21 UKTAR

THE SCOUTS STOOD BEFORE MISTRESS MOTHER FIZZRI Khaven-Ghell and gave a terse report on their latest forays to the outposts of Iltkazar. Fizzri listened to their account, but her attention kept diverting to the shadowy corners of the room. At any moment, she expected Zollgarza to appear, watching her with that murky red gaze of his. When several more minutes passed and he did not show himself, the mistress mother’s heartbeat quickened.

She imagined her goddess’s hands stroking the back of her neck, Lolth’s words a soft whisper—and a warning—in her ear.

Don’t lose him, Fizzri.

The hands turned to claws, poised to rend her flesh. The words were a sharp hiss, an inhuman sound that penetrated her deepest thoughts.…

Fizzri blinked and shook away the phantoms of her imagination. The scouts gazed at her expectantly. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts and fears? She fixed an impassive expression on her face and looked each of the scouts in the eye, but her strength again faltered when she noticed the empty place at the back of the room.

The scout leader, a male named Velzick, didn’t seem to notice her discomfort but continued to drone on endlessly about Iltkazar. “We can safely report that the city’s population is greatly diminished from what was once spoken of centuries ago,” he said. “Iltkazar is the shell of a dead empire. If not for the lingering strength of its defenses, we should have conquered it long ago. An assault will require careful planning and execution, but I’m confident we can take the city.”

He sounded eager, and why shouldn’t he? Iltkazar, with its vast, empty halls, cleared of dwarf vermin, was a territorial prize for Guallidurth. No doubt Velzick expected Fizzri to be exultant at her impending victory, but at that moment, she was hardly listening. Able to contain herself no longer, she blurted out, “Where is Zollgarza?”

The scouts exchanged glances, and Velzick stepped forward. “Mistress, the dwarf patrol we captured claimed that at least one of our own scouts was taken in fighting near the southern outposts. Zollgarza is the only one unaccounted for.”

Slowly Fizzri rose to her feet. She allowed her serpent, Ulgatta, to curl around her arm and rest its head against her inner wrist, where her pulse beat an erratic rhythm. Approaching the scout, she laid her hand against his cheek in a gesture as tender as it was threatening. She knew he could see the serpent hovering inches from his chin.

“You didn’t answer my question, Velzick,” she cooed. “Perhaps you’d like to try again.”

The scout looked down at Fizzri and said, “It’s possible Zollgarza has been captured by the dwarves of Iltkazar, Mistress.”

Mother Lolth, forgive. Forgive!

Outwardly she wore the impassive mask, but Fizzri wailed the prayer in her mind. Her goddess, however, kept silent. Fizzri fought against despair. Zollgarza missing, which meant the Arcane Script Sphere was still in their enemy’s hands as well. Two vital components lost. No! She would not let this happen.

Ulgatta seemed to sense her distress. Fizzri had given it no command, but the instinct to protect its mistress—instinct fueled by magic—took over, and the serpent’s tongue flicked out, making the barest contact with Velzick’s skin.

The warrior didn’t flinch, but under her hand, Fizzri felt the muscles rippling in his jaw. The reaction distracted her from her terror. It was exciting to watch the males struggle with their restraint, to hold themselves back from striking at their superiors.

“I see your thoughts, Velzick,” Fizzri whispered so only the scout and those standing nearest him heard. “As clearly as if I’d used magic to rip them from your mind, I see what you feel, what you want to do to me at this moment. Wouldn’t you like to be able to tell me?” She coaxed Ulgatta closer, so Velzick’s gaze involuntarily followed the serpent’s progress as it rode the back of the mistress mother’s hand. He swallowed but made no reply. “Think of it, Velzick,” she said, arousal stirring in her voice. “If you didn’t have to worry about risking your position in House Loor’Tchaan—if you didn’t have to curry my favor in the hope I might raise you higher than your fellows here … What would you do if you didn’t have those leashes to hold you back?”

He was trembling, but Velzick let the serpent glide within striking distance of his left eye. At her command, the snake would blind that eye in less than a breath. Fizzri used that thought to soothe herself, to calm the turmoil and uncertainty raging inside her.

Then, to her surprise, Velzick answered.

“Do what you will, Mistress,” he said, his normally deep, lilting voice hoarse. “I serve you to the death. I swear this on the knowledge that we are all the children of the Spider Queen.”

Oh, clever, sly tongue. Fizzri had to give him credit for his nerve.

Velzick’s response, made with such fervor and dignity in the face of the threat hovering in front of his eyes, could do nothing but honor the mistress mother. Yet Fizzri sensed the message hidden in the male’s words. She could read it in his eyes—our time is coming, his expression said, which only increased her inner struggle.

Her goddess remained silent to her pleas, but there was more in Fizzri’s thoughts than just Zollgarza’s fate. Were Fizzri and the other priestesses in Guallidurth prepared to bear the consequences of Lolth’s commands? They were the instruments of the Spider Queen’s will, but Lolth called out for magic, and it was the drow males who had answered, their time come at last to prove themselves worthy to their highest mistress and perhaps achieve an equality with the females.

Once Lolth ascended to become the new Goddess of Magic.

The vision and command from the goddess had come to drow cities throughout the Underdark. Gather and distill the essences of powerful arcane artifacts and transfer them to Lolth in dozens of sacred rituals conducted by wizards and priestesses working in tandem. The power generated would eventually allow the goddess to fashion the ultimate work of Art: the Demon Weave. When complete, it would replace even the memory of Mystra.

But at what cost? Surely Lolth would never forsake her favored daughters for arcane practitioners, for males. Let them serve their queen for now. Fizzri stroked Velzick’s cheek and slowly drew her hand away. Let them strengthen Lolth and bring glory to House Loor’Tchaan, but by the goddess, let us never allow them to forget that they are lesser in all other things, subject to the will of their mistresses. She formed the words as a second prayer to Lolth.

“Keep pressing the attacks on the dwarven outposts and maintain the reconnaissance patrols,” she commanded, raising her voice to address the whole room. “Zollgarza is missing. I want him found. We will assault the city within a tenday.” She ignored the confused murmurs that went through the group of scouts. An attack so soon gave them little time to prepare, but Fizzri didn’t concern herself about that. If Zollgarza was alive, then there was still a chance he would complete his mission and return to her. In that case, a direct attack on the city would not be necessary. But if he’d been captured, then she needed to get him back and retrieve the sphere. That was paramount.

If he was dead.…

No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think it. “Leave me,” she said, deliberately turning her back on Velzick while the scouts filed out of the temple. For a breath, she allowed herself to revel in his hatred and loathing for her, but when she was alone, Fizzri went to her private chamber.

She knelt before the altar, a polished slab of obsidian carved with prayers to Lolth. Fizzri had made most of the engravings herself from the time she was a novice. Two of the carved supplications had been made by other hands—a prayer for protection and a prayer for knowledge made by Fizzri’s first lover—long gone. Since then, the mistress mother had filled the symbols with her own blood, never letting anyone touch the altar, and now, without hesitation, she took up her ceremonial knife and put it to her flesh for another offering.

Letting the blood flow into the carvings, Fizzri recited the ceremonial words. “Always for you, Mother Lolth. My thoughts will find him. I will know if Zollgarza lives and if his task is yet undone.” On the heels of that prayer, she uttered a spell to link her awareness to Zollgarza.

Her mind traveled the hidden pathways of the Underdark, passing through ancient stone, stagnant cave waters and tunnels covered with strange, glowing fungi. Some of the creatures that dwelled there marked her passage, the cold-blooded kuo-toa and roving bands of quaggoths, but only as a vague sense of wrongness, of danger passing swiftly over their heads. Then she was gone, her awareness pointed toward Iltkazar.

Imaginative creature that she was, Fizzri thought she smelled the fire stink of dwarven forges and sweat, the little vermin scurrying around like mice in too-large holes. Zollgarza’s awareness should not be hard to discern among these lesser intelligences. With that hope, she flew freely, spreading her awareness in a wide net.

She was wholly unprepared for the pain.

Agony erupted in the mistress mother’s chest. She coughed once, dredging up blood that dripped from her mouth and nose. Dropping to her knees, Fizzri clutched the altar and pressed her cheek against the cool obsidian. Gods, the weight—it was crushing her. She struggled to draw breath as a fire spread from her chest to every nerve in her body. She collapsed in front of the altar, hands clutching her chest as if her heart might burst from it.

For a long time, she couldn’t move. The pain wracked her, obliterating all thought. She couldn’t pray either until finally, the fire receded. A dull ache lingered in her chest, flaring each time she breathed. How long until it faded?

The magic that protected Iltkazar was stronger than she’d thought—much stronger. She would not be able to find Zollgarza by that means. For now, she must wait to see if Zollgarza resurfaced. If he didn’t, she would command the army to proceed with the assault on Iltkazar. One way or another, she would get the sphere.

Fizzri dragged herself back to her knees in front of the altar. She laid her head on the blood-soaked runes and repeated her prayer. “Lolth, I will find him. I will obtain the power you seek. This I swear.”

The pain dwindled in her chest, and Fizzri felt the edge of triumph blocking out the agony. Lolth heard—and approved.

“Stand behind me,” Garn told Icelin and Ruen.

They’d crossed a narrow stone bridge that traversed a deep chasm. Drafts of frigid air wafted up from the blackness of the pit. A wide tunnel on the opposite side left room for the four of them to stand abreast.

Icelin gazed down into the pit. Ruen stood beside her, ready to reach out a hand if she stumbled. She stood too near the edge for his comfort. Why did she always do that? Ruen suppressed an exasperated sigh. Didn’t she see the danger?

These past few months they’d been traveling along the Sword Coast, Icelin had been oblivious to everything—her life in Waterdeep, her spellscar, and her diminished lifespan. Wrapped up in the sights of Faerûn, she had discarded all the weights that threatened to hold her back. At first, Ruen had taken this as a good sign. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He might have felt better if they’d been able to find the Arcane Script Sphere or at least confirm that it was nearby. Ruen theorized that the artifact would act on Icelin’s magic in a fashion similar to her staff, only far more powerful, focusing and guiding her magical energy and preventing it from raging out of control. If he were right, that stabilizing force would prolong her life and let her use magic safely. It was a slim hope, but it was the best they had. Even so, Icelin hadn’t seemed discouraged. In fact, over the past tenday, she’d stopped showing an interest in Ruen’s theory, and when they’d finally reached the dwarven ruins, she’d seemed much more interested in learning about the remnants of the people who’d once used them. Perhaps it was being among the dead and forgotten. Icelin didn’t need the reminder of her own mortality staring her in the face.

Ruen looked at his gloved hands. How many times had he wanted to reach out to Icelin to comfort her? He had never been skilled at gestures like that, and his spellscar only made things worse. It was cowardly, he knew, but the thought of touching her, of the piercing reminder that eventually all that warmth and life would be gone from her—he didn’t like to think of it.

Yet that wasn’t the true reason he refrained from touching her. What woman in her senses would take comfort from his touch when she knew what he could do? Ruen thought bitterly. When he was a boy, his own mother hadn’t wanted to touch him. The first time he ever used his power he’d predicted the death of an old woman in his village. The memory of that icy pain lingered in Ruen’s hands. He’d screamed and pushed her away, told his mother that the old woman was going to die. She’d passed the next day, and after that, most of the villagers thought his touch caused death instead of merely predicting it. He’d stopped letting folk near him after that.

He didn’t want Icelin looking at him the way the villagers had. No, the best thing he could do for her was find the Arcane Script Sphere. The only thing hampering them now were the dwarves.

Garn stood in front of the group, but he wasn’t looking at the chasm. He surveyed the bridge, arms out in front of him as if testing the air. Obrin stepped up beside him and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. They both looked solemnly at the bridge, and Obrin murmured something that sounded to Ruen like a prayer. Then he stepped back, caught Ruen watching him, and glared.

“What is it?” Icelin asked. “Why have we stopped?”

Garn answered her. “We need to seal this passage to the surface. Don’t worry,” he added when Ruen started to speak, “there are other routes above that are closer to the city. If the king commands it, we’ll bring you back by one of those, but these outlying passages aren’t easily defensible, not anymore.”

“You’re going to destroy the bridge, aren’t you?” Icelin said. “I sense the magic on it. It’s very old, isn’t it?”

Garn nodded. He never took his eyes off the structure. “The dwarves who carved it out of the stone are long gone, but there were Blackhorns among them. I can feel them, as if they were standing beside me.” He spit into the chasm. “Glad I am that they aren’t here to see us so … diminished.” Obrin made a sound of displeasure, but Garn ignored him. “Keep back until I’m finished,” he commanded. “The bridge took years to shape, but I’ll bring it down in only a few breaths.”

Ruen stepped back, Icelin following. Obrin stood with his father as Garn traced a pair of symbols in the air. His hands moved too quickly for Ruen to follow the shapes, and no glowing rune appeared in the wake of his casting. Garn gestured again, and the symbols appeared on the side of the bridge in swirls of fire, burrowing into the stone.

Standing at his side, Icelin sucked in a breath. “Are you all right?” Ruen asked.

“I’m fine,” Icelin said softly, but Ruen heard the sadness in her voice. “Something so ancient, beautiful, and yet … my great uncle used to tell me all the tales, of the elves in their deep forests, and the dwarves in stone halls where their kin lived and died for centuries, forging bonds that surpass the understanding of humans. The long-lived races of the world are used to the rise and fall of glory, he said, but when I see this … I don’t know how he can stand it,” Icelin said, watching Garn calmly weave his destructive magic.

“You can look away,” Ruen said. He was aware of Obrin watching them intently. “You don’t have to watch, if it troubles you.”

Icelin shook her head. “It would do them both a dishonor,” she murmured. She met Obrin’s watching gaze, but the dwarf flushed and looked away quickly.

The fiery runes covered the bridge now. Garn drew his axe off his belt and went down on one knee. He turned the black horns, symbols of his family, toward the bridge and sketched three vertical lines in the stone. The scrape of obsidian echoed in the chamber. Garn turned the axe upright.

“Moradin, forgive and protect,” he said, and Ruen was surprised to hear the words spoken in Common. He didn’t have time to wonder why Garn had chosen to share the ritual words with them. The dwarf drove the axe hilt into the stone over the vertical lines. Sparks flew, and a thunderous roar echoed through the chamber. The runes on the bridge flared to dazzling gold and exploded.

Heat erupted across the chasm and swept over Icelin and Ruen. Instinctively, Ruen put his body in front of Icelin, but the fire from the runes never reached them. Cracks splintered the stone bridge, suffused with radiant gold light. The structure groaned once, a long, mournful sound, and then broke apart, huge stone chunks dropping into the chasm.

Dust rose in the air, obscuring Ruen’s vision. He blinked and wiped watering eyes, but like Icelin, he found he couldn’t look away from the destruction. Behind him, Icelin clutched his shoulder, and Ruen, overcome by the force of the explosion, didn’t think about pulling away from her.

They stood behind the dwarves, who hadn’t moved either, until the dust settled and revealed the gaping hole where the bridge had been. Broken remnants clutched each side of the chasm.

Garn turned away from the devastation first. Ruen was startled to see tears standing in the dwarf’s eyes. “It’s done,” he said, his voice as rough and ancient as the stone. “We can be on our way.”

The group moved off down the tunnel, not speaking, and when Icelin reached for his gloved hand, Ruen didn’t pull away. She entwined her fingers with his, squeezed, and just as quickly let go. Ruen moved away, hoping she wouldn’t see the tremor that passed through his body.

For the first time in years, he heard his mother’s voice in his head, a memory he’d thought long gone.

Foolish to take such a risk, her voice whispered after she’d caught him trying to play with the other children in his village. One boy had thrown stones at him. Normal folk will never understand you. They’ll turn from you. You must learn to expect it.

Ruen banished the hated voice and suppressed a shudder. Gods, he never used to think about the past. He lived day to day, focused wholly on survival. What was happening to him?

The passage before them ended in a set of stone stairs that descended in a spiral just wide enough for them to walk two by two. The dwarves went ahead with a lit torch, and Ruen and Icelin walked behind, guided by the red light atop Icelin’s staff.

Garn paused and glanced back at them. “We’ll be in the Underdark soon. Keep a close watch around you. We might run into scouting parties.”

“Scouting parties?” Ruen said. “You mean your people or more monsters?”

“Monsters.…” Garn said. “Yes, that’s right.” He spit again and went on down the stairs.

“He’s afraid,” Icelin whispered. “I can see it in his eyes.” She glanced sidelong at Ruen. “You don’t look so well either.”

“I’m fine,” Ruen said tersely. “Just do what he said and keep your eyes on your surroundings. You can’t stay oblivious forever.”

As soon as they were out of his mouth, Ruen regretted the words. Their effect on Icelin was immediate. She stiffened, and her face paled. Ruen waited for her to lash out at him. She had the sharpest tongue of any woman he’d ever met, and he knew he deserved the rebuke. But she said nothing, only raised her hand to the light of her staff. She made a gesture and the red glow intensified, chasing back the shadows in the stairwell.

Ruen cursed himself. Why didn’t she shout at him or make a jest, tell him he was being a hurtful fool? Anything was better than silence. But her face by the light of her staff was unreadable.

Mith Barak sat on his throne and listened to the echoes of his boot tapping rhythmically against the stone, the sound traveling out to the ends of the hall. The cavernous chamber, built in the time of Shanatar, was large enough to house an army of warriors to challenge the greatest drow cities in the Underdark.

A bitter laugh escaped the king’s lips. He listened to the sound echo back at him in a mocking wave. The audience chamber of ancient kings, large enough to house an army of ghosts.

The door to the hall swung open, and one of the regents strode in. Mith Barak was embarrassed that he didn’t remember the dwarf’s name. He’d been appointed sometime during Mith Barak’s last sleep. Sometimes, the king felt as if he still slept, that his whole life was one endless dream.

The regent stopped before Mith Barak’s throne and bowed. “The regents are prepared to discuss battle strategies, my king,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” Mith Barak said. “Today I’ll be interrogating the drow again.” The regent nodded, but Mith Barak saw the dismayed expression the dwarf tried to hide. “What is it?” he demanded in irritation. “Speak!”

“My king,” the regent said, “drow patrols press closer to the city every day. If we’re to prepare our army against an assault, we must act quickly.”

Mith Barak gazed at the pillars lining the hall, the dust-filled carvings in the ancient stone. “You see the names on these pillars, Regent? The scholars, smiths, the warrior priests, greatest dwarves of an age—all of them gone. The dead outnumber the living ten to one. It will not take nearly so long as you believe to prepare our army. What’s left of it.”

Lost in his dark thoughts, he fell silent. He waited for the regent to leave, but the dwarf stayed, maybe waiting for him to change his mind. Maybe he sensed Mith Barak’s dangerous mood and didn’t want to leave him.

As if he could do anything about it. Mith Barak gripped the arms of his throne, felt the indentations where his fingers had dug into the stone in his statue form. Over a century, they’d worn their mark while he slept, oblivious to the passage of time.

No, not oblivious. To either time or pain.

How much had he missed while he was trapped in that Astral void? How many births, deaths among his people? Without guidance, the city had stagnated during his sleep, unable to grow or prosper because its leader was absent, yet the people had been unwilling to replace him. Now when he finally had a chance to change things, the damned drow decide to attack.

Mith Barak knew he should be out there now, among his soldiers, meeting with his council. Yet here he sat, on the same throne where he’d dwelled a century in stone, unable to make himself leave his hall unless it was to go down to the dungeons to interrogate Zollgarza. Worst of all was the knowledge that here on his throne, in his hall, was the only place he felt safe.

I’m a fool. There are no more safe places.

Mith Barak shook away those thoughts and stood. “Tomorrow, we’ll begin,” he said to the regent. “We don’t have time to indulge in past losses or regrets.”

The regent bowed and left the audience chamber. Mith Barak listened to his boots echo on the stone and tried to swallow his bitterness.

THE UNDERDARK

21 UKTAR

THE ENDLESS SERIES OF TUNNELS, DARK SPACES penetrated by flickering torchlight, and silence broken only by the hollow echoes of their footsteps were starting to give Icelin a terrible headache. How much farther before they wandered out the other side of Faerûn?

Eventually, though, the tunnel before them emptied out into a barrel-shaped cavern, and Icelin heard the sound of rushing water. An underground river gushed over stones, and a forest of stalactites hung low over the water.

“We’re not far from the city’s outer checkpoints,” Garn said.

Icelin stared at the river, grateful for anything to look at besides dark tunnel walls. The water foamed around the stalagmites as if from the mouth of a crooked-toothed beast. Blue-green fungus grew among the rocks on the shoreline, and there were a few stepping stones out in the river itself, but these looked dangerously slick and barely large enough to hold one person.

How many humans had actually crossed this river in all the centuries since its creation? Icelin had never dreamed, when they set out, that the dwarves would lead them this far into the Underdark. She’d never thought of herself as being afraid of tight spaces, but the idea of being so far from sunlight unnerved her. Yet another part of her thrilled to the idea that she walked in a cavern unknown to most of the people in Faerûn above. They had stepped into another world. If only Sull had been there to share the sights with her, Icelin would have been content.

Well, content might not have been the best word, not while Ruen continued to irritate her. What had gotten into the man anyway? When they’d stood near the bridge, for a second he’d looked at her as if she were a stranger. She wondered what was in his mind. Would he tell her if she asked?

A sharp hiss and twang cut the air, vibrating down the length of her staff. Icelin flinched. A black, spiny rod had embedded itself in her staff, just below the cage of light. Icelin brought the staff closer so she could see the object clearly.

Her breath caught. Embedded in the wood was a crossbow quarrel, the kind fired from a single-handed weapon.

Icelin opened her mouth to warn the others, when suddenly a second black quarrel buried itself in her arm. Staring at the missile in shock, Icelin at first didn’t feel any pain. Blood welled and flowed in a warm trickle down her arm. Icelin found her voice. “We’re under attack!” she cried.

More hisses echoed in the cavern. “Get down!” Garn shouted.

Ruen spun, flung his torch in the river and dragged Icelin to the ground behind some rocks. Obrin crouched beside them. Grunting, he drew his axe and gestured to the middle of the river.

Icelin clutched her wounded arm and looked through a crack between two rocks. In the middle of the river, three figures levitated near one of the larger stalactites. One wore wizard’s robes, and the other two wore armor that fit their slender bodies like a second skin. These two reloaded hand crossbows. Even in the dim red light of her staff, Icelin could appreciate their graceful forms, elegantly pointed ears, and obsidian skin.

Icelin shouldn’t have been surprised to see the drow in the Underdark, but knowing such beings existed in the world, and seeing them firsthand, was quite a different experience.

Red eyes—a wave of fascination and revulsion swept over Icelin. The tales don’t prepare you for seeing such burning eyes.

Throbbing pain in her arm reminded Icelin that they were not safe even crouched behind these rocks. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped blood-soaked fingers around the quarrel’s shaft and pulled it out. Flesh tore as streaks of fiery pain shot up her arm. When she could stand it, Icelin examined the barbed weapon. A mixture of blood and a black, ichor-like substance coated the point.

“Are you all right?” Ruen asked, his gaze traveling from her wound to the drow and back again, as if he couldn’t decide which danger to address first.

“The quarrels are poisoned,” Icelin said. Her fingers shook when she touched her wound. A numbing fatigue traveled up her arms, weighing them down. “I think it’s a sleep poison. At least I hope it is and not something worse.”

The fatigue quickly spread to her chest, her legs—Icelin rolled onto her side, putting her back against the wet rocks by the river. The frigid water revived her a little. She had to stay alert, but all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep.

“Hold on,” Ruen said. He yanked up Icelin’s sleeve and covered the wound, then folded her fingers around her staff. “Keep the light down,” he said. “Don’t make yourself a target.”

“Come ashore and fight us, you bloody cowards!” shouted Garn, drawing Icelin’s attention momentarily away from her wound. He made a sharp gesture. A ribbon of water coiled up from the river and encircled his hand, forming the shape of another rune. The water snapped out, its foam crests like barbs that lashed at the drow crossbowmen and caused them to waver in midair.

The drow wizard raised his hands, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the blows. Water slapped the skin of his cheeks with audible cracks. His red eyes burned, and he shouted in incoherent fury.

“Like that, did you?” Garn’s deep, taunting laughter echoed in the cavern. “I’ll have you down from there. See if I don’t!”

The drow wizard shouted something in an unfamiliar tongue, snarling the words as his hands clawed the air in a complex gesture. A curtain of flame rose at the wizard’s feet and rippled across the river.

“Get down!” Icelin cried, and Ruen, who had been moving among the stones, making his way to the river, went down on his belly. Flames roared over their heads, leaving a trail of steam over the river that temporarily obscured the drow.

“Got them angry now!” Garn touched the rocks along the shoreline, tracing symbols furiously as he crawled to where Icelin and Ruen crouched. “Watch your heads, you two,” he told them and splayed his hand against the nearest stone.

A burst of gold light shot up from the rocks, pushing the flames back to the edge of the river and creating a pocket of protection around them. Steam still rose in thick clouds. They couldn’t see the drow, but at least the drow couldn’t see them either.

Ruen again began crawling to the river. “What are you doing?” Icelin demanded. “The river’s still covered in fire.”

“You’re right.” Ruen took off his hat and tossed it to her. “Don’t let this get burned.”

Icelin caught the hat and suppressed the urge to hurl it into the fire. “You idiot! If the flames don’t get you, the river’s current will! You won’t be able to get to them.” Icelin reached out to grab his arm and missed.

Ruen leaped to his feet and ran toward the river. He jumped through the flames beyond Garn’s protective barrier and disappeared. A breath passed, and Icelin heard a splash. She looked over the rocks, but Ruen was underwater.

When she glanced back, she saw that Obrin paced the riverbank behind Garn’s barrier, prowling like a caged beast. He twirled his axe in his hands, hairy knuckles gripping the handle.

Seeing his distress, Icelin brought her staff up close to her face. The dwarf needed to be able to get at the drow through the fire and steam, and Icelin wanted to make sure Ruen was all right. That meant getting rid of the fire. Her body was still sluggish from the poison, but manipulating water was not a difficult spell, not with the cave breezes to aid her, and the staff guided and focused her energy.

Whispering the words of the spell, Icelin held up the staff. She pointed it across the river, and a burst of air shot out, stirring up waves. The roiling water from her spell pierced the curtain of fire and quelled it. Cool air flowed through the cavern in the wake of the blaze. When the steam dissipated, Icelin saw the drow wizard was still standing on air in the middle of the river. One of the drow warriors had levitated high above and hovered near the cavern ceiling, his hand crossbow held at the ready. The third drow was nowhere in sight.

The missing warrior didn’t seem to trouble Obrin. He shouted a laugh and hurled his axe at the drow hovering near the ceiling. The weapon spun end over end, black horns flashing. The drow tried to dodge, but it was too late. Obrin’s axe impaled the warrior in the chest with a sickening thud. The force of impact bent the drow’s lithe body backward and knocked him out of the grip of the levitation spell. He fell into the river, and both he and the axe disappeared beneath the water.

“You’re outmatched, little drow!” Garn shouted at the wizard. “Your spells won’t protect you forever.”

The wizard laughed scornfully. “You hardly have the advantage, dwarf,” he answered in Common. “One of your comrades is weak from our poison, and the other is missing a weapon. How much longer will your own magic protect you? Why don’t you retreat to your city? We’ll root you out there eventually, but why not claim some peace while you can?”

Icelin watched Garn’s face. She expected him to react with anger, to strike out at the drow with his axe as Obrin had done, but Garn’s expression remained a mask of impassivity. He went to stand next to Obrin, and the two of them exchanged a glance. Garn murmured, “We’re not lost yet, wizard,” and touched the axe on his belt. The runes along the blade flashed.

Obrin held out his hands, palms up, and his own axe materialized in the air. Obrin took the weapon, smiled faintly, and nodded to his father.

The drow’s gloating expression vanished. Furiously, he began casting again—conjuring shields, Icelin guessed, so he wouldn’t find himself with Obrin’s axe blade protruding from his stomach.

Ruen burst from the river, coughing and scrubbing water out of his eyes. The second drow crossbowman surfaced in front of him. A dagger glinted in his grip, reflecting the light from Icelin’s staff.

“Ruen!” Icelin screamed.

Ruen grabbed the drow’s wrist before he could stab him with the weapon. They grappled with each other and the current for a breath, but Ruen was the stronger. He turned the dagger aside and forced the drow’s arm down, driving the weapon into the warrior’s own stomach. Ruen pushed the drow’s body aside, letting the river carry it away.

Icelin picked up Ruen’s hat and went to the shoreline. Ruen swam across, fighting the current, and pulled himself, dripping, from the water. He accepted his hat gravely and put it on his head.

“Are you all right?” Icelin asked.

He nodded. “And you?”

“Well enough.” Icelin leaned on her staff for support. Her sleeve had stopped the bleeding. Weakness dragged at her limbs, but she gritted her teeth against it. She’d been in the Underdark less than a day, and already she was sick of it. “Your comrades are gone, and I’m strong enough to hurl more spells at you,” she shouted at the drow wizard. “Surrender!”

Shields in place, the wizard turned to look at Icelin. His eyes changed, the red light deepening with hatred and a resolve that frightened her. Cornered as he was, he’d kill himself and all of them before he let himself be taken. The drow raised his hands and so did Icelin, spitting out the words to one of her most potent spells. She did it without thinking.

Or considering the consequences.

Her staff clattered to the ground as an all too familiar wave of sickness washed over her, a clawing sensation in her stomach that spread outward to her limbs. She tried to concentrate on the spell, but it was too big, a wild thing growing inside her. On a broken cry, Icelin thrust her arms out from her body.

Lightning erupted from her hands, but what should have been a contained burst instead manifested as huge, jagged bolts that sizzled from her flesh and raised the hair all over Icelin’s body. Stalactites rained down from the cavern ceiling as the lightning tore through them. Loud cracks and pops filled the air, and amid the chaos came the wizard’s scream. Lightning had burned through his spell shields all at once.

“Icelin!”

Ruen’s voice came to her distantly, through the blue blur of the electrical storm. “Stay away! All of you get away from me!” She screamed and bent double, clutching her stomach to try to rein in the spell, but the lightning came from everywhere: her hands, arms, and chest. Smoke rose around her, and even the blood from her wound took on an eldritch blue radiance.

Gods, I’m bleeding magic now, Icelin thought. The smell of charred flesh filled her nostrils, making her gag. She prayed that only the drow wizard had been killed by her lightning. But what if it wasn’t his burning flesh she smelled? What if Ruen had gotten too close?

It was too much. Icelin’s legs gave out, and she fell, curling into a ball on the cavern floor. She stopped fighting the sleep poison, let it cloud her mind and numb her limbs. Sparks burst in the air, bright pops in front of Icelin’s eyes, but the storm appeared to be dying down. The poison might even be helping to calm the lightning storm of magic. Icelin never thought she’d be grateful to the drow for that favor.

Her eyes drifted closed, and when she opened them, Ruen and Garn were leaning over her. Obrin stood behind them, keeping watch. They were alive, their flesh not charred and stripped away by lightning. Icelin almost couldn’t think beyond her relief, but then she saw Ruen’s face. It was a tight, pale mask, his eyes wide.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Slowly, Icelin sat up, aware of Ruen’s arm at her back, supporting her. “I think so,” she said. It was mostly a lie, but she didn’t want to worry him more. A hollow sensation had taken over her body, a lightness, as if she’d been emptied of all her energy at once. Right now, she was a shell. The sensation would pass but not quickly. Her arm ached, and the poison still coursed through her, but Icelin thought she could walk if she had to.

“Damn impressive sight,” Garn said, chuckling. “You burned that wizard to a crisp, girl.”

Well, at least I made someone happy, Icelin thought. A lump rose in her throat, but she couldn’t even cry. Maybe the magic had burned the tears out of her too.

Obrin lifted his axe and gave a sudden cry. Icelin tensed, but then she realized there was no alarm in the dwarf’s voice. His cry had been one of greeting.

“Is everyone all right?” called a voice from across the river.

Icelin turned. On the opposite bank, torchlight shone through a narrow tunnel, the place where Garn had been leading them before the attack. A cluster of dwarves stood at the tunnel mouth.

“You said to wait, and I waited, now let me through, damn you all!”

The familiar, grumbling voice made Icelin tremble with relief. Sull broke through the group of dwarves, but finding no bridge across the river, he paced back and forth along the shoreline.

“Are you all right, Icelin?” he called to her. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Hurt her?” Garn said. “Did you see that lightning storm?”

Ruen’s hand clenched into a fist. Icelin wished Garn would stop sounding so damned pleased. “We’re fine, Sull,” she said, offering the butcher a weary smile. “We came to rescue you.”

“We heard the fightin’ and got here just in time to see the light show, but these two wouldn’t let me go to you,” Sull complained, pointing to a pair of female dwarves. The taller of the two was fair-haired, and the other had mahogany braids similar to Obrin’s. They both had axes identical to Obrin’s and Garn’s hanging from their belts, down to the three black horns. Echoes of Garn’s features showed up in the women’s faces, though only faintly in the fair-haired one.

“Are those your sisters?” Icelin asked Obrin. The dwarf only grunted, but it sounded to Icelin like an affirmative.

“We came back when we heard the fighting. We were worried those two were giving you trouble,” said the dark-haired dwarf woman in Common. “I see it was the drow instead.”

Obrin said something sharp, gesturing with his axe toward the tunnel mouth.

“He’s right,” Garn said. “This isn’t the place to talk. Wait until we’re home.”

“Agreed,” said the fair-haired dwarf, also speaking in the common tongue for Icelin, Ruen, and Sull’s benefit. Apparently, Obrin was the only one of the Blackhorn family with an objection to using Common. “We’re all tired from the journey down.” Her eyes met Icelin’s as she spoke.

Icelin didn’t argue. Sull was safe, and for the moment, at least, it seemed the dwarves meant them no harm. If there were more drow lurking about, she wanted to get somewhere safe as quickly as possible. Then they would determine the dwarves’ intent.

The fair-haired dwarf moved to the edge of the river and picked up a stone. Bringing it to her lips, she spoke a phrase in Dwarvish then cast the stone into the river.

A faint rumbling sounded from deep beneath the water, echoing in the cavern. One by one, stones rose from the river, stained dark by water and algae. They hovered above the river, fastening together to form a rough footbridge.

“Watch your step,” Garn advised, leading the way across the bridge.

Obrin followed him, and Icelin and Ruen came last. Ruen was still soaking wet from his dip in the river, but he never missed his footing on the slick stones. Not for the first time as she scrambled over the rocks was Icelin grateful that she’d abandoned her linen dresses in exchange for breeches and sturdy boots.

When they were safely on the other side, Obrin took up a position at the rear of the group and Icelin, Ruen, and Sull fell into the middle of the group of dwarves.

Icelin threw her uninjured arm around Sull for a hug. When Sull’s familiar warmth enveloped her, Icelin felt some of the emptiness inside her filling up. She tried to push the fractured images of the lightning storm and the smell of burning flesh from her mind.

“What did you do to get yourself captured like this?” Icelin demanded of Sull in mock sternness. “You should have been able to escape those two.” She pointed to the dwarf women.

“Not just the two,” Sull protested. “All four of them came on me at once, said I’d desecrated their burial grounds while I was diggin’ through a mint patch. I told them we weren’t lookin’ to disturb the dead; we were after that Arcane Script Sphere.”

“I see,” Icelin said, patting his arm. “What was their response?”

Sull’s face screwed up in dismay. “They all drew their matchin’ axes and said I was comin’ with them. Once they had me underground, they were goin’ to send a group back to capture you two, assumin’ you didn’t come after us.”

“Since you did come, it saved us the trouble,” Garn said.

“What Sull told you is true. We didn’t come here intending to desecrate your burial grounds,” Icelin said. She hesitated, remembering what Garn had said earlier. He knew what they sought. “This isn’t about that, is it? It’s about the Arcane Script Sphere.”

The dwarves exchanged glances. A flutter of emotions passed between the siblings and their father. The moment passed quickly, and the fair-haired dwarf turned to Icelin.

“We can’t speak of the sphere, but we do believe you intended no harm to our burial grounds,” she said. “I’m Joya. My sister is Ingara. Sull told me your names—Icelin and Ruen.”

“Our thanks to you both for aiding my father and brother against the drow,” Ingara spoke up. She had a rougher voice than Joya, and her gaze was direct. “You might have taken that opportunity to gain the advantage over them, but you didn’t.” Obrin shot his sister an annoyed glare, but Ingara merely laughed. “We can’t afford to spit in the face of aid against the drow, Brother.”

“Your friend Sull offered us similar aid when a pair of spiders attacked us,” Joya interrupted when it looked as if Obrin might wring his sister’s neck. She grinned at the butcher. “He stood in front of us armed with a meat cleaver and a tenderizing mallet. It was so … gallant.”

“Overprotective as a mother bear, but Sull’s meat stew and vegetables will make you weep with pleasure,” Icelin said, grinning at Sull. The butcher blushed.

“Why did you aid us?” Garn said. The runepriest was not nearly as congenial as his daughters were. As they stood talking, he stared into the darkness of the adjoining tunnels with a distant, inevitable expression, as if waiting for more enemies to descend upon them.

Ruen, who’d been quiet for most of the conversation, and who watched the darkness with the same attentiveness as Garn, spoke up. “You had Sull,” he said. “If you’d died, we would never have found him.”

“That’s the only reason?” Garn said, shooting an assessing glance at Ruen. Icelin wondered if he found it as hard to read Ruen’s expressions as she sometimes did.

When Ruen didn’t immediately reply, Icelin said, “We would have helped you, no matter what, had you needed it, but you and your son hardly required our aid. The runes you cast were stunning,” she told Garn, remembering the sense of peace that washed over her when he’d cast the healing magic on Obrin. “I’ve never seen such stable Art.”

“And that’s why you’re hunting the Arcane Script Sphere,” Ingara said, turning her direct gaze on Icelin. “Sull told us why you were exploring the ruins, but he didn’t mention your wild magic.”

“It’s the work of her spellscar,” Ruen said. “We had information that suggested the Arcane Script Sphere could stabilize wild magic.”

“What made you think such information was worth a rothé’s tongue?” Garn said. “Coming from the surface, from the humans? And what made you think you could just take the sphere if you found it?”

“We don’t want to take it,” Icelin said, “just to examine it. We don’t even know if it will help me—”

“But if it does,” Ruen interjected, “that’s another matter.”

This time Obrin reacted to his words. He turned and made a sharp gesture, pointing at Icelin and Ruen and speaking rapidly in Dwarvish. His eyes flashed angrily.

Icelin stepped forward, holding up her hands. “Calm down,” she told Obrin and shot a glare at Ruen. “We’re not thieves. I swear it.”

“It’s not just that,” Ingara said. “You don’t know …” But before she could go on, Joya touched her sister’s shoulder and said something quietly in their native language. Ingara fell silent, but she looked unhappy.

“There are mysteries here,” Icelin said, addressing Ruen. “Did I mention I was sick to death of mysteries, too?”

“Gods’ patience, are we going to stand here arguin’ forever?” Sull said, his rough voice cutting into the tense silence. “At least let’s have a meal and some drink. Aw, why couldn’t you have kidnapped me after I’d gotten the rest of my spices?”

The butcher’s mournful expression made Icelin chuckle. She couldn’t help it. Glancing at Joya and Ingara, she saw them biting their lips to keep from grinning. Some of the tension eased out of the group, and they moved off down the tunnels with Garn in front and Obrin bringing up the rear.

“We’re not far from the city,” Garn said as they walked. “Our king, Mith Barak, will be able to tell you more than we can about what you seek and to decide if you should be punished for your crimes. But my daughters are right, we owe you thanks for your aid.”

The conversation subsided. Despite Garn’s promise, they marched for what felt like hours, and as the time passed, Icelin leaned more and more heavily on her staff. She didn’t want to be a burden, but the remnants of the drow poison lingered in her blood, and the wild magic had taken an even greater toll. She almost called out to Garn to ask for a rest when she saw the tunnel ahead widening. A string of adjoining passages met up with the main one, and voices drifted from the smaller tunnels.

Icelin gasped as the reek of sweat and blood hit her nostrils. On the heels of these grim heralds, a score and more dwarves spilled out into the passage ahead of them. They carried swords, shields, and maces—and litters. At least a dozen dead or injured were among the group. Some of them had no visible wounds, but they shivered and convulsed as if in the throes of some horrible fever. Their bearers stumbled and struggled to keep them on the litters.

“Darlan!” Garn called to one of the dwarves.

Some of the party slowed and turned to greet Garn, and the next moment, Icelin’s group fell in amongst them. Icelin kept close to Sull and Ruen, but the dwarves on the litters drew her gaze.

“There are more dead than wounded,” she whispered to Sull, but the butcher had his eyes on the litters too and didn’t seem to hear her.

“What’s he saying?” Ruen asked Joya, nodding at Garn. “Was it more drow who attacked them?”

Instead of replying, Joya translated for them.

“What news from the Vehrenar Pass?” Garn addressed a red-bearded dwarf with a battered shield hanging from his bandaged arm. Blood soaked through the bandage and dripped onto the ground, but the dwarf didn’t seem to notice.

“We held it until the spiders attacked,” Darlan said, “swarms of them. They just kept coming, so we had to fall back.”

Standing in front of Icelin, Ingara shivered and clutched her axe. Obrin turned to his sister and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.

“This can’t be all that’s left of your men,” Garn said, incredulous.

“Aye, it is,” Darlan said bitterly. “At the last, we had to collapse the tunnel. We’d have been decimated otherwise.”

A pair of dwarves shouldered past Icelin carrying another litter, but up ahead the tunnel narrowed, slowing the pace of the group and crowding everyone together.

A cold, clammy hand latched onto Icelin’s arm.

Gasping, she tried to jerk away, but the hand held her fast. It was the dwarf on the litter. He stared up at Icelin with a distant, fevered light in his brown eyes.

“Marella,” he said in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like a name. “Marella.” Then he uttered a stream of words in Dwarvish that Icelin didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” Icelin said. She looked to the litter bearers, hoping one of them spoke Common. “What did he say?”

“He asked you for water,” said one of the dwarves. “He’s out of his head, thinks you’re his wife.” The litter bearers glanced at each other helplessly then looked back at Icelin. There was something empty and remote in their eyes, as if it took all their strength just to carry their burden. They had nothing left in them with which to attend or comfort their companion.

Icelin fumbled the stopper from her waterskin with her free hand and held it to the dwarf’s lips. The dwarf released her—leaving five angry red marks on her skin—and slurped greedily from the bladder. Rivulets of water darkened his beard, mingling with the tears that dripped from his eyes.

“Marella,” he said again, pushing the waterskin back at her. He coughed once, violently, spraying water and blood all over himself and Icelin.

“It’s … all right,” Icelin said. She put away the waterskin and wiped the blood flecks from her face. “Try to rest. You’re almost home.”

The crowd started to move. Icelin walked alongside the litter until the tunnel widened again and the dwarves were able to hurry forward. Her last sight of the injured dwarf was his hand lifted in the air, vaguely reaching for her.

“Marella …” His voice echoed, lost and childlike.

Icelin took a wavering step as if to follow him, but she found she couldn’t move. She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly afraid she might be sick.

“It’s all right,” Sull said from behind her. “You did what you could for him.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. Until she felt his warmth, Icelin hadn’t realized she was shivering. She didn’t need Ruen’s gift to tell her the dwarf was near death. She leaned into Sull’s body gratefully and let him support her as they walked on.

Finally, the two groups passed out of the long tunnel, and suddenly there were guards all around them, a dozen warriors heavily armored and grim looking. Icelin might have been afraid of the presence of so much steel and so many dour-faced dwarves, but the passage ahead temporarily distracted her, for it contained the largest door she’d ever seen.

Ten feet tall and made of solid iron, the gate to Iltkazar wedged perfectly into the stone, an immovable titan that Icelin couldn’t imagine an enemy ever being able to break down. That was assuming the enemy made it so far, past the armored dwarves and clerics who stood on either side of the door.

The clerics immediately went to work tending the wounded dwarves, but Icelin noticed a few of them watching her and her companions with steely glares as they approached the iron door. Was it her imagination, or did their displeasure deepen when they caught sight of her? It must be her staff—they recognized her for a wizard—or else they sensed the wild Art inside her.

Icelin shook those irrational thoughts away. Likely they were simply suspicious of outsiders. There was no point in dwelling on her fears. She had no control over how the dwarves felt about her or her companions, but they’d obviously brought them here for a reason, one that Icelin suspected had little to do with their desecrating a burial ground.

As soon as they started discussing the Arcane Script Sphere, the dwarves had become agitated. Icelin sensed their anger wasn’t directed at her specifically, but she’d known enough of secrets in her life to know when someone was hiding something from her.

Perhaps this King Mith Barak would be able to enlighten them.

A shattering groan lifted Icelin from her thoughts. The massive iron door creaked open under the direction of the guards, and Icelin had another cause for wonderment. The door itself was at least three feet thick, lumbering open by inches, guided by the grim-faced warriors.

Joya came up beside her. “Few outsiders are allowed to witness the Gate Guardians opening the outer door,” she commented.

“The outer door?” Icelin echoed, incredulous. “Are there more doors like this one between us and the city?”

Joya’s soft, melodic laughter made Icelin think of elves and forests rather than iron and rock. “Nine doors lie between this spot and my city. The outer doors are a pair of iron giants. The inner six are iron, too, but cloaked in hizagkuur, one of our magical metals. The innermost is the mithral door, last protector of the Mithral City, our home.” The dwarf woman cleared a catch in her throat as she spoke these words. “Welcome to Iltkazar, Icelin.”

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

21 UKTAR

JOYA STEPPED AWAY TO SPEAK TO THE GATE GUARDIANS, leaving Icelin to stare in wonder as they proceeded through each of the nine mythical doors, for that’s what they seemed to Icelin—gates that would guard a giant’s lair or a dragon’s hoard.

“Did you know such places existed?” she whispered to Ruen and Sull. They walked at her side as silent shadows—well, perhaps Sull was not so silent, lumbering along with the clank of his cleavers as constant punctuation to his steps.

Sull snorted his amazement, never taking his eyes off the massive doors. “Lass, I’ve done butcherin’ for hundreds of folk in South Ward in my life. They bring me tales like this sometimes, and I listen with half an ear because I tell myself they can’t be true, just a lot of ruttin’ talk. Wish I’d listened, now,” he said quietly.

Icelin waited for Ruen to answer, but he appeared lost in thought. After their conversation in the tunnel, he seemed more distant now than he’d ever been. Even Sull shot an inquisitive glance at him. Then he looked to Icelin, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Let him assume that we’ve been fighting again, Icelin thought. It won’t truly be a lie.

They passed through the mithral door, leaving the dozens of Gate Guardians behind and passing into a wider cavern, where the ceiling soared high above their heads. Being suddenly in the open space, Icelin felt as if some of the pressing weight lifted from her. The fear of being trapped underground started to leave her. It was impossible to feel too much trepidation with the city of Iltkazar spread out before her.

Torchlight gave way to glowing, silvery-blue lichen that covered the ceiling, spidering in and out of cracks in the stone and hanging down in clumps throughout the cavern. Once Icelin’s eyes adjusted to the silvery radiance, she found it easier to see by than the flickering, smoky torch glow.

The light revealed a broad avenue of worked stone flanked by towering statues of dwarves, their shadows thrown far across the cavern floor. Massive staircases led to buildings carved out of the stone—homes, shops, and temples—while winding among them to the centermost cavern was a great river. Bridges arched over the flowing water. Green and blue lichen and other underground flora grew on the banks and at the bases of creaking waterwheels scattered throughout the cavern.

“The River Dhalnadar,” Garn said, pointing. “The temple to Moradin splits the river in the cavern’s heart. Facing the temple across the plaza is my king’s great hall. My daughter Joya will take you there. Obrin, come with me. Ingara—”

“I will see Vallahir first and then come to you, Father,” she said respectfully but firmly. Garn nodded, and Ingara moved off down the avenue.

“Ingara is to be wed,” Joya said when the rest of her family had gone. She led them along the avenue under the watchful, frozen gazes of the statues. “Since the attacks began, she hasn’t had time to properly see to the preparations.”

“Vallahir is her betrothed?” Icelin said. “It must be hard being separated from her beloved at a time like this.” Icelin thought she felt Ruen’s eyes upon her, but when she glanced at him sidelong, he was staring at the statues.

“Separated from—” unexpectedly, Joya laughed. “From Vallahir? Her beloved? Oh my, I’ll have to tell him that one—that I will.” Her shoulders shook with a sudden burst of mirth. “Forgive me, I should explain. Vallahir … Vallahir is a war axe.”

“A war axe?” Sull cried. “But she looked tender as a young girl when she said his … er … its name a breath ago.”

“Yes, well, that’s not really surprising,” Joya said, still fighting to contain her smile. “Ingara is a smith—the best in our family—and she takes her work very seriously. Vallahir is the name of the war axe she has forged as a gift for her husband on their wedding day. Arngam—that’s her betrothed—is also a smith and very gifted in forging hizagkuur armor. He’s at work on a suit for her, which she will wear at the wedding. They’ve not been in each other’s company for a tenday while preparing the gifts.”

“A tenday?” Icelin couldn’t imagine it, separated from one she cared about for all that time. Once again, she was acutely aware of Ruen’s presence beside her, though she did not look at him this time. “It must be terribly lonely work,” she said to Joya.

“Oh no,” Joya said. They’d reached the river and had to climb a staircase wide enough for ten dwarves to walk abreast to get to a stone bridge. Pillars lined the bridge, chips of brilliant white crystal embedded in their dark stone. “Ingara is as closely connected to her smithcraft as she is to her family. Her thoughts are with Arngam while she works the forge, you can be sure of that. She’ll want him to have the greatest weapon her hands can shape, especially now,” Joya added, and the sadness that came into her voice distracted Icelin from the grandeur of the cavernous city.

Ruen must have heard the sadness too, for he spoke then for the first time since they’d reached the city. “You’re sealing off major routes to the city, there are giant spiders infesting the tunnels, and drow launch attacks practically on Iltkazar’s doorstep,” he said. “What is the city preparing for?”

Joya stopped in the middle of the bridge, gazing out over the city, her face cast in silver-blue light and in shadows. “Invasion,” she said calmly. “The drow of Guallidurth are coming at last to finish what they started centuries ago in the Night Wars. They’re coming to take over Iltkazar.”

One of the guards brought Zollgarza food and water. Lying on his side with his back to the cell door, the drow heard the jangle of keys before the door swung open. Metal scraped on stone as a plate slid across the floor. The guard plunked the water cup down after it and shut the door quickly. Zollgarza never moved.

At least they had unchained him after Mith Barak’s interrogation was over. When the guard’s footsteps receded, Zollgarza rolled over and stretched out a hand to drag the plate closer. A slab of rothé meat veined with fat swam in a puddle of chunky gravy. Nearby, a bruised potato had rolled off the plate when the guard slid it across the floor. Zollgarza’s lip curled in disgust at the dirt smudges staining the vegetable. The feeling intensified when his stomach growled, betraying him.

He picked up the dripping meat, bit off one end, and began the laborious process of chewing until the fatty bite was small enough to swallow without gagging. With his other hand, Zollgarza reached back and undid the leather cord that secured his black hair. The strands fell around his face, snaring in the gravy that dripped down his chin. Zollgarza ignored them and spread the leather tie on the floor beside him.

The only polite thing he could say about the gravy was that it was full of salt. As soon as he tasted the meat, he wanted to drain his water cup dry, but it was well worth the discomfort.

Keeping an eye on the door, Zollgarza dipped his fingers in the gravy and rubbed them on the leather cord, grinding the salty liquid in deep until the gravy smear had taken on a berry color and smelled slightly of dung. Zollgarza nodded, satisfied with his work, and shoved the plate away. One bite would have to sustain him, at least for now.

Next came his favorite part.

Combing his hands through the strands of his black hair, Zollgarza found the thin black ribbon tied around the shorter hairs at the base of his scalp. Four small needles pierced the ribbon. These he removed and placed carefully on the floor next to the puddle of berry-colored gravy. He sniffed the mixture, noting that the dung smell had grown stronger. The poison was ready.

Zollgarza retrieved the potato lying on the floor. It appeared to have been boiled, though half-heartedly. The tuber was still tough in places, which suited Zollgarza’s purposes. Carefully, he picked up a needle and drove the blunt end halfway into the potato. He did the same with the other three, lining them up in a row. Then, palming the potato in his right hand, Zollgarza dragged the needles through the berry-colored gravy until they were suitably coated.

The Quanzsit berry poison was Zollgarza’s own concoction and one of his favorites. The leather cord, treated with the poison and dried, was harmless. Expose it to salty liquids, like those found in his food, and the situation changed dramatically.

Zollgarza put the potato back on his plate, careful not to let the poisoned needles dip into the gravy still swimming around the meat. He fetched his water and drank it down while he waited for the guard to return.

Logically, he knew he couldn’t escape, even if he managed to get his weapons back from the guards. His only target now was Mith Barak and the sphere. If it meant his death, he would fulfill Lolth’s command and facilitate the invasion of Iltkazar.

But he would die with gaping holes in his memories, questions he had no answers for. Zollgarza tried to quell these doubts, but they taunted him. Mith Barak claimed he wasn’t responsible for Zollgarza’s condition. Lolth’s touch was upon him, the dwarf said, and part of Zollgarza thrilled to the possibility that the goddess had reached out to him. Yet why alter him, rip out his memories? And what if the dwarf king lied?

More than anything, Zollgarza wanted Mith Barak dead. Pain lingered from the dwarf’s mental assault. Such a violation would not stand.

He heard the guard’s footsteps. Zollgarza set his cup on the floor and waited. A key turned in the lock, and the guard pushed open the door. When he saw Zollgarza sitting up, with the plate in his hands, the dwarf’s eyes narrowed.

“Decided to eat, did you?” The guard stepped inside the cell, his drawn sword leading. “Put it on the floor.” He waited while Zollgarza complied. “Now slide it over to me.”

Zollgarza slid the plate across the cell, jostling it so the potato slid off onto the floor. He put his hands in his lap, took a calming breath, and waited.

The dwarf bent to pick up the plate. Zollgarza exploded into motion, leaping across the cell in a breath. The guard brought his sword up, but Zollgarza was already too close. He grabbed the dwarf’s sword hand, jerking him off balance. They grappled, hands flailing, the dwarf’s blade flashing dangerously close to Zollgarza’s neck.

The dwarf was strong, stronger than Zollgarza had expected, but he was still off balance, trying to compensate for Zollgarza’s speed. As they struggled, Zollgarza tore one hand away and reached for the potato lying nearby. His fingers barely avoided the needles. How the goddess would have laughed if he’d managed to stick himself.

Unable to wield his sword with Zollgarza so close, the dwarf dropped the weapon, let out a loud bellow and dived on top of Zollgarza. Together they rolled on the hard stone floor, but somehow Zollgarza managed to hold on to the potato. Calloused, sweaty fingers came around Zollgarza’s throat. The dwarf bellowed again for the other guards.

Zollgarza knew if he didn’t act in that instant, he was dead. He aimed the needles and brought his hand up, stabbing the exposed flesh along the dwarf’s jaw.

Growling, the dwarf wrenched his hands from Zollgarza’s throat long enough to slap the improvised weapon out of his hand, scattering the needles across the floor. Zollgarza used the precious seconds to gulp in air. The dwarf reached up and pulled a needle out of his skin, examining the blood-smeared object. Zollgarza saw the understanding dawn in his eyes.

“Moradin curse you and all your kin,” the dwarf whispered. His words were slurred. The poison already had him.

Zollgarza dodged as the dwarf lunged for him and collapsed onto the floor. Convulsions wracked his body. The dwarf gasped for air as Zollgarza had done only a breath ago.

The guards were coming. Zollgarza heard their running footsteps. Too many, and they’d come too fast. He wasn’t even going to get out of his cell. He’d failed, and Lolth bore witness to that failure. Zollgarza snatched up the guard’s sword and held the blade to his own throat, letting out a howl of rage.

“Lolth, I am shamed!” he screamed. His palms dug into the blade. Skin broke and blood flowed, but Zollgarza could not bring himself to slit his own throat. Not unless he knew it was the goddess’s will. His life belonged to the Spider Queen. “I would die for you,” he cried, near tears. “If you gave me a sign, I would bury this blade inside me. Stay with me, I beg you! Give me one more chance, and I will prove myself!”

The rest of the guards burst into the cell. Zollgarza barely heard them cry out at seeing their comrade prone on the floor, the drow standing over him with a bloody sword. He barely felt it when they tackled him and yanked the sword out of his hands. Blows rained down on his head and chest. Perhaps he was going to die now, Zollgarza thought. Perhaps this was Lolth’s will, after all.

Let it be done, then, Zollgarza thought.

He closed his eyes and let the dwarves have him.

Ruen stood in the open plaza, glancing between the temple to Moradin and the king’s hall. Carved out of a protrusion of rock, half the temple remained in its natural state, while the other half had been shaped into a columned facade. The building looked as if a sculptor had merely discovered the temple in the shape of the stone, rather than an architect had built the place.

He was surprised to see the plaza empty, though there was evidence of a trade market. Disassembled stalls and some wagons scattered across the open areas, but no one was around to tend them. An eerie quiet had taken root.

They’d encountered a similarly oppressive silence on their way here. Buildings sat empty, their windows dark. Portions of the city must have been evacuated in anticipation of the drow threat, Ruen concluded. The city truly was preparing for war.

Joya escorted them across the plaza to King Mith Barak’s audience chamber. Another columned entrance greeted them, but this time the four pillars were statues of dwarves. Ruen guessed by their dress and the jewels embedded in their stone armor that these were the previous kings of the dwarven realm.

A guard dressed in crimson and rust-gold livery was leaving the chamber in a hurry as they entered, and in her haste nearly bowled over the group.

“Stand aside,” she said gruffly. Her eyes found Joya and softened. “Welcome back,” she said. “Your family is well?”

“Yes, they’re all well and returned to the city,” Joya said. “What’s the matter, Dorla? It’s all right,” she added, when the dwarf shot a suspicious glance at Ruen and Icelin. “I’ve brought them to see the king.”

Dorla’s expression didn’t brighten at this news. “The prisoner tried to escape—poisoned one of the guards.”

Joya’s mouth tightened, but beyond that, she showed no emotion. “Is there anything I can do for him?”

“He’s dead—nothing anyone can do,” Dorla said curtly. “I’ve told the king—he’s in a state. You might want to postpone your visit,” she said with a meaningful glance at Joya.

“I’m sorry,” Joya said. “I’m afraid my business can’t wait. Did he leave the hall while we were away, Dorla? Other than to go to the dungeons?”

Dorla grunted. “What do you think?”

“I see. Well, we won’t keep you,” Joya said. “I know you’re very busy.”

“Busy gathering up the dead—aye, it’s consuming all my hours these days,” Dorla said bitterly.

Ruen stepped aside to let the dwarf woman pass.

“How bad is it?” he asked when they were alone again.

“Dorla is the master armswoman, head of the king’s personal guard and aid to the Warmaster of Iltkazar,” Joya said. “When she looks like that, it’s bad. Our best estimate is that the drow outnumber us four to one.”

“Four to one?” Icelin cried. “How can that be? The city is so large. There’s room for thousands, tens of thousands, down here.”

“Yes, but have you noticed the way your footsteps and voices echo in these great caverns?” Joya said. She’d turned her back on them, so Ruen couldn’t read her expression, but he heard the ache in her voice. “They’ve been empty for a long time. Come,” she said, before Ruen could ask any more questions. “The king is waiting. It’s best we get the audience over quickly.”

Joya led them through the doors. From the outside, the king’s hall had looked immense, but inside, perhaps because of Joya’s words, the soaring, empty space struck Ruen anew. Lit by torchlight that barely reached the barrel-vaulted ceiling, the hall was a cold place, filled with shadows and lonely echoes.

At the far end of the room, a throne sat on a raised dais, flanked by a series of pillars engraved with Dwarvish runes. Ruen couldn’t be sure, but by the arrangement of the letters, he thought the writing contained names. Several symbols repeated down the columns, perhaps indicating members of the same clan. More silvery-blue lichen draped the tops of the pillars, casting them and the throne in a cool silver glow that contrasted with the warm torchlight in the rest of the hall.

On the throne sat the oldest dwarf Ruen had ever seen. Enhanced by the light of the lichen, his beard and hair were pure silver. His hands where they gripped the throne had a grayish tinge, and there were hollows carved out of his cheeks and dark shadows around his eyes. He stared straight ahead and did not react to the group’s presence until they’d reached the dais. Slowly, his gaze focused on them, sharpened, his eyes flooding with shrewdness and power.

There is life in him yet, Ruen thought. His body is a statue, but his mind is alert and dangerous.

“What have you brought me, Joya?” asked the king. Ruen heard the note of challenge, almost anger, in his voice, but if Joya noticed it, she didn’t react.

“King Mith Barak, I bring you these three named Icelin, Ruen, and Sull. We encountered them on the surface when my father was sealing one of the upper tunnels,” Joya explained. “One of them desecrated a burial ground near our temple, but later they aided my father and brother against the drow. They risked their lives for my family and are all skilled in battle.”

The king’s expression did not change, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Joya’s words. “Why bring them to me? Why didn’t you punish them for their crimes on the surface?”

Joya hesitated. “They claim they are looking for the Arcane Script Sphere.”

Hearing that, the king’s countenance transformed. His eyes narrowed—the silver-blue irises burned, though Ruen was sure it must be a trick of the light. He stood up, towering over them from his place on the dais. Color flooded his cheeks, filling the hollows and suffusing his face with a vibrancy that bordered on frenzy.

“Explain,” the king said. His voice was soft, calm, and completely at odds with his expression. “You,” he said, nodding at Icelin, “the one carrying the staff. You seek the sphere?”

Ruen glanced at Icelin, but he couldn’t draw her gaze. How would she answer? Echoes of the king’s exhaustion reflected in her face in lines and shadows. She needed to rest. It had been a mistake to allow the dwarves to bring them all the way down here. They should have fought while they had an advantage. Now they were at the king’s mercy in this city deep beneath the earth.

“King Mith Barak,” Icelin said, her voice ringing out clear and sweet. Despites his jests, Ruen had always thought Icelin had the loveliest voice. “I mean no harm or disrespect to the dwarves of Iltkazar. I seek the sphere because I have heard it is a stabilizing force, a powerful conduit for arcane magic. This is of great interest because wild magic—the result of a spellscar—is killing me.”

The king eyed her speculatively, but his gaze still burned with that same unsettling intensity. “Is this true, Joya?” he said, not taking his eyes off Icelin.

“I was not aware that she is dying,” Joya said, “but I see no reason to doubt her. In the tunnels, I witnessed one of her spells go wild. The magic shattered through a drow wizard’s spell shields as if they were nothing—a humbling sight.”

“Shattered them?” Mith Barak said, his tone sharp. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, my king.”

“Impressive. So you think the sphere will help you, girl?” Mith Barak asked. He stepped down from the dais and approached Icelin. Despite the fact that she was taller by several inches, Icelin looked small and fragile in the presence of the king.

Her tongue, however, had never been fragile, not since Ruen had known her. “I don’t know,” she said. “All I know for certain is that I’m spellscarred, and so is my companion in the hat, though his curse comes in a different form. We have been seeking the means to cure ourselves, and the Arcane Script Sphere is the first true hope we’ve had.”

The king glanced at Ruen and then back to Icelin. “What is his curse?”

“In my view, he’s an insufferable, overprotective nuisance, a thief, a brawler, and a brooding grump. More than that he must tell you at his own discretion,” Icelin said.

“That’s kind of you,” Ruen muttered.

“And the big man?” the king said. “What’s his tale?”

“Oh, him?” Icelin jabbed a finger at Sull. “He’s my butcher.”

A faint smile creased the king’s face—brief it was and gone immediately—but it was enough to make Joya blink in surprise. Ruen shook his head in grudging amusement. Icelin would charm them all, given enough time.

The king raised his hand and made a beckoning gesture. Instantly, a pair of guards advanced from the shadowy corners of the hall. Ruen hadn’t even known they were there.

“Bring a table and food enough for these guests,” Mith Barak commanded. “I’ll speak with them further, once they’ve rested.” He looked Icelin up and down. “You do seem as if you’re about to fall over,” he said gruffly, but not without pity in his silver eyes. They were silver, Ruen thought. It wasn’t just a trick of the light.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

21 UKTAR

SERVANTS ENTERED THE HALL CARRYING PLATTERS OF food and drink, and two of the guards brought in a plain wooden table and chairs for four people, Joya having excused herself to go find the master armswoman.

It was hardly the grand banquet of a dwarf king in a story, but as Icelin sank gratefully into a chair, she reflected that the whole city was not what she’d expected.

Where were the masses of servants, the guards, courtiers, and advisers who flocked to meet a king’s commands? Why were there no echoing shouts of people in the city streets, and what had happened to still the bustle and dirt of commerce and labor—the pulse of daily living? Had the drow really taken all that from these proud, strong folk? Icelin couldn’t believe it. This king with the bright silver eyes surely wouldn’t let such a thing happen.

The king in question sat at the head of the table, and when the servants placed the food, he swept a hand out. “Eat,” he said. He made no move to take food himself.

“Sit back and be easy, lass,” Sull said, staying her hand when Icelin reached for a bowl and spoon. “I’ll take care of this.”

Icelin smiled at the butcher and leaned back in her chair. Surrounded by food, Sull was where he truly belonged. He hummed the tune to one of the songs Icelin had taught him on their journey as he ladled up bowls of stew, tearing hunks of steaming bread to soak up the juices the spoon couldn’t catch. She nodded her thanks when Sull handed her the food, but Icelin wondered what Sull would do when it came time to serve the king. Would he wait for the servants to attend him? Would the king refuse the butcher’s overtures?

Sull never faltered. He ladled soup into a third bowl, added bread, and presented it to the king as if they were in a Waterdhavian tavern and not in the hall where Mith Barak was master. The king reached for the bowl, eyeing Sull all the while with a curious expression.

“Not that I’m claimin’ to be an expert on your local recipes,” the butcher said, pausing in the act of relinquishing the bowl, so that king and butcher held the stew between them. Steam from the meat wafted up in their faces. “But if you were to add a bit of this—” he reached into his pocket and produced, with a flourish, a small, unmarked packet of herbs that, judging by his excitement, he’d been saving for a special occasion “—it’ll bring out cooked onion flavors in the gravy and cling to that meat like a lover to her mate’s … ahem … lips.”

The king eyed the packet with suspicion. Icelin sank lower in her seat, expecting any minute for the guards to converge on the table and haul Sull away for attempting to poison their sovereign. Tension chilled the air, and for a breath, nobody moved or spoke.

Oblivious, Sull sprinkled a liberal amount of the seasoning on his own stew. “In gods’ truth, it’ll also make you thirsty as a beached sailor, but we have more than enough wine to cure that, I say!”

The king blinked at the butcher. He glanced down at his bowl and uttered a quick, unwilling laugh. “Give those herbs here, then,” he said, gesturing imperiously at Sull. “You two eat,” he commanded. “Don’t just sit there with your tongues lolling out.”

As quickly as it had come, the tension dissipated. Grateful, Icelin picked up her spoon and ate. For a time, nobody spoke, and there was only the clink of tableware and cups plunked against the wood, the sounds of chewing and swallowing, all conspicuously loud in the silent hall. Once, Icelin caught Ruen’s eye over the rim of her wine cup. She grinned at him, and his face softened in something that was so close to a smile that it renewed a bit of Icelin’s energy.

“What are you grinning about, girl?” the king said suddenly.

Startled, Icelin put down her wine cup and wiped her mouth. “Nothing of importance, I assure you, King,” she said.

“Hmmm … I’ll be the judge of that,” Mith Barak said. “Go on, out with it.”

Icelin felt a blush coloring her cheeks. “In all honesty, I was just thinking that when I look back on this day at some future time, I’ll remember it as the night I dined with a dwarf king, not knowing for certain whether I was his guest or his prisoner.”

“That troubles you, does it?”

Icelin paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to her lips. “Not at the moment. Whatever the outcome, I’ll still get to say I dined with a king.”

Mith Barak grunted. “You’ve an active mouth on you, like most humans. You went so far as to admit your companion—” he nodded to Ruen—“is a thief. Other than your butcher’s impressive spices, I see nothing special about any of you. Why shouldn’t I treat you as thieves, then, and lock you up?”

“We told you why we were searching the ruins,” Icelin said patiently. “When it came out that we are searching for the sphere, it triggered some great suspicion. Joya told us your city is about to be attacked by the drow, so you obviously have larger concerns. Why bother feeding us and speaking to us personally if there isn’t something you want from us? Don’t you think it’s time to stop this word fencing and tell us what that is?”

The king wiped his mouth and pushed his chair a little away from the table. “I see you have some sense in your head too.” He stood up, moving restlessly around the table. “It’s true Iltkazar is under attack. Drow scouting patrols and small advance forces of slaves and monsters target our outposts, each assault more aggressive than the last. They spread out the attacks in order to take advantage of our inferior numbers. We’re losing even small skirmishes, forced to seal off tunnels to prevent access to the city, letting them drive us back behind our stone doors. We’re as rats herded to one big hole. They’re just waiting for the right time to bring their wrath down on us.” The king slammed his fist on the tabletop, rattling the cups and bowls, spilling his own wine cup.

“Why attack you now?” Ruen asked. “The city has stood for centuries. What do the drow gain by mounting this offensive?”

“We captured one of their advance scouts,” Mith Barak said. “What little information we’ve been able to get from him tells us they’re after an artifact, a powerful sentient relic that channels arcane power. Sound familiar?”

“The Arcane Script Sphere,” Icelin said, understanding at last. “Small wonder you were so suspicious when we told you we sought the item as well. In truth, we know little about it.”

“That much is clear,” the king said. He righted his wine cup but left the red stain untouched on the table. “The Arcane Script Sphere contains a piece of the dead goddess Mystra. A small piece, mind you—a sliver of memory and personality, but even a fragment of a goddess holds terrible power, for it also contains a bit of her Silver Fire, which it imparts to wielders the goddess deems worthy. With power such as that, it’s likely you could shatter the greatest spells and tame the wildest magic.”

Icelin swallowed, her throat gone dry as dust, but it was not the king’s promise that the sphere could calm her wild magic that rocked her so. At the mention of the lost goddess of magic, Icelin felt a stirring in her gut, a sharp excitement. Strangely, it was the same feeling she got whenever she thought of her parents, who’d died when she was a young child. She’d never known them, just as she’d never known the goddess who had died before she was born. Had any of them lived, Icelin had no doubt they would have been strong, loving forces in her life.

So much of her life would have been different, had the goddess lived.

The need to see the artifact, to touch an object connected to the goddess of magic, flared in Icelin. Would she feel that connection, however faint, with the lost Mystra? Would the Silver Fire truly stabilize her magic, prolonging her life?

Glancing at Ruen, Icelin saw the same desire that she felt lay bare on his face. She cleared her throat, and he schooled his expression.

Not before Mith Barak saw it. “Perhaps we have something to offer each other,” the shrewd king said. “I will not allow the drow to herd and slaughter us. I’ve fought them for centuries in the Night Wars and always beat them back, but I don’t have the numbers to drive them off any longer. There will be war, and I need warriors willing to fight for this city. You risked your lives fighting the drow alongside the Blackhorns, a family I respect a great deal.”

“You want us to fight for Iltkazar?” Icelin hadn’t expected this—the proud dwarves, Obrin and the rest, asking for help from people like her?

“Not just in the battle that’s coming,” the king said, and when he looked at her with those shrewd silver eyes, Icelin felt a stirring of unease in her gut. “I want your particular talent: your magic.”

“No,” Ruen said immediately. “That would defeat the purpose. Her wild magic is what’s killing her.”

Icelin held up a hand to stop Ruen’s protests. “What do you mean?”

“I told you we’d captured a drow scout,” Mith Barak said. “I pulled information about the enemy’s plan from his mind, but still he hides secrets from me, protected by powerful magic. The only force I know of that’s strong enough to penetrate this barrier is the Silver Fire, but as I said, the Arcane Script Sphere only confers this power on those it deems worthy. No one in this city has been able to call on it. You are human, a practitioner of the Art, and you seek the sphere for a worthy cause. It’s possible the artifact might grant you the power. If so, you could use it on the drow for me.”

“We don’t know what the Silver Fire might do to Icelin,” Ruen argued. “And it would probably kill the drow anyway.”

“A risk I’ll take,” Mith Barak said.

“But one I won’t,” Ruen said, “not where Icelin is concerned.”

“I have much to offer in exchange,” Mith Barak said. “What if I gave you the Arcane Script Sphere? You would have the Silver Fire and perhaps the means of curing a spellscar.”

That shut Ruen up, but Icelin leaned forward, eying the king warily. “Why would you be so generous, gifting us with an artifact that the drow would invade your city to obtain?”

“Because my city stands on the verge of annihilation,” Mith Barak said. His voice shook, and his silver eyes blazed with rage. “If I don’t find out what the drow are plotting and find a way to stop it, my people will die. I’m willing to sacrifice a great deal to keep that from happening.”

The king fell silent and looked at the three of them expectantly. Icelin realized he was waiting for an immediate answer—no, an immediate acceptance. He knew how much this chance meant to them. She’d admitted that it was a matter of life and death. How could they refuse?

His confidence put Icelin on her guard, but a part of her wanted badly to accept. She had to bite back the words. An artifact with a piece of Mystra’s memory.…

But to get it, she’d have to somehow prove herself worthy of the Silver Fire—and then be willing to unleash it. Her dream, the boardinghouse fire, was still fresh in her mind. That time, she hadn’t intended any harm. This time it would be different. She’d be intentionally using unspeakably powerful magic that she had no idea whether she could control. Even the thought of doing so against a drow sickened her. She was tired of losing control, of unleashing killing force. She’d already done it too many times, injuring both her body and spirit.

Yet, what if she never had to feel her magic rage out of control ever again? She’d never risk hurting anyone else. What if that piece of Mystra and the Silver Fire were the key to everything?

At a loss, she looked at Ruen. “What do you think?”

“It’s a risk,” he said, and Icelin could see his inner struggle reflected in his muddy eyes, normally so difficult to read. “But it might be the best hope we have.” He glanced at the king. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked. “If Icelin can’t use the Silver Fire or break through this drow’s magic, will you still honor your promise?”

“I will,” the king said, “so long as you agree to help defend my city. The drow have stepped up their attacks in recent days. I expect the invasion to happen before Uktar is out.”

“What happens if we don’t agree,” Icelin asked, “to any of it?”

“Then you’re free to go,” the king said. “You aided the Blackhorns against the drow. I’ll consider that penance enough for your companion’s desecration. But I don’t truly believe you’re going to refuse.”

Icelin suppressed a shudder. This dwarf was a wily, ancient schemer. He had power, and he knew how to manipulate people. The meal, their conversation, all of it felt like a carefully constructed dance, a stage performance culminating in this moment.

Icelin took a long drink of wine, held the cup in her hand, then set it carefully on the table. Her hand trembled, making ripples in the wine’s surface, but she didn’t care. “Before I decide, I want to talk to the drow,” she said.

The king looked briefly surprised. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

“Because if I use the Silver Fire, there’s a chance both of us will be killed,” Icelin replied. “I want to talk to him first, to at least know who I risk killing.”

“It won’t make it any easier,” Ruen said.

“Maybe not, but those are my terms,” said Icelin. “Take them or leave them, King Mith Barak.”

“Done,” the king proclaimed, and again the triumphant light came into his eyes. “You said you didn’t know whether you were a guest in my city or a prisoner. Allow me to call you my guests and welcome you. I’ll arrange for you to speak to the drow when you’re ready.”

Icelin tried to put aside the sense of foreboding that settled in her stomach. Everything was happening so quickly, and the king was being far too accommodating for her comfort. Yet his offer was too good, the chance too precious to just throw away. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’ll leave you now,” the king said, as if he sensed her unease, “so you can discuss this without my shadow cast over you. I’ll send a guard to you in a while to show you to where you’ll be staying.”

They all stood as the king left the hall. Icelin listened to the dwarf’s heavy, echoing boot tread recede until the great doors opened and shut, and they were alone.

Sull let out a long, gusty sigh and plunked down in his chair. “Remind me again, you two, how I get myself caught up in these crazy adventures.”

“You were the one who got captured,” Ruen pointed out.

“Yes, I blame you, too,” Icelin said. Ignoring Sull’s sputtered protests, she drank the rest of her wine in one gulp. “I don’t trust him. He’s hiding something.” She didn’t care if the guards overheard her.

“He’s hiding many things,” Ruen said. “But he’s also desperate.”

“Must be, if he wants our help,” Sull said. “Desperate men are dangerous,” he added. “And desperate kings? We’d do best to stay as short a time as we can.”

“Even if we stay, what can we possibly do to make a difference in this fight?” Icelin said. “Dwarves such as Obrin don’t even want outsiders here. Will we truly find a welcome?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ruen said. “He offered us the sphere.”

“And if I die trying to strip the magic from this drow prisoner or you die in a fight against a drow army, the sphere will mean nothing,” Icelin said. “Too many things could go wrong here.”

“Don’t worry about Ruen. I won’t let the drow have him,” Sull assured her.

“Sull, I don’t want you in danger either!” Icelin said.

The butcher shot her a glare that would have melted lesser women. “If it helps the two of you, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. We’re past needin’ to have these kinds of arguments.”

“Sull and I will aid the dwarves however we can, but we’ll be careful,” Ruen said and raised a hand before Icelin could protest. “It’s dangerous, yes, but that part of the bargain is easy enough for me to fulfill. The dwarves obviously need all the help they can get.”

“That’s true,” Sull said. “I don’t like the idea of any of these folk bein’ herded like rats by their enemies. It’s not a fair fight.”

“No, it isn’t,” Icelin had to agree. Joya and her family were good people. They didn’t deserve the doom fast approaching them.

Weariness hit her again. Icelin put her chin in her hand, resisting the urge to lay her head on the table.

The gesture failed to fool Ruen. “It’s time to rest,” he said, standing. He held Icelin’s staff out to her. The red light glowed faintly when she took it. Though she hadn’t had it long, the staff seemed to recognize her touch, knew it apart from any other.

Would the Arcane Script Sphere be the same? Would the goddess’s memory reach out to her? Icelin’s heartbeat quickened at the possibility, the temptation so near at hand.

Ah, Mystra. What great mess have we stumbled into, and will we regret it before the end?

The guards snapped to attention when Mith Barak entered the dungeons, a black glare fixed on his face. “Open the cell,” he commanded the nearest guard.

“My king.” The dwarf hurried ahead and fumbled with the keys. “Be careful. He got hold of some poison somehow. We searched him and chained him, but he might have more of the stuff hidden.”

“I’m not afraid of his godsdamned poison.” Mith Barak shoved open the cell door, slamming it against the adjacent wall. Zollgarza lay on the floor, his hands chained behind him. Mith Barak crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the drow by the tunic. He lifted him bodily from the floor and slammed him against the wall.

The breath whooshed out of Zollgarza, and his face creased in pain, but he did not cry out. He kept his gaze on the floor and did not meet Mith Barak’s eyes.

“We should kill him, my king,” said a rough, feminine voice from the doorway.

Mith Barak swiveled his head to regard his master armswoman. The hatred in his expression did not abate. “No one is to touch him, Dorla,” he said. “Let me be understood on this. Swear an oath!” he shouted when she didn’t immediately reply. “I’ll have a godsdamn oath from all of you! Those who won’t do their duty are free to leave this city.”

Gasps and murmurs echoed from the hall outside the cell, but Mith Barak ignored them. Dorla met his furious gaze and did not flinch or turn away from his wrath. She was his master armswoman for a reason, he thought, but her proud, stubborn gaze only fueled his anger.

He wished they would leave him alone with the drow. None of them understood the danger he posed, not truly. They wanted him dead. He was a curse of ill luck, a bad omen for the battle to come. Mith Barak agreed with them. He wanted nothing more than to rip the drow’s head from his shoulders, but he dared not. He dared do nothing until he knew what sort of dark magic had remade the drow.

“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?” she 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.

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 shoulder. 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.”

Icelin didn’t know what to say. The cold specter of the invasion hung over even the golden-lighted forge. She wanted to help, but again she felt like she was only one small pawn in a greater game, a conflict as ancient as the dwarf race. But small steps could be taken, even by an outsider like her.

“You said you wanted me to look at those rings you took off the drow?” Icelin asked. “May I see them now?”

“Of course.” Ingara led them to the forge fire and took out the rings. She laid them in a semicircle on the anvil. “My father’s right. I don’t like keeping dark magic here, but I hate to melt them down without knowing what they do. Next time we face the drow, maybe we can turn their magic against them.”

Icelin held her outstretched hand above the rings and murmured the words of a spell. She felt the focused energies pass through her body, channeled and steadied by her staff.

Whispers folded around the arcane words, coaxing out any magic that might be hiding in the depths of the rings. At once, Icelin felt an answering call, a magical thread that wound around her fingers like icy needles. The sensation unsettled her. She’d never felt Art that was this cold and unwelcoming before. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, she was glad to lower her hand and sever the connection between herself and the rings.

“The rings hold magic,” Icelin said. “It isn’t strong, and I sense it’s not inherently destructive in nature.” Carefully, she picked up one of the rings from the anvil and slipped it on her middle finger. She dismissed the chill that passed through her body as nerves. “Did you hear any of the drow using command words to activate the rings?” she asked Ingara.

The dwarf woman nodded. “Are you going to try to activate that one?”

“Can you control it?” Ruen asked.

“Yes, but I’ll only test them if you want me to, Ingara,” Icelin said. “This is your home, your private sanctuary. I won’t bring forth hated magic if it will hurt you.”

Ingara touched the anvil and then touched her chest, as if following an invisible thread between them. “My thanks for that,” she said. “You understand better than most outsiders. I want you to test them. Nothing is sacred while the drow stand at our doorstep.”

“Stand back, then,” Icelin said, “to be safe.”

Ingara and Ruen gave her space, and Icelin stood with her back to the forge. “The command word is arachendrek,” Ingara said, the syllables scraping from her throat.

Icelin held up her hand, repeated the word, and waited.

Spiders poured from the dark corners of the forge.

They were small, scurrying brown spots at first. Then, as the magic pulsed more quickly from the ring, they grew larger, their hairy bodies and bottomless black eyes shining in the forge light as they formed a circle around Icelin.

“It’s all right,” she said, speaking more to reassure herself than Ingara and Ruen. “They aren’t attacking. They obey the wearer of the ring.”

“Icelin,” Ruen said in a strained voice. “Banish them—quickly!”

A sharp cry ripped Icelin’s attention away from the dozens of spiders now gathered at her feet. Across the room, Ingara clutched Ruen’s arm with both hands. The dwarf woman was obviously strong. Ruen winced in pain, but he did not try to break Ingara’s grip. Her face was white and frozen in a wretched, terrified mask. She stared at the spiders, unable to look away.

More came.

Glossy-bodied arachnids as tall as Ingara’s stone table crawled from the shadows on graceful black legs. There must have been hundreds of the smaller ones now, swarming over the tables, the anvil, forming a living carpet on the cloth covering Ingara’s axe.

Seeing that, the dwarf woman broke. Screaming, she dropped to her knees, covering her eyes with her hands. Sobs wracked her body. “Moradin’s mercy, make it stop!” she cried. She scratched at her skin and yanked her braids, tearing loose strands and making wild tangles around her face. “It’s everywhere! I can’t get it off!”

Icelin tore the ring off her finger, scooped up the others from the anvil and hurled them all into the forge. The fire surged hungrily, consuming magic and metal at once. Icelin turned away from the heat, though the sweat that poured down her face had little to do with the fire.

At her feet, the smallest spiders turned and scurried away from the heat and light, retreating to their dark corners. The larger ones simply vanished.

Icelin leaned unsteadily against the stone table. “Illusions,” she said. “Forgive me—I should have seen it at once. “The ring’s magic attracts smaller spiders and uses their forms to create illusions of much larger ones. Seeing a massive swarm like that coming at you in a battle would be enough to shake the morale of even the toughest soldiers. The drow are using that fear to gain an advantage against Iltkazar.”

“Icelin,” Ruen said quietly.

Icelin pushed off the table. Ingara crouched on the floor, her face in her hands. She trembled violently. Icelin went over and knelt beside her. When she touched Ingara’s shoulder, the dwarf woman flinched away and pulled into herself even more, as if she could disappear.

“It’s all right,” Icelin said soothingly. “They’re gone. They’re all gone.”

“What’s going on here?” a gruff voice rang out from the doorway.

Icelin looked up to see a thick-chested dwarf enter the forge. He had pale blond hair and beard, almost white, which contrasted oddly with his darker skin and eyes. When he crossed the room, Icelin noticed he walked with a slight limp, barely noticeable had he not been moving so quickly.

He crouched in front of Ingara. Ruen stood to make room. “Taerin,” the dwarf whispered, gently prying Ingara’s hands from her face. “Ingara, taerin, gordok en vin.”

Ingara looked at the blond dwarf with wide, red-rimmed eyes and shook her head furiously from side to side. She reached up to claw at her hair again, but the man caged her hands between his own and whispered soothing sounds that rolled out like low, distant thunder.

Breaths went by, but Icelin dared not move. Every movement made Ingara flinch and whimper, as if she expected the host of spiders to descend on them again in an instant. Icelin’s knees were cramped and cold from being so long on the floor, but she ignored the pains.

Meanwhile, the blond dwarf was slowly getting through to Ingara. He whispered softly to her in Dwarvish, and Ingara answered—intimate words not meant for outsiders to hear. Icelin felt a flush of shame, but still she dared not move for fear of breaking the calm, protective circle that she, Ruen, and the blonde dwarf had formed around Ingara.

At last, the dwarf kissed both Ingara’s hands and leaned close to brush away the tears that lingered at the corners of her eyes. They rose to their feet together and the man pulled her close, stroking his fingers through her wild hair. When they broke apart, Ingara was smiling tremulously.

“You must be Arngam,” Ruen said, holding out a hand to the blonde dwarf. The dwarf nodded coolly to him but did not free his hands from Ingara’s waist to clasp Ruen’s forearm.

“Well, I’d hope so,” Icelin said, smiling at Ingara. Her expression faltered. “Forgive me,” she said again. “I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ingara said. “Don’t look at them that way, Arn.” She stepped from Arngam’s embrace and smoothed her hair. “It was my own stupidity,” she said. “Godsdamned drow worship spiders. I should have been expecting something like that. Tell the patrols the next time they’re overrun by spider attacks that they’re probably illusions,” she said to Arngam. “That’s what the rings we’ve been finding on all the drow corpses do. They’re trying to break us with the fear of seeing so many of the bastards at once.”

“I see. I’ll inform the patrols and the master armswoman at once,” said Arngam. The chill had left his voice, and he nodded at Icelin. “This is valuable information. You have our thanks.”

“You have my congratulations,” Icelin said tentatively, “on your upcoming wedding. I’m certain you’ll be very happy together.”

At the mention of the wedding, Ingara whirled on Arngam and jabbed an accusing finger at his chest. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she cried. “You know you’re not to set foot over this threshold before the wedding. You’d better be on a mission from Moradin himself, if you don’t want a beating.”

Arngam smiled fondly at his betrothed. “There’s my lovely one in all her fury. I heard you cry out. How could I not come to your aid?”

“And get a peek at your wedding-day gift,” Ingara said. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s really in your head.”

Arngam raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, taerin, I haven’t seen a thing. I’ll leave you now—as long as you’re all right,” he added, sobering.

“I’m fine,” Ingara said. She leaned in and kissed her love on the cheek. “Go, and remember to tell the patrols.”

He nodded and left the forge. When they were alone, Ingara turned to the table and laid her hands over the cloth covering the axe. “Were they truly illusions?” she asked, not meeting Icelin’s eyes. “They did not taint this?”

“Illusions and common spiders,” Icelin said. “On a drow’s hand, the ring might have called out to more monstrous creatures of the Underdark to mix with the illusions. On my hand, no touch of the dark goddess’s magic reached those spiders. I’d have felt it.”

Ingara closed her eyes briefly and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Do you want us to leave you alone?” Ruen asked.

“No, I’m all right.” Ingara uncovered the axe and lifted it in her hands, as if to feel the reassuring weight, the reality of the weapon. “I started dreaming this design the night they brought Arngam and me to the city on our backs and out of our heads with fever,” she said. Her eyes clouded with the memory. “We were in the mines, inspecting the structure of one of the dead-end tunnels to see if we could dig through it and join it to the main passages. Giant spiders set upon us. We must have disturbed a nest—no one had been in that tunnel for months. The worst part was that I didn’t see the attack coming.”

Ingara shivered and touched her hair. “I felt one of them land on my back. The hair on its belly was soft, like warm fur. It wound into my hair and brushed against my neck—and then it bit me. I thought someone had put a fire in my veins.”

Icelin remembered the spider that had dropped on her from the cavern ceiling on their journey to the city. Pinned beneath its legs, she hadn’t had time to think about the horror of becoming the monster’s prey. She’d been too busy trying to escape.

But she would always remember those eyes staring at her, the black, soulless orbs that looked on her as food and nothing more.

“How did you escape?” Ruen asked.

“I didn’t,” Ingara said. “Arngam fought off as many as he could, while I writhed on the floor with cramps in my stomach like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was as if someone had taken hold of my insides and just kept twisting, twisting. Got so bad I could barely draw a breath. We’d have both died, but I screamed at Arngam to get away and bring back help. It was the only way. The spiders had enough time to work on me while he was gone.”

“You were awake for it?” Icelin said, horrified. “Merciful gods, had I been in your place, I would have gone mad.”

“Not quite,” Ingara said, lips twisting in a bitter smile. “A spider’s web, from the inside, smells like decay and something sharp and sweet that invades the lungs and makes a person lightheaded. Sometimes I still smell it, that scent—Arngam says I wash my hair more than any dwarf he’s ever seen, but he’s gentle with his teasing because he knows I’ll never really get all the smell out.

It’s too much in my head.”

“He’s a good man,” Ruen said. “He saved you from the spiders?”

“Aye, he brought a group back to rescue me, but it was still a nightmare of a fight.” Ingara put the axe down and began absently cleaning her tools and arranging them near the forge. The familiar rituals seemed to comfort her. “I hated him too, while I was in that web. Out of my head with pain and fever, I cursed Arngam horribly for leaving me, even though I was the one who told him to do it. I pray to the gods he never heard any of the things I said.”

“Even if he did, he knows you weren’t yourself,” Ruen said. “Pain and fear change a person. It’s no shame to you.”

“You sound like my sister.” Ingara smiled, chasing some of the shadows from her face. “Joya is always eager to forgive anybody any offense, bless her. In the end, Arngam got his share of poison too, ripping me out of that web, and the clerics spent days nursing us out of the fever. While I was lying in the grip of it, I started making the axe in my mind. If Arngam was able to forgive me for all that had happened, I knew we’d be good for each other. I took away my share of scars from that web, but some good came of it, too.”

She stared into the forge fire. “My thanks for your aid and for destroying the rings. I know you’ve not felt welcome, but we’re grateful you’re here. We need friends now more than ever. Father knows this. Obrin, for all his stubbornness, knows it too.”

“I don’t know how much help we’ll be able to provide,” Ruen said, echoing Icelin’s earlier thoughts. “We are only three people—two, and a cook,” he amended.

“The king disagrees,” Ingara said. “Joya’s told me a little of it, but King Mith Barak keeps his own counsel—and his own secrets—on some matters. He thinks you’re important.”

Why does that give me no comfort? Icelin didn’t voice the thought. “Speaking of the king, we should be going,” she said. “Ingara, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Once I begin my forge work, there’ll be no other thought in my head,” Ingara assured her. “Any more of those rings come my way they’ll go in the fire.”

The best place for them, Icelin thought. She wished Ingara could cast off her memories so easily.

“You’re quiet,” Ruen said as they made their way across the plaza to the king’s private chambers.

It must have been market day, for a handful of merchants had set up stalls in the plaza, and there were more dwarves about than Icelin had yet seen, though not nearly as many as there should have been on such an occasion. A handful of families milled about, buying supplies, but there was a subdued quality to their movements. Most spoke in low voices instead of the loud, boisterous shouts and curses Icelin expected from a busy marketplace.

“I thought you’d be pleased at the uncommon silence,” Icelin said. “I finally give you a moment’s peace, and you demand that I talk. Have you lost your wits, Morleth?”

“Not at all. It’s just that when you’re silent, I worry you’re plotting something,” Ruen said. “Since you’ll inevitably drag me into whatever scheme you’ve got brewing in your head, I thought it best to find out how great the danger is up front. I dislike surprises.”

“Poor Ruen, you’ve picked the wrong traveling companion,” Icelin said, laughing, but her humor couldn’t last, not under the weight of what she’d just witnessed. “I like the Blackhorns,” she said. “I’m afraid of what will happen to them … and us.”

“So am I.”

“I want the Arcane Script Sphere,” Icelin said, “but the price is high, and the battle the dwarves are facing is unimaginable. I wish …”

“You want to help them,” Ruen said. “I understand, but if the odds are as bad as Joya says, it’s likely Iltkazar is doomed no matter what aid we give the dwarves.”

“I can’t stand to see them lose everything,” Icelin said. Waterdeep was a long way away, but it still felt like her true home. If it were wiped off the face of Faerûn, she would be heartbroken. It would be as if her great uncle had died all over again. “What if it was your village that were threatened, the place where you were born?” she said. “You’d return and defend it, wouldn’t you?”

“For all I know, it may be gone,” Ruen said. “I haven’t been home in almost twenty years.”

“That long?” Icelin slowed and stopped in the middle of the plaza. Ruen turned to look back at her. “Why didn’t you say so when we began our journey? We could have our route take us there, we—”

“It’s a waste of time,” Ruen said firmly. “I have no family left there. My mother is dead, and my father was gone long before her.”

“Surely you must have had friends,” Icelin said.

Ruen scowled at her. “You remember the vision you saw of that place. You know how they felt about me and my ‘gift.’ ”

Icelin did remember. With perfect clarity, she recalled the night they’d spent in the belly of a rotting, haunted ship in Mistshore, where a ghostly troupe of spirits had pulled the childhood memories from Ruen’s mind and performed them before Icelin and her friends. Had she not possessed a perfect memory, Icelin thought that by now that night might have taken on the qualities of a dream.

No, she remembered the little boy whose own mother had been afraid to touch him for fear of his strange power to predict death. The true mystery, to Icelin at least, was that no one in the village had had the courage to look past such a curse to see the frightened, lonely child laboring under it.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to go back,” she ventured. “I know what it’s like to be among people who don’t understand you and who fear you because of it.”

Would he let her reach out to him? Surely, at this moment …

Tentatively, Icelin laid her hand on his arm. She felt a tremor of hesitation go through Ruen’s body before he pulled away. Icelin wasn’t truly surprised, but that didn’t stop the sadness that squeezed her chest.

“Is that the way it’s always going to be?” she said softly.

“We’re here,” Ruen said, not answering.

Silence fell between them. Icelin noticed more guards than she’d seen yesterday clustered around the entrance to the king’s hall. They parted when Icelin approached, and one of the guards led her inside to a smaller hallway than the one that led to the king’s audience chamber. At the end of the hall was a pair of doors. As they approached, the right hand door opened, and King Mith Barak himself stepped through to greet them.

“You waste no time. Good,” the king said. He fixed a keen gaze on both of them. “Looking a little melancholy today, though, aren’t you? What’s it about? Beds uncomfortable—too short, were they?”

Icelin sensed the thread of humor running beneath the king’s scowl and tried to respond in kind. “Not being overly blessed with stature, they were more than adequate for me,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s not a bed in the city big enough for my butcher, but he managed fine as well.”

“Glad to hear it,” the king said. “So if you slept well, your dour faces must mean you’ve reconsidered our bargain.” He reached out and took hold of the knob of the adjacent door, but his penetrating gaze never left Icelin’s face.

“I haven’t decided anything,” Icelin said. “The threat your city faces is a monstrous one. Even if I do what you ask with this drow prisoner, I don’t see how it will make a difference in the fight that’s coming.”

“You let me worry about that,” the king said—rather sharply, Icelin thought, but she had no time to ponder why he was agitated. He turned the knob and swung open the door.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

22 UKTAR

ICELIN EXPERIENCED SEVERAL EMOTIONS AT ONCE WHEN she stepped into King Mith Barak’s library. Foremost was awe, at the sheer size of the chamber, the vaulted ceilings, the rugs and furniture arranged around the room. A large table took up most of the space in the center of the room, but smaller, more inviting tables and chairs occupied the corners, arranged near a set of books resting under glass on marble pedestals.

She’d been expecting a dark cell, or some other confined space where prisoners were interrogated, but this …

When she gazed at the books on the walls, Icelin grew lightheaded. The smell of old parchment filled her nose, and she fell into the scent as if into the arms of an old friend. She’d always loved books, but the volumes of knowledge contained in this room eclipsed anything she’d ever seen in the bookshops of Waterdeep.

Standing in the middle of it all, one arm leaned against the mantle of a huge marble fireplace, was the drow.

He looked up from a book he held in his hands and met her gaze. For a breath, Icelin made no reaction at all. The drow’s presence was so out of place in the warm, inviting room, she thought he couldn’t be real.

“What game is this?” the drow said.

Icelin jolted in surprise. The drow had spoken in Common. His melodic voice was full of wary indignation.

“They’re my guests,” Mith Barak said. He nodded at Icelin. “She’s here for the same reason you are, Zollgarza. I told her you’d behave yourself.” He made a gesture, and a pair of guards strode into the room, taking up positions near the door.

“You send a child to interrogate me now?” Zollgarza sneered. “Am I expected to roast the girl over the fire and devour her flesh to satiate some unholy appetite?” He flashed a lascivious grin at Icelin. “No, she has barely enough flesh to make a meal. Still, there are other pleasures she might supply, for a tenday at least, before I tire of her.”

Ruen reached for his dagger. The king stepped forward, and despite his shorter stature, he more than compensated with his bulk to block Ruen’s path.

“He won’t touch her,” the king said. “You have my word. And the lady is not without her own protections. Don’t mind him,” he said, this time addressing Icelin. “I’m the one he wants to kill. He’s bitter because he missed his chance. Aren’t you, Zollgarza?”

This time the drow actually smiled. “How much easier my task might have been, had I found you in the form of a statue. Were those simply legends, King—mad tales spun by your followers? Do your guests know what rumors your own people whisper about you?”

Icelin glanced at Mith Barak, but the king’s face had gone cold, his silver eyes devoid of expression or apparent feeling. “Beyond the guards, there are protections in this room—older than any of the tomes—that will activate if the drow tries to attack. No, the only thing you have to fear from this one is his tongue,” Mith Barak said. “There is no greater weapon, no more lethal poison. He will try to break you with nothing more than words, and he has succeeded on many hapless souls in the past, I’ve no doubt. Take care and do not heed him.”

Slowly, Ruen sheathed his dagger and turned to Icelin. “Are you sure you want to speak to this thing?” he asked in a low voice. “I tell you again, it will do no good. You’ll regret it.”

Icelin hesitated. “What did you mean when you said he and I are here for the same reason?” she asked Mith Barak.

“The sphere,” the king said. “It has hidden itself somewhere in this library. Zollgarza seeks it, too, so I’ve decided to let both of you look for it, though I have a feeling it will reveal itself to the lady first.”

“You mean you don’t know where it is?” Icelin couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But how will I find it? I don’t even know where to begin to look.”

“If you prove worthy, it will find you,” Mith Barak said, as if it were that simple.

Icelin knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d sensed the king was hiding something. Now her task seemed twice as impossible as before. “I need to speak with Ruen privately,” she told the king.

Mith Barak nodded. “Take your time,” he said.

“I like nothing about this,” Icelin began when they were back outside in the plaza.

“Neither do I,” Ruen said. “For whatever reason, Mith Barak thinks you will be able to find the sphere.” He scowled. “One thing I’m sure of, if that drow dies under the Silver Fire, I for one won’t shed any tears for him.”

“Nor will any of the dwarves,” Icelin said, hugging herself to ward off the chill of the cavern. How easy it would be to justify the action if she let herself. No one would blame her this time. No one would mourn the loss of a drow who’d already taken dwarf lives and would take more if given the opportunity. “But it feels wrong.”

“You’ve always had a soft heart,” Ruen said.

“One of my greatest faults,” Icelin said, growing serious. “It’s not just for the sphere itself that I’m considering this.” She paused, gathering her courage. “I need to know something, Ruen.”

“Say it.”

Now or never, Icelin thought. “If we get the sphere and it does what we hope it will do for me, is there a chance for us?” Icelin said. She rushed on. “These last months we’ve spent traveling together, I’ve become more and more certain.” Icelin clutched her arms against her stomach, feeling that if she didn’t protect herself, she might not be able to speak further. “I cover it with jests and insults, but you know—you have to know—that I … care about you.”

“I do,” Ruen said, each word sounding forced. “I don’t understand why. I’m nearly twice your age, I’m not kind or gentle, and I’ve killed people with my bare hands. Death is in everything I touch. No one should want that.”

“There’s nothing I can do about your great age,” Icelin said, a strained smile twisting her features, “or your temperament. I don’t care about what you’ve done, or your spellscar—”

“It changes nothing,” Ruen interrupted. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“I see.” A sudden sense of disconnectedness took hold of Icelin, as if the whole conversation were happening to someone else. It wasn’t his spellscar that kept him from her. He didn’t return her feelings. That was all. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t have to wonder now.” Her voice was unrecognizable to even herself. “I’ll search for the sphere while you and Sull aid the dwarves however you can.”

Ruen shook his head. “I’m not going to leave you in that room with a drow.”

“Mith Barak’s guards will be there if anything happens,” Icelin said. “If I’m going to accept the king’s bargain, I need to speak to him, and I need to do it alone. In the meantime, please take care of yourself, and Sull. I couldn’t … I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

She walked away without another word. Stiff steps carried her across the plaza, and all the while, the contents of her stomach threatened to come up, but considering everything, it had been a clean break. Perhaps she’d spoken coldly, but he’d have to forgive her for that. Allowing in any more emotion would have torn out her heart.

When she was back in the hallway, just outside the library door, alone, she slid to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and let out two quick, dry sobs. That was all. Then she stood up, opened the library door, and stepped inside.

GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

23 UKTAR

STRIP THEM TO THE WAIST, BUT MAKE THE CUTS AS shallow as you can so as not to break the enchantments,” Levriin Soltif commanded his apprentice.

The younger drow, Kraefmir of House Rirdel, did as his master bade him, but he didn’t bother to hide the look of distaste as he removed the armor and scraps of clothing from the bugbear slaves and cast them in a pile. Staring straight ahead, their vapid gazes fixed on Levriin, the creatures did not react when Kraefmir took a ceremonial knife from the pocket of his robes and began tracing an arcane symbol into the flesh of the nearest creature. Levriin focused half his concentration on maintaining control of the thralls and appraised Kraefmir’s progress with the other.

He’s good, Levriin thought. He’s coming into his own, adding flourishes to the magic that even I might not have considered. In many ways, Kraefmir had entered that perfect period of his apprenticeship—skilled enough that he could truly aid Levriin, yet also dependent upon the wizard to advance him in position. Soon he would grow beyond needing Levriin’s tutelage, but for now, he was quite useful.

“You are distracted,” Kraefmir commented without looking up from his work. Blood coated his hands and the knife. He wiped them on a towel. “Your meeting with the mistress mother did not go well?”

Damn it, Levriin realized, he’s perceptive as well. “I underestimated her,” he admitted. The words tasted bitter in Levriin’s mouth, but he wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t learn from his mistakes. “She is not reacting to the potential shift in the power balance the way I expected. She claims we have not divined Lolth’s will.”

“If the priestesses feel threatened, you can be assured they will defend their positions,” Kraefmir said. “Any female who says differently is a liar or a fool.”

In his mind, Levriin saw the blind priestesses, the abominations altered through the power of the Spider Queen. “Perhaps we are not as weak as they would have us believe,” he murmured.

“Master?”

“Mind your work,” Levriin said sharply, and his apprentice obediently fixed his attention on the bugbear’s hairy flesh. He sliced downward with the knife—too deeply, Levriin realized. He felt the pull of the creature’s will against his magic, the faint echo of terror as the slave tried to mount a resistance to the drow’s violation. Levriin lashed out with a mental command, sharper than any whip, and the slave’s silent cry cut off abruptly. He struggled no more.

“Should we fear the goddess’s will?” Kraefmir said after a moment. “Is this chance she offers us—and the promised reward—genuine?”

Oh, so very diplomatic. Levriin silently applauded his apprentice. He really wants to know if I am afraid, for he is too young yet to fear any doom. The true horrors of the world had not revealed themselves to him. Perhaps it was time he confided in his apprentice. If not now, on the eve of their first major offensive against Iltkazar, then when would he get the chance?

“Does it matter?” he challenged the young drow as Kraefmir finished carving the last symbol on the slave’s back.

“Does it matter that we rise in the Spider Queen’s favor?” Kraefmir wiped his hands one last time on the towel, though the fabric was soaked. “How can you ask that?”

“Because the question does not get asked enough, in my opinion,” Levriin said. “Think about it. All our lives, we have striven to better our positions in this city. We are weaker physically than the females, and they remind us every day, with each glance, bitter word, or strike of the whip that we are mentally the lesser creatures. Yet we are masters of the arcane, warriors whose martial prowess rivals that of any of the cities of the surface world. When the World Above speaks of us in fear, they do not separate male and female, priestess and wizard. To them, we are only drow.”

“None of that seems to matter to the females—or to the Spider Queen,” Kraefmir said. “Yet we continue to strive in Lolth’s name.”

“Precisely,” Levriin said. “The centuries pass, and we grow stronger, more powerful, waiting for the day when the goddess will take notice of our devotion. Had we not been denied her love, her favor, would we have come so far?”

“You can’t be suggesting that we don’t need the goddess?” Kraefmir wiped the blade of the ceremonial knife and sheathed it. “You court blasphemy, Master.”

“You mistake me,” Levriin said. “I simply suggest that Lolth’s favor may not be the blow the females expect. Neither may it be what the males of our race need to achieve glory.”

“Ah, I see. Once we achieve supremacy, you believe that will breed complacency,” Kraefmir said. “That we will become slaves to Lolth’s desires once we’ve had a taste of her favor.”

Complacency was one extreme, and at the other … some priestesses are drunk on those desires, Levriin thought. The mistress mother had challenged him on that very point, asking him if he was prepared to submit to Lolth’s will. Was he, in truth? Was he ready to give of himself completely, to undergo a spiritual and perhaps physical transformation? Would the goddess ask of him more than he was willing to give?

Levriin felt the bugbears’ collective pull at his magic. He felt a slight throbbing at his temples. He’d held the spell too long.

“Forgive me,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I speak of the future, but we have a long road ahead of us before these questions will demand answers. We must think of battle strategy now.”

“As you wish.” Kraefmir appeared relieved at the shift in topic. “The targets are prepared,” he said. “You’ll be mind-linked to all of them during the battle, and you’ll know them by symbols only your eyes can see. They won’t remember that they’ve been altered, so they won’t try to run.”

“You did well.” Levriin silently banished the spell that held the slaves in thrall. They blinked in confusion and reached around to touch the raw wounds on their backs. Slowly, they gathered their wits and began putting on their armor. With their limited intellect, the bugbears would probably assume the drow had beaten them into unconsciousness for some transgression. Pain was an accepted part of their existence.

Kraefmir dismissed them back to their houses, and Levriin took the opportunity to activate the spell that would single the creatures out to him during the battle. He passed a hand over his face, spoke the arcane phrase, and fixed his gaze on the retreating slaves. A faint red light haloed their heads and shoulders, making their features appear fuzzy and indistinct for a moment. The effect would carry clear across a battlefield, making them easily visible to Levriin.

“Is it working?” Kraefmir asked. “Did I carve the symbols correctly?”

Levriin glanced at his apprentice. Red light bled from Kraefmir’s shoulders, and his features, too, were blurred, but Levriin did not blink or squint so as not to betray the spell that was on the drow. He’d placed the arcane mark himself on the back of Kraefmir’s thigh, while the apprentice slept under a heavy spell.

“The magic is perfect,” he said. “The slaves remember nothing and suspect nothing. We march in the morning.”

Kraefmir inclined his head. He was in so many ways the perfect apprentice, but he would not be so for long. He was the first of Levriin’s apprentices in a long time who had the potential to become a rival. Levriin saw qualities in Kraefmir that he himself possessed: ambition, insight, flashes of brilliance that signaled an assured rise to power.

Under other circumstances, Levriin might have appreciated the challenge, but now was not the time. Instead, Kraefmir would make the ultimate sacrifice for the glory of Lolth, whether he knew it or not.

Caught in the throes of a dream, Mith Barak flew. He followed the spirit road toward the dim horizon of the Astral Sea, streaks of silver stars passing by at impossible speeds. As he flew, the stars whispered to him, fragments of thought and memory that drew Mith Barak’s attention. He reached for these shreds of dreams, but they slipped through his fingers like wisps of cloud. All that remained were the whispers.

“Come back, Arlefin, you’re straying …”

“What was that? The silver shadow, don’t touch it …”

“Please guide me … I beg you … I’ve been lost so long …”

“Gods, I’m flying … it’s … magnificent …” Whispers turned to weeping.

Mith Barak turned away from his fellow travelers. These were old memories, old dreams. Was he doomed to be trapped in the past the way he’d been trapped in the stone?

The sky grew darker as, one by one, the stars retreated from a burning object that appeared in the east. Red—the color of fire and agony, slicing along his flank like steel drawn from the forge. The burning force slammed into his spirit form so hard that he lost himself for a time, spinning into oblivion. Where had the attack come from? Where had the power come from? Had he become so complacent, so safe in his vault deep beneath the earth, behind mithral doors and layers of magic so complex he’d thought them inviolate?

He’d been a fool. No safe place existed in this life.

Darkness engulfed him. Pain raked his back like claws. Feebly, he lashed out, trying to fight back. In the darkness, a single voice rang out, peals of cruel laughter that echoed in Mith Barak’s ears. He opened his mouth to scream. The sound came out as a rough, aged moan, a small cry from a small chest.

Mith Barak sat up in his bed, clutching his face. He ran his hands over his flanks and combed his fingers through his beard. The pain was slow to leave him. Even in dreams, the memory was so fresh that for a moment he couldn’t move. His skin was on fire, and sweat poured down his face, soaking his beard. For a moment, he stroked the coarse hair, as if his own skin were unfamiliar to him.

On the spirit road, there were no limits, Mith Barak thought, but his body creaked with age and old wounds, his skin stretched taut over his spirit. Sometimes the confinement was so harsh that he wanted to tear his skin with his teeth like a beast.

He rose from his bed and set bare feet against the cold stone floor. The chill chased away the sleep phantoms and returned, if not peace, then a bit of clarity to his mind. Stretching out his awareness, he felt the echoes of heartbeats and footsteps coming from the room next to his. His own room sealed in all sound, so Icelin and Zollgarza would not have heard his dream cries, nor would the guards stationed outside the door and in the library.

Icelin’s awareness concerned him most. He knew Zollgarza would do no physical harm to her—after his escape attempt, the guards had searched him thoroughly for hidden needles or other poisonous substances, and Mith Barak’s own protections on the library would come to her aid if needed. Besides that, it wasn’t in Zollgarza’s interest to attack her, not while he had the opportunity to search for the sphere.

Not that any of it mattered. Mith Barak would not fool himself into thinking Icelin was completely safe around the drow. He was too old to take comfort in self-deception.

He hovered around her, not so close that she would sense him, but close enough to detect the quickness of her heartbeat, the tightness in her movements. He couldn’t actually see her, but then he didn’t need to. She was afraid—of course she was—and Mith Barak was the cause. Alone in a room with a strange, alien creature such as Zollgarza—she’d be insane not to be afraid.

Mith Barak turned his attention to Zollgarza. Dark magic still swirled around him, creating an impenetrable wall that rebuffed Mith Barak’s own spells. He sighed. Perhaps he’d been hoping for too much, thinking that she would be able to find the sphere when it had hidden itself so thoroughly from him. He supposed it was still possible Icelin would change her mind and refuse his bargain, even with the enticement of the sphere’s Silver Fire.

Mith Barak severed the connection to the library and began donning his clothes and armor. A thought struck him. Perhaps he could offer Icelin something else, an added recompense for the danger he had placed her in. She sought knowledge of spellscars, the means to tame her wild magic, and his library was a vast resource.

Abruptly, Mith Barak sent out a mental call. It had been so long. Would she still answer his summons?

Seneschal. Lady of the Tomes, do you hear me?

Silence met his call. Mith Barak felt an unexpectedly sharp stab of sorrow in his heart. Had she gone to sleep for good?

Lady, forgive me. I did not mean to leave you in the dark so long.

How sweetly you talk, Old Master. What would you have of me?

Mith Barak smiled as the familiar voice wrapped him like a warm blanket. Tears pricked his eyes. I have missed you, Seneschal. It has been too long.

Centuries, the clear, feminine voice chided him. I feel the pages stirring. You have guests.

Some more welcome than others, Mith Barak agreed. The girl needs aid. Will you show yourself to her?

The seneschal made no immediate reply. Mith Barak waited in respectful silence. He knew what he asked of her.

I have offered my services to none but you for a thousand years, Old Master, she replied. Is this truly important to you?

It is, Mith Barak said. Many things are come to an end, Lady. Our time together, I fear, is short. Will you grant me this one last favor?

For you, Old Master, I will, the seneschal said. Mith Barak felt her affection and love through the mind-link. His sorrow returned, for a moment threatening to overwhelm him. Clenching trembling hands into fists, he mastered himself and finished tying the laces of his tunic. He needed to meet with the regents and the master armswoman, and to speak to Garn about some specific defenses for the city gates.

His thoughts lingered on Icelin and the seneschal. Mith Barak allowed himself a wry chuckle. To see the look on her face when she realized all the library had to offer … he would have given much to observe that moment.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

23 UKTAR

STANDING JUST INSIDE THE LIBRARY DOOR, ICELIN HALF-HOPED the drow had vanished overnight.

After her conversation with Ruen in the plaza, she’d spoken to Mith Barak and accepted his challenge to find the sphere, but Icelin found she didn’t have the strength to begin that search just yet. She’d gone back to the Blackhorn house and rested, helped Sull in the kitchen where she could, stalling, until Ruen left to help Garn and Obrin on a scouting mission. Once Ruen was gone, she knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable.

Her heart sank when she saw the drow sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. One leg propped on the hearth, a book open across his lap, he was the picture of relaxed self-assurance. He looked up when she entered and flashed a lazy smile.

Like a wolf grinning at a lamb, Icelin thought. The image made her indignant. Let him have his fun. His presence wouldn’t intimidate her.

Squaring her shoulders, Icelin crossed the room and stood before the fire, warming her hands against the chill. “Good morning,” she said without looking at the drow.

The drow closed his book and rose smoothly to his feet. Instinctively, Icelin pivoted so her back would not be facing the drow.

His smile grew wider. “We haven’t been properly introduced.” He extended a hand to Icelin. “I am Zollgarza.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Icelin saw the guards stationed at the door tense. She assumed they hadn’t taken their eyes off the drow since she’d entered the room. She offered them a small nod, hopefully communicating that she wasn’t afraid.

“My name is Icelin,” she said, ignoring the drow’s outstretched hand. “It is … interesting to meet you. What are you reading?”

Zollgarza picked up the book and held the spine out to her. “A personal journal of a cleric of Shanatar,” he said.

“Shanatar?” Icelin raised an eyebrow. “Are you a student of dwarf history?”

“Iltkazar is all that remains of the ancient dwarven realm,” Zollgarza explained. “It is … refreshing to see how the mighty are diminished over the centuries. No empire lasts forever.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Icelin said, ignoring the jab at the dwarves, “but I find most historical accounts to be dry, mind-numbing reading.”

“Oh?” Zollgarza said in amusement. “What books do you prefer?”

“Adventure tales,” Icelin said. “Full of hard-won battles against impossible odds … that sort of thing. Add a splash of romance and intrigue and you’ve won my attention forever.”

“If I find any such tales, I’ll be sure to lay them aside for you,” the drow said, bowing before returning to his seat. He spoke amiably enough, but Icelin had the distinct impression he mocked her with every word. “At any rate, I was under the impression you’re here for a purpose other than reading. You’re here to hunt for the sphere, yes?”

Oh, he was definitely mocking her. Anger made Icelin flush. Ruen had been right. What did she hope to gain by talking to the drow? She should just ignore him and focus on finding the Arcane Script Sphere.

At the thought of the artifact, longing rose in Icelin again. What would it be like to hold a bit of Mystra’s essence near her heart, to be so close to the goddess she had never known? Even if the sphere’s Silver Fire didn’t cure her spellscar, the memory of the goddess would be enough.

But when she looked at Zollgarza, those hopes shattered.

Hadn’t she sworn never to work magic she couldn’t control, to knowingly put others at risk, unless there was no other choice? She’d done it to defend Ruen and the dwarves when she attacked the drow wizard, but had one of them been standing too close to her, he might be dead now. What of the guards stationed in the room to protect her? Did they know the danger of using the Silver Fire? The doubts tore apart her resolve.

Needing a distraction, Icelin turned to the bookshelves. Ladders fastened to a track on the highest shelves rested on wheels on the floor, allowing access to all the shelves, even the books she could barely see. No doubt they were covered with an inch of dust and served as a home for countless numbers of tiny eight-legged horrors. Icelin ran her hands absently over the spines. Many of the titles were in Dwarvish or languages she couldn’t even identify, but she found others in Common. Was the Arcane Script Sphere hidden somewhere amongst them? Did Mith Barak expect her to tear apart the room in a mad search for an ancient artifact that likely had all sorts of magical means to conceal itself?

Yet the king said that if she were worthy, the sphere would find her. Did that mean she was supposed to stay here and wait while the sphere silently considered its decision? Bemused, Icelin imagined the great artifact watching her every move, looking for faults and failures in her character.

Icelin groaned and thought, I’m doomed.

Pacing the room wouldn’t help. She selected one of the books written in Common—a history of the dwarves, similar to what Zollgarza was reading—and took it to the long table in the center of the room. Maybe if she explored the library and cleared her head, inspiration on how to find the sphere would strike.

It was warmer near the fire, but she wasn’t eager to share Zollgarza’s company like that. Reading together in front of a fire had a certain unavoidable intimacy that she wasn’t ready to experience.

She opened the book, inhaled the scent of parchment and age, and began to read.

Zollgarza sat motionless by the fire, pretending to read his book while he watched the girl. Once she got over her initial nervousness and started reading a tome, she seemed to forget he was in the room. She leaned over the book with her elbows propped on the table and pulled one of the candelabra closer. Every now and then she squinted at the text and mouthed the words aloud as she ran her fingers along the page. When she wasn’t doing that, often she hummed to herself softly as she read. She had a steady, melodious voice, but that was the only compliment Zollgarza willingly gave her.

His assessment of her physical features was that she was a small, sickly thing. Whether magic or some other malady had taken its toll on her, he couldn’t say, but if Mith Barak had wanted to threaten him, he’d chosen a poor creature as his ambassador.

He had to give the old dwarf credit, though. Mith Barak knew how to scheme and deceive with the best of the drow. Zollgarza couldn’t believe the king had allowed him access to the library, and the introduction of this newest obscure element in the form of the girl was even more frustrating. What was the wily dwarf up to? Was the Arcane Script Sphere truly so hidden from him that he needed this sickly girl and a drow to locate it for him? This would have amused Zollgarza no end had he not been so suspicious of the girl.

What was her power? Was it something Mith Barak hoped to use against him? But the king had already probed his mind and raked through his memories. There were no secrets for this human child to uncover.

Except the ones being kept from Zollgarza himself. By Lolth, if Mith Barak were to be believed.

Zollgarza clenched the book in his hands, resisting the urge to throw it into the flames. Knowledge and lore surrounded him, yet the answers he sought most were denied him. Who was he truly, and where did he come from? Had Fizzri altered him at Lolth’s command? To what end? Was there some dangerous knowledge he possessed that the mistress mother had stripped from his mind in order to protect Guallidurth? But why deny him his own identity, unless she simply meant to toy with him?

Zollgarza considered the girl. Frustration and rage made him tremble. He wanted to lash out, grab her by her slender throat, and demand her purpose here. He had already begun a search of the library for the sphere and turned up nothing. She would have no better chance than he had of finding the artifact, unless it somehow considered her a worthy recipient.

Perhaps that was what Mith Barak hoped. Was there something special about the girl’s character that he hoped to exploit? Zollgarza thought it might give him some satisfaction to try to root that information out of her, to play with the girl as he was being played, a pawn in some larger game. She might not be worth the trouble, but she was a mystery and a distraction. Zollgarza enjoyed a good mystery, and he certainly needed the distraction.

She tensed and looked up from her book. Zollgarza flicked his eyes to the page and pretended to read but continued to watch her out of his periphery. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Slowly, she walked to the bookshelves and began pacing in front of them, head cocked as if listening for something.

What is she doing? Zollgarza wondered. He almost called out to her to ask, but he clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to betray the fact that he’d been watching her closely.

“Do you hear that?” the girl asked, breaking the silence.

Zollgarza rubbed his eyes and adopted a weary tone. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Just now, did you hear … I thought it sounded like voices … whispers,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she felt a sudden chill. “You heard nothing?”

Zollgarza listened, but all he heard was the crack and pop of the fire and the cave breezes coming down the chimney. The dwarves had a sophisticated ventilation system—he’d utilized it himself sneaking into the city—that kept the smoke emanating from the homes and forges from choking off all the fresh air in the city. “You’re imagining things,” he said, putting a hint of condescension in his voice.

As he expected, her lips thinned and she fixed him with an indignant look. “If you heard none of that, then the reputation you drow have for keen hearing is entirely undeserved. I’m telling you, we’re not alone in this room.”

“If you say so,” he said and turned his attention to his book. He continued to watch her, though. She approached the fire and stood with her back to it, still listening for mischievous phantoms. His attention taken up by her, he didn’t detect the movement out of the corner of his eye until a loud bang echoed in the library.

Instinctively, Zollgarza leaped from his chair and went into a crouch. Beside him, the girl tensed, but as she was in a better position to see the source of the noise, she was the first to relax.

“It’s all right … I think,” she said. Cautiously, she strode across the room to the bookshelves, where a particularly large tome bound in green leather had fallen to the floor near the ladder. “I must have knocked it loose when I pulled my book off the shelf.” She bent to pick it up.

Before she could touch it, the cover of the tome flipped open by itself.

Ruen followed Garn, Obrin, and a contingent of dwarves past the forges to a smaller cavern on the eastern edge of the city. The first thing Ruen noticed was the overgrowth of the glowing silver lichen hanging from the cavern ceiling and in some cases growing in patchy carpets along the ground. The light it created was uneven and pained Ruen’s eyes. No one had tended to the lichen in some time. Ruen soon learned why.

“We’ve evacuated these caverns,” Garn explained as they marched along, joined at intervals by more dwarves, until Ruen counted their group at least a hundred strong. They were a mixture of warriors and clerics. “The population was too thin on our outer fringes—we relocated everyone closer to the city to conserve resources. Water doesn’t have as far to travel, and people don’t have to feel isolated out here.”

Ruen saw the logic in the decision, but by Garn’s tone, he knew the dwarf didn’t like it. “It must have been difficult for so many families to leave their homes,” he said, and indeed, some of the stone dwellings looked as if they had not long been abandoned. Mushroom gardens still thrived around the fringes of the homes, and through open doorways, Ruen saw that much of the furniture remained in the homes, left behind as if their occupants anticipated that someday they would return.

Garn approached one of these open doors and pushed it shut with the toe of his boot, sealing it. “Some folk refused to leave,” he said without looking at Ruen. “A few dozen, maybe—they’re around here someplace, but they won’t show themselves while we’re passing through. They’re afraid we’ll make them pack up and leave. I wouldn’t do it for a dragon’s hoard,” he said and spat on the ground.

The dwarves at the front of the group had begun forming the others into three columns. Ruen watched them as two dozen more dwarves spilled into the cavern. “This is no scouting mission we’re undertaking,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” Garn agreed. “Last night, a couple of scouts reported that the Hall of Lost Voices had been cut off by a cave-in. They claimed they heard fighting on the other side, but the debris was too much for them to clear alone. We’re venturing out to clear the passage and get our people out of there … if any are still alive.”

“What is the Hall of Lost Voices?” Ruen asked.

“A mining outpost three miles straight east of here,” Garn explained. “It’s got lots of long, narrow tunnels emptying out into wider spaces, like knots on a rope. We’ve been filtering troops to the outpost for a tenday now because we thought it one of the likeliest places for Guallidurth to assault.”

“Why would they risk fighting on a battleground like that?” Ruen asked. Small spaces and bottlenecks could cut soldiers off from each other quickly. While this would hamper both sides, the dwarves knew the sizes of their own tunnels better than the drow did and could better control the field.

“Because if they can take those tunnels, it cuts off one of our major supply routes to the surface and denies us access to a major source of ore,” Garn said. He and Ruen fell into step with the company, walking side by side in two of the columns. Obrin walked in the third column, but as usual, he remained silent. “We’ve tried to keep its importance a secret, but the damn drow spies are everywhere. Some of them are infiltrating the outposts in magical disguise. For all we know, they might have had their scouts in place for months.”

“New faces weren’t noticed?” Ruen asked. “With the diminished population, I’d have thought spies would be easier to detect.”

“Sometimes they are, but other times, the drow kill our people in secret and take their places. We don’t find the bodies until later, if at all.” Garn’s hand tightened on his axe. Ruen saw the rage barely contained by the gesture. The Blackhorn patriarch’s only comfort lay in the promise of spilling drow blood.

“Your family was kind to offer us hospitality,” Ruen said, thinking it wise to change the subject.

Garn looked at him askance. His lips twisted in what might have been a smile, but the bitterness underlying the expression made it difficult to tell. “My daughters offer you their hospitality because they have faith in the king’s judgment. For my part, I think we should have killed that drow prisoner long ago. The king’s wasting valuable time worrying about him. Now your friend has given him another excuse to sit in his hall and fret over the creature instead of focusing on readying our armies. You’ll not be offended or surprised to learn that I am not as glad of your presence as my daughters.”

“I’m not offended,” Ruen said. “Why doesn’t Mith Barak have your loyalty?”

Temper flared in the runepriest’s eyes. Ruen wondered what he had said wrong, but Garn quickly hid the emotion and regarded him with a measured glance. “Perhaps it’s a failing in the language. I don’t count faith and loyalty to be equal. I would die for my king—he is one of my oldest friends—but there are limits to what he can accomplish, especially …”

Garn stopped. He seemed suddenly reluctant to speak. Ruen waited, but he saw the restraint enter the dwarf’s expression, the mistrust, as if he’d just then remembered he was talking to an outsider and not one of his own people.

They walked on in silence. Ruen’s thoughts were troubled. If the dwarves of Iltkazar doubted their king, it was yet one more obstacle they had to overcome in their struggle with the drow. Was it age or infirmity in Mith Barak that brought out Garn’s doubts? Ruen had not noticed any such deficiency in the king during their audience. Mith Barak had come across as strong, cunning, and dedicated to his people. Perhaps there was a deeper, unknown madness that Garn feared.

The thought stirred the blood in Ruen’s veins. He pictured Icelin sitting in the library with the drow prowling around her. He dreaded the prospect of leaving the city, of leaving her unprotected.

Though she probably wouldn’t welcome his company, Ruen thought, not after what he’d told her in the plaza. He shook his head. He owed her the truth, no matter how much it hurt her—or him—to say it.

Sull had sworn to look in on her as often as he could, which was no small thing. The butcher was a tenacious protector, especially where Icelin was concerned. He’d stayed behind to help Joya handle the wounded soldiers returning from the outpost attacks and had appointed himself an unofficial camp cook at the temple of Moradin.

Still, Ruen was uneasy. He reminded himself that obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere and prolonging Icelin’s life was worth the risks they took, but the words didn’t give him as much comfort as they marched along increasingly narrow tunnels and left Iltkazar behind.

Icelin froze in the act of reaching for the fallen book, which now lay open to the third page, blank but for an inscription written in an elegant hand.

Icelin read the words aloud, “ ‘To my lovely Aribella, on the occasion of the end of a life.’ Strange.”

Zollgarza walked over and stood beside her. “You read Elvish?” he asked.

Icelin blinked at him. “You’re mistaken. The language is Common.” She pointed to the text. She wasn’t brave enough to pick up the book. One of the first things she’d learned in her study of magic was never touch anything magical without first knowing the nature of the magic—a lesson she’d already been reminded of with the drow rings.

Zollgarza went down on one knee and squinted at the inscription. “It appears the book alters the appearance of the text to suit the preferences of its reader. I’ve encountered such tomes before.”

“In Guallidurth?” Icelin asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Yes …” But the drow paused, uncertain, drawing out the word and staring intently at the book as if he could conjure the other from his memory.

“Was it dangerous?”

“What?”

“The tome you encountered,” Icelin said. “Did it contain harmful magic?”

“I don’t … it doesn’t matter,” Zollgarza said. “This is a different tome. It may have any number of powers or destructive magic stored in its pages.”

“The tome will do you no ill, so long as you intend no ill toward the tome,” said a woman’s voice.

Icelin and Zollgarza both jumped. The sepulchral voice seemed to come from every corner of the room at once. “Show yourself!” Zollgarza shouted. “Another one of your mind probing spells, Mith Barak?”

Ignoring the drow’s tirade, Icelin turned to see how the guards at the door reacted to the voice. There were two of them dressed in the king’s livery, and both wore gleaming mithral maces at their belts, though neither had drawn their weapons. Their gazes were fixed on Zollgarza, but other than the obvious distaste in their eyes, Icelin detected no emotion.

“Did you hear that voice?” she addressed them.

The guard standing to the left of the door nodded. “Nothing to be scared of,” he said, shooting a mocking smile in Zollgarza’s direction. His smile softened when he addressed Icelin. “It’s the king’s seneschal. She means no harm.”

“Never thought I’d hear her voice again,” the other guard said wistfully.

“Is she a spirit,” Icelin asked, “or simply invisible?”

“Better to let her explain herself,” the first guard said. “It’s … complicated.”

Soft, throaty laughter echoed from near the fire. Icelin turned and saw a dwarf woman sitting in the chair Zollgarza had occupied. She rose, spilling golden hair over her shoulders and down to her waist. The woman was shorter than most of the other dwarf women Icelin had seen, including Ingara and Joya. Her bright green eyes matched the robes she wore. The loose sleeves were lined in gold brocade, and she wore tan slippers on her feet.

“Well met,” the woman said, inclining her head. “I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes.” She approached Icelin and held out her hand. Icelin took it. She was half-surprised to find it solid. “King Mith Barak instructed me to aid you. He indicated that time was short.” The woman’s face creased with sadness. “I will be happy to render any assistance I can. I am familiar with the titles and text of every book in the library and can retrieve any tome you wish.”

“You’ve read them all?” Icelin said, stunned. “And you remember everything in them?” She wondered if the woman was afflicted with a spellscar just like her own. Icelin couldn’t imagine trying to find space enough in her head to store the knowledge of all these books. She’d go mad with the effort.

The seneschal smiled. “Yes, I remember—more accurately, instead of reading them all, I am them all.”

Zollgarza scoffed. “She is spirit, not flesh—a magical device for fetching books.” He went back to the fire and sat down, retrieving his book.

“A shame it is to have the library polluted in this fashion,” the seneschal said, eyeing the drow in disgust. She addressed Icelin. “What would you have of me?”

“Um …” Icelin didn’t know how the woman could help her, unless she knew where the Arcane Script Sphere was. But if she did, she would have surely told Mith Barak. “A few questions first, if you don’t mind?” Icelin asked. For some reason, the woman’s deep, wise gaze and aura of serenity made Icelin uneasy. She felt insignificant standing next to her, though the dwarf woman was much shorter.

“Not at all.” The woman smiled kindly. “Ask what you will.”

“Is he right?” Icelin asked, nodding at Zollgarza. The drow seemed not to be paying attention, but Icelin knew he heard their conversation. “Are you a spirit?”

“I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes,” the woman repeated. “I have knowledge and control of all the books you see.” She lifted her hand, and in response, the book on the floor rose into the air and snapped shut. It floated over to Icelin and hovered in front of her face. Hesitantly, Icelin reached up and took it. “Memories of any life I had before my time as seneschal are gone,” the woman continued. “I am bound to one of the tomes in this room, but which one, I will not name. My thoughts are full with the knowledge of thousands of ancient texts. They are enough.”

“It’s just … how long have you been here?” Icelin asked.

The seneschal smiled. “Do you mean, how long have I been here in this room, or how long have I been with King Mith Barak? In truth, I have lost count of the years. No future exists here, only the past.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, but a pang struck Icelin’s heart. No thoughts of the future—Icelin knew something of living that way. “Since I’ve been in the library, I’ve thought I heard voices, whispers,” Icelin said. “Was that your voice?”

“Not me.” The woman reached out and ran her fingers gently over the book spines on the nearest shelf. “You’re hearing their voices.”

“The books?” Icelin stammered. “You mean they—”

“Many of them are no more than what they appear,” the seneschal said. “Others are living entities, sleeping for centuries at a time, stirred awake by the breath of life—the presence of a seeker of knowledge.” The seneschal removed a tome from the shelf and pressed it to her chest reverently. She spoke a word Icelin didn’t understand, and then she returned the book to the shelf. “When they sense such a person, the pages whisper and sing, and the ink may as well be blood in living veins.”

Caught by the seneschal’s voice, Icelin couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s face. For the first time, fear of the library and this ancient spirit shivered through her body. The fire cast long, ominous shadows on the walls. Whispers that had lingered at the edge of her consciousness grew louder, more insistent. Icelin didn’t want to listen to those voices, not like this. Whatever secrets she heard, she would never be able to forget.

“You’re frightening her, spirit,” Zollgarza spoke up. “Cease with your romantic prattle and make yourself useful.”

Icelin blinked and freed herself from the seneschal’s penetrating gaze. She dipped her head, rubbing her temples, which had begun to throb.

“Forgive me,” the seneschal said, bowing. “Understand I mean you no harm. It has been a very long time since I spoke to another person like this. I fear I am out of practice.”

“No, it’s all right.” Icelin stifled a groan. She’d let herself be trampled on by a ghost—albeit a very powerful one—and had to be rescued by the drow. Ruen would be appalled.

She’d been trying not to think about him or worry about where he was at that moment. Likely, he was with one of the dwarf patrols. He might even be fighting right now. If a drow slew him, she might not find out for several days.

Stop it, she told herself. You’re here to find the sphere.

“Very good,” the seneschal said. “You have strong mental discipline for one so young and afflicted.”

“You can read my mind?” Icelin’s head snapped up. “You might have mentioned that earlier!”

“Again, forgive me.” The spirit smiled wider. “Please don’t be uneasy. I doubt any thought you entertain would surprise me.”

“What about the other books—spirits of books—in the library?” Icelin said. “Can they read thoughts too?”

“No,” the seneschal replied. “Their intellects are not so well defined. They are objects of power, presence, and memory, but only in the most primal sense. I was surprised you heard their voices so soon. However, you are not without power yourself, and as I said, they are drawn to the true seeker.”

“Is that why they remain silent to me, spirit?” Zollgarza said, smirking. “Because I am not a ‘true seeker’?”

The seneschal stared at Zollgarza coldly. “Lost child, what you seek cannot be found within this room.”

Zollgarza met her stare with a look that made Icelin shiver. “Pitiful specter, you have no idea what I’m looking for.”

“I see the emptiness in your soul,” the spirit countered. “Memories gone … pieces of yourself you long to reclaim.”

A strange thing happened then. Zollgarza’s cold mask cracked at the edges, and through the broken bits, Icelin glimpsed pain—pain and anger so intense she stifled a gasp. He tore his gaze away from the woman’s face, as if he’d also been caught by her power. Meeting Icelin’s eyes, the drow pulled the mask back into place over his features.

I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see, Icelin thought. A weakness or a desire—what was it the drow sought? Was it somehow tied to the magic that cloaked him? Judging by the mask Zollgarza had adopted, he would not speak of those desires, especially not to her. Not that it mattered. She had her own desires and her own task to complete.

“I’m ready now,” she said, addressing the spirit.

“Very well.” The spirit put a hand out, though she did not touch Icelin. “Know before you begin that great power surrounds you. There are dangers here, as well as treasures.”

“What sort of dangers?” Icelin asked. Gods, what now?

“I told you some of the books possess souls. Like any living thing, they are capable of compassion and deceit, of manipulation and regret. Some will give up all their knowledge and secrets for a kind word, while others will use any means to deny and destroy you.”

“Can’t you tell me which one is which?” Icelin said, feeling helpless.

The seneschal smiled sadly. “Can you tell that of any living being? Like the depths of any soul, they are changeable, mysterious, and sometimes frightening. Never forget to use your judgment, and you won’t go astray,” she advised. “When you are ready, tell me what knowledge you seek.”

The knowledge she sought—Icelin didn’t have to consider the question long. “The Arcane Script Sphere,” she said. “If I’m going to find it, I need to know more about it. Are there any written accounts of it in the library?”

She expected a long delay while the seneschal explored her memory. Efficient as Icelin’s mind was, the older the memory, the longer it took her to recall all the details. She started in surprise when the seneschal answered her question almost immediately.

“There are four such texts in the library,” she said. “One of these I am forbidden to share.”

“Why?” Zollgarza interjected, surprising Icelin again. She hadn’t expected him to show interest in what she asked the seneschal. Then again, he was seeking the sphere as well.

The spirit’s lips compressed in a line. She repeated, stiffly, “It is forbidden.”

Or perhaps they contained knowledge the drow could use against Iltkazar if they obtained the sphere, Icelin thought. “Can I examine the other texts?” she asked.

The seneschal lifted her hand. Two books floated down from a high shelf and settled in the air in front of her. To Icelin, they appeared to be mundane tomes, but the spirit’s warning rang loudly in her mind, so she assumed nothing. “A Contemporary View of the Arcane and The Goddess Touch, by Ignatius Meifarl,” the seneschal recited, “which contains the most detailed account. I have also included an untitled collection of observations on various powerful artifacts, including treatises on the Crown of Horns and the Death Moon Orb. There is a passage discussing the Arcane Script Sphere written by the archmage Dantheliz Thorn. The other text is protected under glass. When you have finished with these, I will show you how to read it.”

“My thanks,” Icelin said. Her fingers itched to snatch the texts out of the air, but she thought that would be impolite.

“Perhaps you’d like to read by the fire?” The seneschal made a sweeping gesture, and the books sailed across the room and made a neat stack on a table by one of the wingback chairs. A blanket lay folded beside the chair. “If you require anything further, simply call for me.” With that, she vanished as soundlessly as she’d appeared.

Icelin followed in the wake of the flying books and sat down in the chair. The leather cushion was wide enough for her to tuck her legs up, and she draped the blanket over them. The blanket and the fire chased away the chill, and the flames provided ample, if wavering, light to read by. She picked up the first book and opened the cover. As soon as she did so, the whispers lingering at the edge of her hearing quieted. Perhaps they were trying to be polite while she gave her attention to one of their fellows. Icelin smiled slightly to herself at the thought.

Before she began, she risked a glance at Zollgarza. He’d not moved from his own seat, but his book lay discarded before the hearth. He stared into the fire, his face frozen in that same stony mask. She wondered what he could be thinking. For a moment, Icelin felt a swell of pity for him, but she quickly banished the feeling. He didn’t want her pity, and it was dangerous to feel sorry for the drow. She would have to tread carefully around him.

For now, she had information in front of her, the opportunity to learn more than she ever had about the Arcane Script Sphere. Ruen would want her to take advantage of that, to do everything she could to get the sphere. Even though he’d made it clear there was no future for them together afterward.

This was what she wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Icelin closed her eyes briefly as fresh pain and doubt welled up inside her. She took another deep breath and waited for the ache to pass before she began reading.

THE HALL OF LOST VOICES

24 UKTAR

RUEN FELL ON HIS KNEES, GASPING, AND WAITED FOR the pain to pass.

It didn’t.

A second wave of dark energy slammed into him from behind. He rolled behind a rock, where a pair of dwarves and Garn had stacked stones on three sides to form a protective trench. Barbs of pain rippled along his skin, the most intense concentration focused on his left hand, where he wore a silver ring on his middle finger. Pain cramped his muscles. He clutched his hand, tried and failed to close it into a fist.

Garn saw his contorted features and knelt beside him. Streams of blood ran down the side of the runepriest’s face, but the runes tattooed into his skin glowed with a faint, white light, shining thorough the blood. He looked like a phantom, an avenging spirit.

“Take the ring off,” Garn told Ruen, but Ruen couldn’t reply, could only writhe on the floor. The dwarf grabbed his hand, trying to wrench the silver band off Ruen’s finger. Ruen stifled a scream. Gods, the pain. “What does it do?” Garn shouted next to his ear.

“Strengthens … bolsters anything that touches it.” Ruen could say no more. Deafening echoes, the sounds of close fighting, rang in the cavern. Goblins, bugbears, and the drow commanding them swarmed the Hall of Lost Voices.

Lying on his side, Ruen had a strange view of the chamber’s dominating feature. Carved dwarf faces—six of them—stared down at him from the far wall. Each carving was at least ten feet tall and five feet wide, the mouths in each face slightly open, as if they were great generals issuing commands to their troops. The Hall of Lost Voices was named for the smiths these likenesses were based on, according to Garn. He’d been able to tell Ruen a bit of the place’s history before the drow attacked.

Another wave of pain shuddered through Ruen. Garn cursed and tore the ring from his finger.

Almost immediately, the pain ebbed, and it no longer hurt to draw breath. Ruen sat up slowly, using the wall of the trench as a prop. Not ten feet away, a dwarf pelted across the chamber, chased by a web of blue-black lightning. Ruen lifted a hand feebly, as if he could will the dwarf to run faster, but he couldn’t.

The spell slammed into the dwarf, driving him to the ground. Ruen heard the warrior’s skull crack when he hit, but he was dead before that. The black lightning crawled sickly along his skin, opening up small cracks in his flesh. The air sizzled and reeked. Blood and poisonous spiders poured forth from the wounds, dozens of the creatures covered in gore.

“Godsdamn killing blasts!” Garn shouted. “Kreldorn, we’ve got another one!”

One of the other dwarves in the trench turned and muttered a short prayer. Ruen recognized it and knew to put his head down as a hail of stones appeared from nowhere, showering the dead dwarf’s mutilated body. The spiders ran from the hail of pellets, but they weren’t fast enough. The rocks crushed them. After a moment, nothing recognizable remained of the soldier’s body. The dwarves had been reduced to mutilating their own dead in order to drive back the spiders.

“Can you stand?” Garn shouted at Ruen. “We’re falling back. We’ve got to draw more of the drow into the chamber.”

Ruen dragged himself to his feet. Garn tossed him the silver ring. “Don’t put it back on yet,” he advised, “unless you want some more of that bowels-emptying pain.”

“What was it?” Ruen helped Garn and Kreldorn lift an unconscious dwarf and carry him quickly across the chamber. A hail of crossbow quarrels followed them as they took cover behind one stone outcrop after another.

“We call it the Lash,” Kreldorn growled. He was a gray-bearded dwarf with scars crisscrossing the left side of his face. “Drow spells turn all your own magic into pain.”

“Yours is worse, if that ring amplifies magic,” Garn said. “Don’t put it back on until the battle is over.”

Ruen could see no such end in sight. Dwarf and goblin corpses tangled their feet as they fell back to a more fortified position beneath the carvings on the wall. Ruen tripped over a bugbear corpse and scraped his knee against the ground. He had to push off the creature’s body to lever himself to his feet.

His hands traced rough, scarred flesh. Ruen glanced down and saw a livid mark carved into the dead creature’s flesh. He thought it might have been a slave mark, indicating which House the bugbear belonged to, but the carving ran in intricate lines and whorls all across the slave’s back. The drow would not be so elaborate in marking their property. He didn’t have time to ponder it further, though. The drow were mustering for another assault. They gave the unconscious dwarf over to the clerics for healing and dived for cover.

Spell glows illuminated the stone faces in eerie white light. Ruen blinked, realizing that at least some of the spells cast in advance of the army were aimed at the carvings. A breath later, he understood why.

Spiders erupted from the mouth holes, the noses, and the eyes of the carved faces. Summoned from some dark, undisturbed hole by drow magic, Ruen thought, but then he remembered the rings, their ability to conjure illusory spiders. These must be similar spells, designed to create the illusion of a spider swarm and an impossible number of targets the dwarves couldn’t hope to eradicate. All of it carefully calculated to destroy the defenders’ morale.

“They’re coming! Beat them back! They’ll eat us alive!”

The scream came from a dwarf feebly crawling among the rocks on the battlefield. An axe slash had ripped open her thigh. She held the torn flesh together with one hand and dragged herself across the floor with the other.

Ruen cursed. In the quickness of their retreat, they hadn’t been able to collect all the wounded. Dozens of dwarf and drow corpses littered the battlefield, and now the spiders swarmed among them, covering their bodies. It didn’t matter whether they were real or not, not to the wounded and dying soldiers who imagined their flesh covered with swarms of hairy bodies.

The cavern they’d been fighting in was a mile long at this point but not so wide, with intermittent stalactites and stalagmites, many of which had been smashed by drow magic or the sheer pressure of so many bodies fighting together in the restricted space. The drow gathered at the opposite end of the chamber, near the widest tunnel, but only fifty or so slaves and their masters were visible. There was no way to tell how much of an army waited behind those front lines. If they tried to go back for the wounded, they’d be fodder for crossbow quarrels.

“No, get them off!” The screams of the wounded filled the chamber, and on their heels came the sound of delighted goblin squeals and the drow’s smoky laughter.

“Keep your heads in the fight! They’re shadows—nothing more!” cried Garn. Ingara and Arngam had spread the word about the illusions, but the sight of hundreds of the eight-legged creatures scuttling across the surface of the carved stone faces was enough to send a shudder of revulsion through Ruen, and he didn’t have the emotional connection to the carvings the dwarves did.

The Hall of Lost Voices was not just a mining outpost. Garn had told him that the most famous dwarf smiths of Iltkazar—all of them gone now—had their faces engraved in the stones, a reminder to the miners what their sweat and sacrifices had ultimately done for the people in giving them the best armor and the finest weapons to defend their homes and families. The miners, smiths, and warriors together were the soul of the people.

Souls that were slowly being consumed by the Spider Queen’s army.

“Moradin! Strike these vermin down for their defilement!” shrieked Kreldorn, a wild light gleaming in his eyes.

The rest of the soldiers took up the shout, mingled with the screams of horror and pain from the wounded. The woman with the thigh wound let go of her flesh and jumped to her feet, screaming, “Iltkazar!” Phantom spiders covered her bleeding leg. She charged across the cavern, toward the drow army.

“Felsa!” screamed one of the dwarves near Ruen. He started to go after her, but Garn grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Let her have her way,” he said. “It’s her choice how she goes.”

Across the cavern, Felsa stumbled. Ruen caught a black flash out of the corner of his eye, as two crossbow quarrels tore into the woman’s neck. She fell on her stomach and died with her mace stretched out before her like an offering to her god. Ruen watched the blood pool beneath her.

“You well enough to be on your feet?” Garn said, pulling Ruen’s gaze away from the woman’s body.

“I’m fine,” Ruen said. He assessed his injuries. He’d taken a blow to the head from a bugbear’s club, and there was a faint ringing in his ears from all the noise in the cavern, but the pain from the drow spell was gone, leaving only a slight tremor in his hands. Ruen clenched a fist, closed his eyes, and took several breaths to calm his racing heartbeat. The chamber reeked of blood and bugbear musk, a thick animal stench that Ruen thought he would never be able to wash off his skin.

“Godsdamn dismal way to fight,” Garn said. He cast his gaze over the battlefield—looking for Obrin, Ruen surmised. Father and son separated soon after the battle began. Though Garn hadn’t mentioned him, Ruen could tell by the way the Blackhorn patriarch clutched his axe that his thoughts were with his son.

“There are dozens of us here and in the cavern to the south, and others who’ve fallen back with the wounded down the side passages,” Ruen said. “Obrin could be with them.”

“He won’t fall back, not unless he’s unconscious and they’re dragging his body away from the fight,” Garn said.

“Here they come!”

The shout came from the front lines. Ruen looked up to see bugbears and goblins swarming across the cavern. In response, a chorus of battle cries deafened Ruen as the dwarves surged up from their stone trenches.

Garn stood, opened his arms, and cried, “Give me your strength, Soul Forger. Father of the deep places and sacred stone, give me aid!”

Massive stones the dwarves had piled up as protection rose suddenly in the air and hovered ominously over the battlefield. Garn took a step forward, and the stones moved with him.

The attacking slaves saw the floating stones and staggered, breaking their charge. Behind them, the drow hissed and screamed in Undercommon, sending out webs of black lightning to prod them. They charged ahead, not so frenzied now, instead moving hesitantly, and let the dwarves slam into their lines in a crush of steel.

With a grim smile, Garn took another step forward. He swayed on his feet.

He’s weak, and it’s taking all his concentration to maintain the spell, Ruen realized. He stood and took up a protective stance ahead and slightly to the right of Garn. “I’m here,” he murmured. “Mind your spell. I won’t let them touch you.”

On impulse, he bent and slid his silver ring onto the dwarf’s smallest finger. Using it was a risk, but if Ruen was right about what Garn was about to do with his spell, it would give them an advantage.

Garn’s eyes widened as Ruen slid the ring over his knuckle, and a broad smile spread across his face.

“Let’s have some fun, then,” Garn said in a strained whisper. He made a fist and punched the air. One of the larger stones shot across the cavern, hit the ground rolling, and plowed into a group of four goblins, two of whom were killed instantly. Garn moved forward and wiggled his fingers, sending a hail of smaller stones against a charging pack of bugbears. They went down under the force of the smaller pellets hurled at lightning-fast speeds.

But the attacking force came in fast. Ruen spun to face a drow soldier darting toward Garn like an obsidian shadow, a rapier drawn and ready in his hand. The drow saw him and lunged, but Ruen slid to his knees, coming up beneath the drow’s guard. Energy and focus hummed from all his extremities. Ruen gathered the energy and drew it inward, funneling it all to his right hand.

Thinking, Everything is energy, he breathed in and out, and the power moved within him, building and swelling until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

Ruen drove his open palm into the side of the warrior’s leg. Dimly, he sensed the impact of the drow’s armor against his hand, but the pain he should have felt was absorbed by the energy and sloughed off harmlessly.

His punch was anything but harmless. Bone snapped, and the drow staggered, crying out in agony. Ruen came smoothly to his feet and thrust his other hand against the drow’s rapier hilt, pushing it above his head and away from Garn, the drow’s intended target.

Now that they were standing face-to-face, Ruen could look the drow in the eye. He saw the pain and hatred in the warrior’s face, but he also glimpsed a deadly resolve Ruen hadn’t counted on. Bones in the drow’s leg were shattered, but he would crawl on his belly to reach Garn if he had to. Ruen read that truth in the drow’s eyes.

His right hand tangled with Ruen’s as they fought for control of the rapier, and the drow used his left to fumble at his belt for a dagger. Ruen stamped viciously on the drow’s foot, and the warrior howled in pain. He started to fall, and Ruen tried to step out of the way.

Too late, he realized it was a feint. The drow leaped forward, wrapping his arms around Ruen’s waist. They hit the floor, but Ruen had the drow in strength. He flipped them, putting the drow on his back. The drow’s head cracked against the floor, leaving him stunned for a breath.

It was enough. Ruen reared back and drove his fist into the drow’s chest. He poured all his pent-up energy into the strike and felt it reverberate through the drow’s armor, a wave that passed through flesh, shattering ribs and breastbone. The killing wave reached the drow’s heart, and through his spellscar, Ruen felt the drow’s death a breath before the drow did. The coldness, the cracks in the drow’s life force, spread out from that one central point where his fist made impact. The warrior’s eyes widened, he opened his mouth, and then his gaze became a fixed stare. His rapier clattered to the floor.

Ruen rolled off the drow, shoving the body away from him. His hands tingled as if they’d been asleep. It was a familiar feeling, unpleasant but hardly alarming. It happened every time his monk abilities interacted with his spellscar.

The breath of life and the aura of death. Death always proved stronger, in the end, and it was no different this time. Cold seized his body, and his bones ached from fighting without his ring.

Ruen tried to ignore the sensations and sprang to his feet. Garn had moved a few feet away, hurling more rocks at the enemy. It was as if a storm had enveloped the chamber. Mighty cracks of thunder shook the foundations of the cavern each time the runepriest cast a stone down on his enemies. Garn’s eyes glowed with the light of his spell. Those same glows outlined the runes on his face, making him look more and more like an avenging spirit.

The enemy had taken notice as well. The slaves cringed and ran from the hovering death that moved inexorably across the cavern. The drow did not run, but Ruen saw their wizards gathered near the tunnel mouth, watching Garn’s progress.

They’ll turn all their spells loose on him in a moment, Ruen thought. He makes too big a target.

He didn’t have time to warn Garn. A pair of drow warriors charged the runepriest. Crouching low, Ruen ran to intercept them. He flung out his arms and caught both drow at the chest. The impact shot burning pain into his shoulders, but the drow’s forward momentum halted, and they both went down.

Fragile, Ruen thought. These drow aren’t brawlers, and they’re not used to these kinds of attacks, blows that go through their fine armor.

Ruen knew he couldn’t keep up his defense of Garn forever. He called out for aid, and several dwarves stopped their charge and fell back to form a protective perimeter around the runepriest.

“That’s right, you dogs, run!” Garn screamed in fury as more drow and bugbears fell before him. His voice carried on the thunder of falling rocks. Shaking all over, he thrust his fists into the air.

Ruen fell into a crouch, sweeping the legs out from under another drow. They were attacking side by side with the slaves, but the enemy spells he’d expected hadn’t yet come. What were they waiting for? Ruen tried to see the tunnel mouth, but the shower of rocks and the close press of bodies and flashing weapons made it impossible to see the drow at the far end of the battlefield.

Distracted, Ruen saw the blade slicing at him out of the corner of his eye only just in time. He ducked, but the axe bit deep into his flesh. Ruen swung around and grabbed the bugbear’s wrist, twisting its arm behind its back. The creature squealed and dropped its weapon. Ruen brought his hand back, aiming for a blow to the bugbear’s spine. He halted in mid-strike.

Beneath the creature’s filthy, blood-splattered armor, he glimpsed a familiar marking carved into the bugbear’s flesh. Unlike the dead bugbear he’d seen earlier, this slave’s mark glowed faintly and pulsed with a blood-red light.

Instead of striking the creature, Ruen forced it to its knees, careful to keep pressure on its axe arm to hold it in place. With his other hand, he ripped the flimsy armor aside to get a better look at the rune. It was obviously magical, but he had no idea what it meant.

Glancing across the battlefield, Ruen noticed a pattern he hadn’t seen before. Dread swelled in his stomach. The goblin slaves fought mostly together, not counting the creatures that broke ranks and ran from Garn’s hail of stones. But the bugbears fought scattered throughout the cavern, spaced evenly amongst the dwarf attackers, as if they’d been assigned to those places.

“Garn!” Ruen shouted, frantic, but there was no way for the dwarf to hear him. He shoved the bugbear to the ground and forced it on its back. Ruen took out his dagger and pressed it to the creature’s throat. “What are your masters planning?” he growled in Undercommon. The creature whimpered and stared at him blankly, its face creased in pain. Ruen punched the bugbear. Bright blood welled up around the creature’s mouth. It squeezed its eyes shut, tensing for another blow.

Ruen cursed, digging his hands into the creature’s filthy tunic. He reached up and laid his palm flat against the creature’s cheek. The bugbear’s eyes widened with fear. It expected violence, but that wasn’t Ruen’s aim. He felt his spellscar react to the creature’s flesh. The bugbear’s heartbeat surged through him, strong, yet wild and fearful. Ruen gasped at the burning red pain he felt from creature’s shattered arm. He pushed forward, past the pain, seeking—there!

A blemish spread throughout the creature’s body, a creeping darkness in the shape of a spider’s web—or perhaps that was merely Ruen’s perception of it, compounded by his fury and dread.

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.”

The 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?”

“Almost,” Sull said. He affected weariness, but the pride was clearly discernible in his voice. “Joya had me helping out with the wounded. We’re set up in Haela Brightaxe’s old temple, and I was bringin’ food over two, sometimes three times a day. I didn’t really have anyone to cook for since Garn and Obrin left, and Ingara spends all her time at the forge.” Sull looked affronted. “Well then, what do you think happens? Ingara shows up and wants me to help with the cookin’ for her wedding feast. She said they weren’t plannin’ to have any food at all because of supply shortages. They were just goin’ to drink. Then Ingara said since I loved to cook so much and had a bit of talent makin’ a little bit of food go a long way, could I cook for her wedding?” Sull’s chest puffed up with pride. “How could I say no to that? Not have a feast on a weddin’ day—rubbish, that’s what that is. I don’t care if there’s a battle comin’.”

“Of course. But what’s this?” Icelin said, pointing to the pot. “Surely you’re not cooking already.”

“Ah, this is just a test batch,” Sull replied. “Goin’ to feed it to the wounded.” He glanced anxiously in the direction the dwarves had gone. “Think they’ll be comin’ back soon?”

“Don’t count on it,” Icelin said, grinning. “It’s good to see you, Sull. I’ve missed your grousing.”

“Anything’s better than that drow you’re shut up with.”

The butcher looked down at his hands. Something in his tone, the slump of his shoulders, caught Icelin’s attention. Fear stirred in her belly. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothin’ to be worried about yet,” Sull said hastily, but his guilty expression made Icelin’s heart speed up.

“What is it? What have you heard, Sull?” she demanded.

“Well …” Sull hesitated, and then he uttered a weary sigh. “Joya mentioned … well, you knew Garn and Obrin had gone out with Ruen and a bunch of other soldiers to secure the Hall of Lost Voices,” he said.

Icelin waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, I knew they were going on a scouting mission, but I thought they’d be back by now. What happened?”

“Some scouts brought word a little while ago that they fought with the drow in the Hall, and it was a big one,” Sull said. “There was some kind of explosion, and it sealed off the tunnels between there and Iltkazar.”

“Explosion?” Icelin felt lightheaded. “What happened to Iltkazar’s forces? Were they caught in the blast?”

“Nobody knows,” Sull said. “They’re tunnelin’ through to send reinforcements. We won’t know anythin’ until they clear the debris and make sure the tunnels are safe.”

“Ruen’s with them.” Icelin didn’t know why she said it. Of course, Sull knew that. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner, as soon as you found out?” she said, her voice rising. “We have to do something, go after them.”

“Icelin,” Sull said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “They’re already doin’ everythin’ they can. We just have to wait.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Icelin said, trying to quell the panic that gripped her. “All this time, I’ve been in the library reading, sitting in front of a warm fire like nothing was wrong, while Ruen …” She couldn’t finish. For all she knew, Ruen could be dead, his body lying somewhere in a dark cave. Maybe the dark elves had taken him prisoner, the way the dwarves took Zollgarza. What would they do to him? Hands trembling, Icelin covered her mouth. She thought she might be sick.

“It’s where he wanted you to be,” Sull insisted. “You’re helpin’ Ruen by gettin’ the sphere.”

No, I’m not, Icelin wanted to scream. She was no closer to finding the sphere than she had been when she’d first set foot in the library. All that time, she should have been out there with Ruen.

“What about the king?” Icelin asked.

“What about him?”

“I’ve heard the dwarves whispering about him, how he sits in his empty hall alone day after day.” Icelin spread her hands, encompassing the plaza. “Will he sit there, worrying about Zollgarza and what he might be plotting, while all this is wiped away? While his soldiers are dying in the Underdark?”

“Keep your voice down, lass.” Sull looked around, uneasy. A few of the dwarves had paused in their work to stare at them. “You can’t speak of their leader that way in their own home.”

“Then let him lead!” Icelin snapped. “Let him come out and show his face to his people—give them hope.”

Sull raised his hands in a placating gesture. “From what Joya’s told me, he has reasons for being the way he is.”

“You mean because that drow—Zollgarza—tried to assassinate him?” Icelin said. “But he’s still—”

“That’s not it,” Sull interrupted her. He guided Icelin over to a bench set against the temple wall and sat down beside her. “Joya told me the king’s been fightin’ the drow for a long time, ten times longer than you or I’ve been alive. He’s worn down with it and with seein’ his city taken apart bit by bit.”

Icelin felt a stab of sympathy for the king, but at the same time, she couldn’t understand him. Perhaps it was the difference between being a dwarf and a human. “He carries a heavy burden, but if it’s too much to bear, he should set it aside for another, for the good of his people.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sull said. He shook his head and chuckled suddenly. “Look at the two of us, discussin’ dwarf politics, kings, and war.”

“A butcher and a shop girl from South Ward,” Icelin murmured, laying her head against Sull’s shoulder. “We’re in the middle of something too big, something neither of us fully understands, but I want to know all the same. Why is it more complicated?”

“Something happened to the king a few years ago,” Sull said, dropping his voice even though they were quite alone in the shadow of the temple. “Joya doesn’t speak of it readily, but being among the wounded and the dead has loosened her tongue. Joya said the king is different from other dwarves. He rules the city for only a quarter of every century.”

Icelin’s brow furrowed. “Only twenty-five years? What does he do for the other seventy-five? Does he leave the city?” Somehow, it didn’t fit with what she knew of King Mith Barak. Why would he abandon the city for so long?

“He stays in the city, but he ‘goes to the stone,’ ” Sull said. “Joya didn’t explain it all, but I figure it’s something to do with his god, Moradin. He transforms into a mithral statue and stays that way, locked in stone, for seventy-five years at a time.”

Icelin lifted her head to stare at Sull, stunned. “Gods,” she breathed, “but why? I’ve never heard of a ritual to any god lasting so long. Why would he leave his city for so long without a leader?”

“A regency council rules in his place while he sleeps,” Sull said, shrugging. “Only, something happened the last time he went to the stone. On the day he was supposed to wake up, he didn’t. Joya said it was awful, frightening. No matter what they tried to rouse him, he stayed in his statue form. Nothing like that had ever happened before.”

“But he woke up eventually,” Icelin said. “How long did he stay a statue?”

“Joya didn’t say, but I got the feelin’ it was a long time,” Sull said. “When he finally woke, he was … different. He’s still king, and strong, but Joya says there are shadows around him now that weren’t there before. The stone took something from him.”

“He didn’t say what had happened to him?” Icelin asked. “Didn’t his people demand an explanation?”

“They’ve enough to worry about with the drow,” Sull said. “Maybe they were just glad to have their leader back.”

Icelin tried to imagine it, a king locked in stone for years. It was a bard’s tale, if she’d ever heard one. She’d never have believed it if Sull hadn’t heard it from Joya. If the king removed himself from his city for so long, how could he truly claim to be a part of it? How could one person, even one as old and wise as Mith Barak, rule Iltkazar when he existed half in the world and half in stone?

“Yet his people are loyal,” Icelin murmured. “What if he’s no longer fit to rule? Will they follow him to their own destruction?”

“I don’t know—maybe,” Sull said, his eyes filling with sadness. “The dwarves are tradition and honor bound, and they need their king now more than ever if they’re going to survive.”

But at what cost? Icelin thought. Ruen and an entire patrol of dwarf soldiers were missing, the city echoed with silence, and Mith Barak stood apart, believing a single drow was the key to it all. Was that true, or was the king losing touch with the world, with his people? Icelin’s mind was more troubled than ever, and she knew she had to go back to the library. She didn’t want to face her task now. It was small in comparison to what the dwarves faced—the extinction of one life compared to the destruction of an entire people, an entire history.

She hadn’t been reading about just the Arcane Script Sphere. She’d read about Iltkazar and Shanatar too. The names of dwarf kings, smiths, and scholars were a part of her now. She wouldn’t forget them, but in the end, what was that preservation truly worth? Death would come for her, too, and the knowledge would still be lost. One thing was certain in all her readings: cities fall and great civilizations end. Was that to be Iltkazar’s fate? If so, who would be left to remember the people who’d lived here and worked the stone?

All of this filled her mind, but her fear for Ruen overrode everything. Gods, please don’t let him be dead, she prayed silently. She’d lost too many people close to her—her parents, whom she’d never gotten to know, and her great-uncle, taken from her far too soon. Now Ruen.

“Making me worry like this, weeping and blubbering—one thing’s certain, Sull,” Icelin said, her voice quivering. “When Ruen gets back, you’ll have to hold me back from throttling him.” When Sull chuckled, she added, “I mean it this time.”

“Oh, I believe you, lass,” Sull said, “but I won’t be holdin’ you back. I’ll be gettin’ a good seat to watch.”

The seneschal placed the book on the table in front of Zollgarza. The black cover bore a single onyx gem nestled in gold embellishments, and a forked black ribbon marked the section where some unknown reader had left off. The reader was likely dead now, Zollgarza thought, but then perhaps so am I, if this is another of the king’s plots.

He reached for the book, but the seneschal’s voice stopped him.

“Will you not wait until she returns?”

She referred to Icelin, of course. Zollgarza scoffed at the notion. “What difference could her presence possibly make?” he said. “If I’m to go mad, as you claim is a distinct possibility, she can’t save me, nor would she want to.”

“Isn’t it preferable, even for one such as you, to go into the unknown with someone by your side?” the seneschal asked. “While she is present, you will know you are not alone.”

“You’re mistaken. ‘Alone’ to me means safety, Seneschal,” Zollgarza replied. “It means there is no knife poised at my back, no enemy waiting to take advantage of a weakness.”

“Icelin is not a drow. Her sense of treachery does not stand as a virtue,” the seneschal pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter. Vice or virtue, when it comes to survival, everyone has a drow heart,” Zollgarza said.

He flipped open the book. What he’d been expecting, Zollgarza couldn’t truly say. He’d avoided thinking about the consequences of delving into the tome, focusing instead on the seneschal’s promise of clarity and certainty.

If this tome will tell me who I am, he thought. I will risk madness. I will embrace it.

The first page of the book was blank. Zollgarza scowled and flipped to the next. Blank. He turned the pages rapidly, searching for the words, but there were none. “Are you playing with me?” He whirled angrily on the seneschal, but she was gone. Zollgarza slammed his fist against the tabletop.

He picked up the book, intending to cast it into the fire, but he stopped. Shifting his grip, he held the book open flat on his palms. He thought he must have been imagining what he was seeing.

The book’s pages stood upright—held by an unseen force. Zollgarza reached out with his index finger to touch a page. It turned over slowly, ever so slowly, and fell from the right side of the book to the left.

Zollgarza released the breath he’d been holding. The air felt different—heavier, somehow. Dust motes drifted in front of his face, hanging like miniature stars, crystal clear. He reached up to touch one, and the ground dropped out from underneath him. A dark void yawned, and Zollgarza felt himself falling, his stomach heaving.

A trap. I should have known.

He landed in a crouch on a cold stone floor. Zollgarza instinctively reached for weapons he did not have and turned in a quick circle, looking for enemies.

The library had vanished. He was in a room lit by bluish arcane light. The source was an altar at the back of the room. Zollgarza rose to his feet, but he felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever. He recognized that altar. Once he’d run his hands over the symbols carved upon the obsidian surface, symbols now outlined in fresh blood.

But when? When had he done these things? This was a priestess’s private chamber—he knew that as surely as he recognized the texture of the altar and the lingering camphor scent of incense—a sanctuary where a drow of his rank would never be allowed to go. Yet everything about it felt familiar, welcoming, as if he were coming home.

“Kneel,” said a voice from the darkness.

Zollgarza tensed. Was that Fizzri’s voice? No, this was deeper, colder. Pulled from the darkness, the voice crawled over his skin, a seductive whisper, and a command so forceful Zollgarza felt his knees give way before it. In a breath, he was on the ground with his back to the altar.

A figure stepped from the shadows. Zollgarza recognized it and fell prostrate upon the floor.

“Mother Lolth!”

The yochlol smiled at Zollgarza. She was the goddess’s handmaiden, a demon appearing as a young drow female with silky white hair, a form-fitting black dress with the figure of a spider belted at her waist, and a necklace of diamonds that glittered in the arcane light. She stood before Zollgarza’s prostrate body. The scent of night-blooming flowers wafted from her, but there was an underlying odor, a hint of decay.

Bending, she lifted Zollgarza’s chin and forced him to look into her bottomless red eyes. “Why are you asking questions, child? Why are you so lost?”

“I want to know who I am.” It hurt to speak, to look at her. She was a beautiful, all-encompassing creature, and in a breath, she could devour him, taking all the pieces that were left of his mind.

“You are Zollgarza.” The yochlol’s breath ghosted over his face, that same rich smell of flowers and rot, sweet and terrible. “Loyal servant of the Spider Queen.”

“My memories …”

“Do not think on the past,” the yochlol purred, but there was a note of warning in her voice, a deepening of her crimson gaze. “The past clouds your purpose. Identity, self—these mean nothing to the Spider Queen. You must surrender them to her greater glory.”

“I … but there is such emptiness. The void threatens to consume me.” Those places where identity and self dwell, they were gone. If he couldn’t fill them, he had to know why they’d been taken. “I must give the void meaning. I must know my purpose,” Zollgarza begged.

“You’ve failed in your purpose,” the yochlol said, her gaze turning hard. “Mith Barak lives, and you’ve failed to obtain the Arcane Script Sphere.”

“Forgive me,” Zollgarza said. “The dwarves should have killed me, yet I live. My failure in the eyes of Lolth should have meant my death, yet I live. What is the purpose of it?” His voice shook. “Am I meant to be trapped—caged—forever? Is that my fate? I beg you, Lolth, don’t waste me like this! Don’t damn me to a dwarven prison. I can be so much more to you.”

His voice gave out, and he collapsed, pressing his forehead against the ground at the handmaiden’s feet. The yochlol walked past him, pausing before the altar to run her hand over the blood-filled carvings. Zollgarza followed her with his eyes, not daring to breathe, to hope that she would show him mercy. Lolth was not merciful, but she might give him a second chance if she thought him worthy.

“Is that what you believe?” the handmaiden purred. She lifted her hand from the altar, examining the fresh blood on her fingers. Inhaling the scent, she closed her eyes and with obvious pleasure, licked the blood from her fingers. “Do you believe the goddess sees in you a worthy servant?”

Zollgarza raised himself to his knees and parted the folds of his dark tunic to expose his chest. “I would spill my lifeblood for her. She has only to ask.”

The handmaiden laughed—a hard, cruel sound that echoed in the quiet chamber. “And what is that worth, foolish male?” She held up her bloodstained fingers. “This is the blood of a thousand priestesses, beloved of the goddess, mingled upon the altar to Lolth’s glory. They, too, shed blood willingly for Lolth. Do you claim your blood is purer than theirs?”

“I …” The denial stuck in his throat. Questioning the goddess’s view was not only forbidden but would likely result in a slow and excruciatingly painful death. Yet the words burned in his throat, and the urge to shout a denial, to scream at the demon that she had no idea of what greatness he was capable. Instead, he bowed low again to the handmaiden. “I know my place,” he said through gritted teeth, “but I can be more—to Lolth.”

“Perhaps,” the yochlol said. “But not as you are now. In this form, you are beneath her notice and caring. When you spill your blood and lie dying upon the floor, screaming Lolth’s name, she will not be there to comfort you.”

“Why?” The scream burst from Zollgarza’s soul. He was unable to contain it. Let the handmaiden damn him. Do what she will. He needed answers, or he truly would go mad. “Why won’t the goddess accept my offering? Why am I not worthy?”

“Because you are still becoming.” The yochlol knelt before him and put her hand on his stomach. She let her fingers explore his flesh, drifting below his belt, nails digging in, penetrating his armor as if it were silk. Zollgarza closed his eyes and moaned as the pain and pleasure crashed over him. “You are a child, unable to comprehend what lies ahead.” She grabbed his flesh and twisted savagely.

This time the pain was so blinding, Zollgarza could not find it in himself to scream. He stared at the demon servant of Lolth, begging with his eyes, pleading for answers or for an end to it all.

“Don’t worry,” the handmaiden purred as Zollgarza’s awareness slipped in and out. “You’re almost there. You’re standing at the edge of the gulf. Remember the sphere, Zollgarza. The sphere is the key to finding what you seek. I will make sure you do not forget this.”

The pain came again.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

25 UKTAR

ICELIN REENTERED THE LIBRARY JUST AS A PIERCING scream filled the air. The cry of pain and anguish ripped from Zollgarza’s throat. He stood up on his knees, his back to the fire, arms raised in supplication. He appeared to be staring at—or through—Icelin.

Beside him, the seneschal watched the drow with an impassive expression. When Icelin came into the room, she looked up.

“He is in the grip of The Black Tome,” she explained.

A chill passed through Icelin. “It’s driving him mad.”

“I warned him what the outcome could be,” the seneschal said. “Whether he comes back or not is up to him.”

Zollgarza’s anguished expression as he reached out to clasp the empty air pulled at Icelin’s heart. She took an involuntary step toward the drow.

“Can he hear me?” Icelin asked. “Zollgarza, can you look at me?”

“He won’t regard you,” the seneschal said. “His mind—”

Just then, Icelin stepped closer—too close. Zollgarza swung toward her and snatched her by the wrists.

Icelin gasped and tried to pull away, but the drow, small as he was, was much stronger. He yanked her down until she, too, was on her knees, at eye level with him.

“Tell me why,” Zollgarza said. “Beloved servant, demon—” his voice broke. “Tell me who I am!”

“Zollgarza, it’s me—Icelin.” Icelin’s wrists ached where he held her. They’d be bruised later. Behind her, she heard the clank of armor and weapons bursting free from their scabbards. The guards were coming. “Wait!” Icelin cried as they flanked Zollgarza and pressed their blade tips against his throat. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Our orders were clear,” said the guard closest to Icelin. “If he harms you, he dies.”

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this, Icelin realized, maybe praying for it, for Zollgarza to give him a reason to cut him down.

“He’s done nothing yet,” Icelin said. “Stand down.”

Zollgarza, for his part, ignored the deadly steel pressed against his throat. His entire being focused on Icelin’s face. What did he see when he looked at her? Love and hate warred on his features. Was he seeing another drow, a woman he’d once loved? It didn’t fit with what she knew of the race or of Zollgarza himself. The drow trusted no one, loved nothing so deeply, except perhaps their Spider Queen. Their faith in Lolth was the driving force behind their society.

“Hear me, Zollgarza,” Icelin said. She bit her lip, hesitating. Did she dare try to reach him? If something didn’t happen soon, it was clear the guards would act. Icelin had no love for Zollgarza, but she also had no desire to see him slaughtered right in front of her.

Or maybe you’re just afraid he’ll die before you’re able to fulfill Mith Barak’s request, a small, spiteful voice inside her whispered.

Steeling herself, Icelin leaned closer to the drow. “Hear your goddess, Zollgarza,” she whispered.

Zollgarza sucked in a breath. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Icelin didn’t know whether he’d heard her or if the hallucination still trapped him. The dwarves exchanged tense glances, and the seneschal looked on with something that might have been approval in her fathomless eyes.

“Zollgarza, you must free yourself from this,” Icelin said. “It’s not real. Your goddess calls you. Come back.”

“I have killed for you—in your name, always,” Zollgarza sobbed. Icelin quelled a wave of revulsion. “But all I want … I want—”

“To know yourself,” Icelin whispered. “Yes.” Gods give her strength. “It’s all right. Come back now. Come back.”

Zollgarza uttered a choked, inarticulate cry and pulled Icelin against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. Dwarven sword tips hovered in the air next to Icelin’s head, but the guards seemed at a loss as to what to do. They’d clearly never expected this reaction.

They weren’t the only ones, Icelin thought. She crouched awkwardly on the floor as Zollgarza crushed her against him and cried into her hair.

“He seeks the truth of his own identity,” the seneschal murmured. “But it is that very identity that Lolth requires him to sacrifice. Will he choose his goddess or himself?” She raised her hands, and The Black Tome appeared between them. The onyx jewel in the center of the cover winked in the firelight.

Icelin didn’t have time to wonder at the meaning of the seneschal’s pronouncement. A change swept over Zollgarza’s body all at once. His muscles went rigid, and his sobs cut off abruptly. He’s come out of his hallucination. The thought passed through Icelin’s mind an instant before Zollgarza shoved her violently away from him.

She landed on her backside on the rug. The cushion softened the impact, but the breath rushed out of her, and Icelin sat, dazed, trying to regain her composure.

She might have been nonplussed, but Zollgarza was a wreck. Chest heaving, he tried to scramble away—from Icelin, from the dwarves, or from his hallucination, Icelin couldn’t be sure, but he had nowhere to run. The fire blazed hot at his back. Dwarven steel pressed in on him right and left. In the end he simply crouched in their midst like a trapped animal, hatred and defiance radiating from his tear-stained face.

Icelin rose shakily to her feet. She turned away from the scene and went to the long table. She laid her hands on its surface and breathed in and out to clear her head. “We won’t be needing you now,” she told the guards. “You have my thanks, but please, return to your places.”

“Aye,” said one of the guards. “We’ll need to tell the king what happened here,” he told his partner as they sheathed their weapons.

“No need,” said a voice from across the room.

Icelin looked up sharply to see the king standing in the doorway. Mith Barak stared at them all, his face a stone mask, unreadable. Icelin wondered how much of the scene he had witnessed.

“Are you all right?” the king asked, gazing at Icelin.

“I’m fine,” Icelin replied.

Mith Barak nodded curtly and backed out of the doorway.

He’s going to leave, Icelin thought. The king of Iltkazar would retreat to his hall to do … what? Hide from the world and ignore the war that descended upon them all? His people were dying. Ruen was …

Something snapped inside Icelin. “Coward!” she yelled.

Mith Barak froze in the doorway. Dead silence took over the room, broken only by the shifting logs in the fireplace.

Ruen was right, Icelin thought. My tongue will be the death of me. So be it. “Why do you retreat?” she demanded. “Do you know how many folk are counting on you? Do you care? Where is the king of Iltkazar? What happened to him?”

Mith Barak stared at her. For an instant, his expression distorted, offering a glimpse of pain that smote Icelin’s heart. But before she could speak, Mith Barak turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

It was the last reaction she’d expected. The guards obviously thought so as well, for they exchanged uneasy glances as they returned to their posts by the door.

The seneschal glided up to Icelin. Icelin thought for a moment the dwarf woman was going to touch her, but she did not. She placed The Black Tome carefully on the table. “You’ve seen now what this can do,” she said calmly, as if Icelin’s outburst with the king had not taken place. “Will you use it to seek your answers?”

Tearing her thoughts away from the king, Icelin glanced at the book. The cover and spine were beautiful, the supple black leather and the gem nesting within. There was nothing threatening about that cover, but Icelin knew better. For some reason, she was terribly weary. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a tenday.

“What will I gain from that book?” she said, not really addressing the seneschal. “Will I discover truths I didn’t want to face? I’ve already done that. Will I find the answer to what I’m seeking? I thought I wanted the Arcane Script Sphere, that Mystra or whatever piece of her is left in the artifact, was the answer, but it’s not.” She looked at the seneschal and felt a pain pierce her. “It’s not.”

“What is it you want?” the dwarf woman asked gently.

“I want to stop.” Icelin said. Her voice was calm and cold, remote. “Ruen is lost to me, maybe dead. All he wanted was to find a cure for my spellscar. I told him I would get the Arcane Script Sphere, but I don’t want it anymore.” Icelin closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “How can I worry about one life when an entire city stands on the brink of destruction? So much of my life has been taken up with that godsdamned spellscar, and I’m tired of it! Whether I die tomorrow or live another twenty years, I don’t want to give another breath or thought to that spellscar. I want to put that part of my life away and start anew. Yet, Ruen—” after all he’d done for her, she felt like every word she spoke was a betrayal of him. “Am I a terrible person for wanting that?”

“I can’t answer your question.” The seneschal lifted her hand and let it hover over the tome. The book disappeared, sent back to whatever high, hidden shelf from which she’d pulled it. She smiled approvingly at Icelin. “You have wisdom beyond that of many your age and older. It will serve you well.” Her voice and form faded, and Icelin was alone in the room, with only Zollgarza and the guards.

Icelin straightened. She had to leave. There was nothing left in this library for her, except … she turned to Zollgarza, but the drow stood with his back to her, staring at the fire.

He was never more dangerous than he is right now, Icelin thought. I can’t approach him, even with the guards standing watch. She’d invaded the most private spaces of his mind, places Mith Barak had not even seen. He might want to kill her now as much as he wanted to kill the king.

She turned and quietly walked to the door. Her hand on the knob, she heard the drow call out to her.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “You’ve got what you came for, have you?” The hatred in his voice pressed on Icelin like a physical weight, a sickness. “Well, enjoy your bit of peace. I hope for nothing now except that my people slaughter every dwarf in this city. They will kill your protector slowly and make him scream for mercy they will never show.” He paused. “And if they do not, I swear on my faith to the Spider Queen that I will kill him myself.”

Icelin didn’t reply. She opened the library door and went out, closing the door behind herself like a shield.

THE HALL OF LOST VOICES

26 UKTAR

RUEN AWOKE IN THE DARK, IN UNBEARABLE PAIN.

At first, he didn’t realize how badly he was hurt. He was too surprised and relieved at being alive to appreciate the large, solid weight pressing down on his right arm. Ruen tried to shift to see if he could pull himself free. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up his arm, and darkness swirled up to claim him again.

He floated between consciousness and oblivion, dreaming little half dreams that ran together in his mind. In his dreams, he crouched on the ground as a bugbear came for him, raining blows down upon his head. The punches burned where they struck his flesh, hotter and hotter, until Ruen looked up and saw the creature was on fire. Its flesh melted and reshaped into Sull’s bright face and red hair.

The butcher shouted at him, laughing, but Ruen couldn’t hear what he was saying. He raised his hands imploringly, trying to tell Sull to slow down. Couldn’t he see Ruen was hurt? Ruen tried to grab Sull’s arm, but the butcher pulled back, and a spasm of fear twisted his face.

Sull was afraid of him. He didn’t want Ruen to touch him. Ruen moaned and turned away from the butcher. The scene faded, and he was in the dark again.

When he opened his eyes, he beheld a wall of moving green. His vision focused on oak tree branches stirring in the breeze. He sat up and saw that he was in a grove of the tall oaks. And he wasn’t alone.

Icelin sat with her back against one of the tree trunks. She wore the same plain linen dress he’d seen her wear in Waterdeep. A book lay open in her lap.

“It’s all right,” she said, speaking to him without taking her eyes off the page she was reading. “You’re not broken.”

“I …” Pain shuddered through his body. He was hurt, maybe dying. Why wouldn’t she look at him? “Help me, Icelin.”

“I can’t.” She turned the page.

“Why?” He crawled to her, reaching out to lay his trembling hand over hers. He wasn’t wearing his glove.

“Don’t!” Icelin jerked her hand away. She stared at him as if he’d stabbed her. Tiny fires kindled in her eyes. “You’ve ruined everything!” Heat radiated from her body, suffusing her skin with a hellish glow.

“No!” Ruen screamed an instant before she burst into flames. He screamed and screamed, but he couldn’t look away as Icelin burned to death in front of his eyes. The darkness came for him again.

When he awoke from the dreams, cold sweat stood out on his face, and he was shivering. Ruen licked his dry, cracked lips and smiled bitterly into the darkness. The expression pulled at cuts and bruises all over his face. Learned my lesson. He wouldn’t try to move his right arm again, but his left arm was free.

Ruen lifted it, flexed his fingers and twisted his wrist. He reached up and felt for his neck pouch—seeking the small steel vial that he kept there, the healing potion he saved for the worst, most debilitating wounds. This one certainly qualified.

His fingers closed around the vial. Ruen worked the stopper free and put the rim to his lips. The liquid stirred up stone grit in his mouth. He swallowed it all, wincing. Dust burned in his eyes, so he kept them closed while he waited for the potion to take effect. There was nothing to see anyway. Darkness lay over the cavern like a shroud.

The pain in his arm slowly ebbed, and the dark cloud around his thoughts receded. With clarity came purpose. Lying quietly and listening, Ruen began to make out other signs of life around him. Whimpers, coughing, cursing, and the scrape of boots on stone told him he wasn’t alone.

As far as he knew, he was still in the Hall of Lost Voices—what was left of it. Thinking back, Ruen remembered the explosions, the falling stone as the cavern collapsed around him. The drow had planned it all, sacrificing their own soldiers and slaves to decimate the dwarf forces.

But why engineer a cave-in? Why not occupy the tunnels and press forward, begin the siege of Iltkazar in earnest? After this victory, what were the drow waiting for?

Unless they didn’t intend to take the city. Ruen considered the drow’s strategy. So far, they’d struck at Iltkazar in a series of small-scale engagements, harrying the dwarves and dwindling their numbers, never committing too large a force to any single attack. What if it was all a ruse to distract from their true objective?

Zollgarza and the Arcane Script Sphere. Mith Barak was right. Somehow, they were the key, important enough that the drow sent their wizards with a sacrificial army.

And we fell right into their trap.

Fury brought renewed energy to Ruen’s body. He had to get out of here, get back to Iltkazar—and Icelin.

First, he had to free himself. Luckily, whatever had crushed his arm initially wasn’t what pinned it now. Wedged between two large boulders, his arm had healed enough from the potion that he could move it with very little pain. He worked it carefully free from the stones’ grip, tearing his sleeve and earning a dozen smaller cuts and bruises in the process.

When he was free, he sat up. Lights had kindled at various points around the cavern as the survivors found torches, and Ruen could begin to see the shadowy remnants of the Hall of Lost Voices. Bodies lay everywhere, though there was very little left of those corpses that had been closest to the enspelled bugbears.

“Garn.” Ruen spoke the name in a hoarse whisper. The runepriest had been near him when the blasts started. Ruen looked around but saw no sign of him. He got gingerly to his feet and moved through the dark cavern, keeping his eyes on the ground. Every few feet, he encountered a body. He knelt next to the still forms and felt for a heartbeat. None that he touched were alive. Grateful for the wavering darkness so he would not have to see the full extent of the mutilation inflicted on the dwarves, Ruen kept moving, searching for Garn.

He worked his way to a wall, leaning against a pile of rubble. The healing potion had mended his arm and taken away the greater share of the pain, but he was still exhausted from the fighting, the squinting and creeping in the dark, and the stench of death that blanketed the cavern.

His leg bumped against a solid object. Ruen heard a soft moan then the hiss of a weapon cutting the air as a dark shape lunged at him.

Ruen threw his hands out blindly—better to lose his fingers than his head—and got lucky. He caught a wooden axe handle, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees.

Flashing eyes and a dirty brown beard filled his vision. Ruen didn’t recognize the dwarf at first, but the axe blade had three familiar black horns jutting off it.

“Obrin,” he said. “It’s me—Ruen.”

It took Obrin a long time to recognize him. Ruen’s arms ached from holding back the axe, but finally the dwarf eased back. Ruen expected a stream of curses in Dwarvish to follow, but Obrin did the last thing he ever expected.

He burst into tears.

Ruen caught the dwarf at the shoulders before he fell. It was as if he’d used the last shreds of his strength for the blow with his axe. He sobbed quietly, barely making a sound, but his shoulders trembled violently under Ruen’s hands. Looking over his shoulder, in the dim light, Ruen saw the reason for Obrin’s tears.

Garn lay on the ground, his face swollen with bruises and gashes that made him almost unrecognizable. Ruen wouldn’t have known him if not for the runes still faintly visible under the dirt and blood. A pile of rubble buried the right side of his body. Ruen was convinced the runepriest was dead, but when he guided Obrin to sit next to the body, he saw Garn’s chest rising and falling.

“He’s alive,” Ruen murmured. “Obrin, your father lives.”

Obrin grabbed Ruen’s tunic and jerked him close. “He’s dying,” the dwarf growled in broken Common. His accent was so thick, Ruen barely understood him. “Dying in agony. Can’t even pray!”

“Let me look at him.” Ruen worked Obrin’s fingers loose from his tunic and knelt next to Garn. The runepriest opened his eyes and looked at Ruen. For a breath, there was no recognition in his eyes. “Garn, your son is here,” Ruen said. Obrin’s hands lay slackly in his lap. Ruen lifted one and placed it in Garn’s.

Garn drew in a breath and gasped. Pain clouded his vision. Obrin held his hand and leaned in close, whispering something to his father. Garn moaned softly and moved his head from side to side. Obrin looked up at Ruen imploringly.

“Garn, do you hear me?” Ruen said. He eased his glove off his left hand and laid it on the dwarf’s forehead. He’d expected the cold, but it still made him gasp with its intensity. His heart stuttered in his chest. Inside and out, Garn’s body was broken. It was surely a miracle from his god that he still drew breath at all. “I don’t have any more healing draughts,” Ruen said. “Can you call on your god to heal your wounds?”

Garn moved his head from side to side again. A cough shook his body, wracking the already devastated frame. Garn cried out in anguish. “Leave me. Leave it be!”

“He’s out of his head,” Obrin said. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Ruen pulled off his other glove, leaned over Garn and put both hands on his chest. Energy tingled at his fingertips, waiting for his call. “Help him,” he told Obrin. “Say the words in the Dwarvish tongue.”

“It’s too late,” Obrin said. “He’s going.”

“He’s not gone yet!” Ruen snapped. “He needs to hear his son’s voice. If he knows he’s not alone, he’ll come back. He just needs to move beyond the pain and remember who he is.”

Obrin scrubbed a hand across his wet eyes and nodded. He began speaking softly in Dwarvish. The words turned into a rhythmic chant, the sounds rumbling from the dwarf’s chest, rolling out smoothly on the air. Ruen closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the soothing prayer, though he couldn’t understand the words.

Energy, life—it all comes from the hands. His teachers at the monastery had told him this, though he’d never truly understood what they meant. The power provided strength, balance, and peace. He’d never understood because he’d never thought the teaching applied to him. In his mind, the spellscar eclipsed everything, tainted all that he touched, the power that slept inside him.

“That’s why you’re leaving. Will you run forever, Ruen Morleth?”

Carlvaris—his teacher’s words. It had been years since Ruen had thought of him. He’d never liked the man or any of his other teachers, though that hadn’t been their fault.

His mind was wandering. Ruen tried to refocus his concentration, but Garn’s broken body faded, and an image of Icelin replaced it. She smiled at him while flames licked at her flesh. The memory of the dream slammed into him, and Ruen’s resolve wavered. Power surged and died.

“So weak. You’ve always let it hold you back.”

The teacher’s voice cut at him. How can I not? Ruen thought. It breaks down my body, piece by piece, bone by bone. No one should hold death in his hands. How could he touch her, knowing what was in his hands?

Ruen looked down and saw Garn’s eyes open and fixed upon him. Something—a light, a spark of life—kindled in the dwarf’s eyes.

“I feel it,” he rasped. “So warm …”

“I can’t … it’s not what you think,” Ruen faltered. He was no healer. All he felt was cold.

Obrin laid his hand over Ruen’s, linking the three of them. “Moradin, aid us,” he prayed. “We’re alone in the dark and lost. Guide us. Show us the way.” He looked at Ruen as he spoke the words in Common.

Ruen fought to clear his mind. He breathed in deeply and released the breath, forcing himself to release his doubts as well. Garn’s life depended on it. The power surged in his hands, warmth swelling to replace the cold. His life force extended from his hands to cradle Garn. It was not healing, but strength he lent to the dwarf—balance and peace.

Garn opened his eyes wide. A flash of gold light outlined the runes on his face. Obrin gasped, but Ruen couldn’t look away from the dwarf’s eyes. Tears dripped down the runepriest’s face.

“Moradin, be with me,” Garn murmured. “I’m not done yet. Please.”

The prayer’s effect came from within Garn’s body. Ruen felt the flesh and bone mending, the cuts and bruises on Garn’s face closing. The healing magic enveloped his own life energy, and Ruen stifled a shocked cry.

Moradin’s blessing washed through him, hot like the time he’d stepped into Ingara’s forge. He saw her face in his mind’s eye, working the rare metals for her wedding gift to her man. The image faded, and then he saw Obrin, swinging his axe at a group of drow that surrounded him. They outnumbered him four to one, but he took them on fearlessly, and fatherly pride swelled in Ruen’s chest.

Garn’s memories. Linked to the dwarf body and mind, Ruen felt the dwarf’s memories swell in him even as healing magic swirled through them both. He tried to pull away. He felt like an intruder, but Moradin’s power held them fast.

In memory, Obrin’s battlefield changed to an open plaza, where two dwarves stood, waiting to be married. Was this the future? Ruen thought. Was he seeing Ingara’s wedding? No, it wasn’t Ingara. The female dwarf looked a bit like her, but her hair was golden, more like Joya’s, and the man standing next to her was definitely not Arngam but a younger version of Garn. The couple smiled happily at each other, and the woman leaned over spontaneously to kiss Garn.

The scene melted to the interior of a temple. Garn knelt before an altar, his arms wrapped around Joya as she wept.

“They’re gone!” Joya sobbed. “What am I going to do now, Father? Both halves of my heart—they’ve been torn out.”

“You know better than that,” Garn gently chided his daughter. “Your mother and your goddess are still with you. Be strong, child. Your mother carried so many sorrows. I hoped it wouldn’t be your fate, but we do what we must …”

The vision faded. Images crowded together faster now, dizzying Ruen. Garn being embraced by his king—a feeling of sorrow so strong it choked the dwarf silent, though he desperately wanted to speak to his friend. Mith Barak turned away and ascended his throne. A brilliant flash of light, and suddenly the king transformed, his flesh turning grayish silver and solid. He’d become a statue upon his throne, his eyes staring vacantly at Garn.

Too much. Ruen cried out as the memories blended with his own—images of his mother when he was a child, the people in his village running away when he came near. They were afraid he would touch them. He was ill luck, a child of death. Even his mother had looked at him thus. When she smiled at him, Ruen saw the fear and revulsion lurking just under the surface.

His teachers loomed over him, admonishing him to be strong, to look past his spellscar. None of them understood. The memories pressed in on him all at once, shadows he’d thought long buried, drawn from the dark places in his heart.

Gods, Garn was seeing it all too, Ruen realized, all of his deepest secrets and fears. Their memories blended. He had nowhere to hide. Instinctively, Ruen tore himself away, and a searing pain enveloped his hands.

Then it ended. Ruen came back to himself slowly. Afraid that he’d find himself trapped in another memory, Ruen cautiously looked around. Soon enough he recognized the dark cavern and the smell of death. He lay on his back next to Garn, who was sitting up with Obrin’s aid. Sometime while the two were linked, Obrin must have cleared the rubble to free his father.

“Are you all right?” Obrin asked Ruen, speaking again, haltingly, in the common tongue.

Ruen nodded. The movement revealed a dull ache in his head, as if he’d had too much to drink. Drunk on memories. Ruen almost chuckled at the notion, but he was too weary and heartsick with everything he’d just seen.

He looked at Garn. The runepriest had his eyes closed and fingered the holy symbol he wore around his neck. He spoke softly under his breath, still communing with his god. Ruen didn’t blame him. Moradin’s power still thrummed in his veins—a warm touch, but rough like a calloused hand. Healing energy suffused his limbs. They’d completely healed his broken arm.

“The others are regrouping,” Obrin said as more lights kindled around the cavern, revealing dwarves moving around the battlefield, tending to the wounded and collecting the dead. “We need to be on the move, see how bad the tunnels are.”

“We’ll have a lot of digging ahead of us,” Garn said, opening his eyes abruptly. His voice was clear and free of pain. “Moradin knows we’ll need every hand we can spare to get us back to the city.”

“This attack was just a decoy,” Ruen said, “a distraction. Their target is the sphere, not the city itself. By now they must know Zollgarza’s failed to get it, so they’ll attack the city directly.”

“Then we dig fast,” Garn said. “My hands are healed, and by the gods, I know how to move the earth. Moradin gave me a second chance to do what I do best.” He glanced at Ruen. “And you—you have my thanks,” he said. “When you touched me, I saw—”

“So did I,” Ruen interrupted. “Things we didn’t mean for the other to see. I won’t speak of them, I promise you.”

Garn looked puzzled. “Or maybe we were meant to speak of them,” he said. “Whatever’s inside you, human, it touched me, and it wasn’t death. You shouldn’t be afraid of your power.”

Ruen started to reply, to dismiss the dwarf’s point, but he hesitated under the scrutiny of Garn’s gaze. The dwarf had seen inside of him, his memories and fears. Lies and dismissals couldn’t hide the truth from him.

“Everyone I’ve ever let close has turned from me,” Ruen said. “You saw it for yourself, in my memories. The spellscar made my bones brittle and brought me so close to death that it became a part of me. I can measure your life force just by touching you.”

“Bah, that doesn’t mean you cause death,” Garn said. “You touched me, and I felt warmth, not ice. You brought me back from the brink, cleared my head, and let me reach out to my god.” His voice cracked. “That’s worth something, boy.”

“What if you were in my place?” Ruen challenged him. “What if you’d known before it happened that your wife was going to die?”

“I did know,” Garn said flatly. Beside him, Obrin, who’d been quietly watching the two, put his hand on his father’s arm. “You didn’t see all the memories. I didn’t know it on the day she got sick, but soon after, I saw it. I read it in her eyes. You don’t always have to have magic to know when you’re looking death in the face.” Garn looked at Obrin, staring into his son’s eyes. Ruen realized then that Obrin had his mother’s eyes. “Knowing what I knew didn’t taint the time we had left,” Garn went on. “I wouldn’t let it.”

“This isn’t the same,” Ruen said.

“Isn’t it?” Garn said softly. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I know you don’t want me to speak of what I saw in your mind. I won’t talk about the girl, but you can’t lie to yourself. You know what you feel.”

“What if it isn’t enough?” Ruen said, and this time it was his own body that felt like ice. “What if she rejects what she sees in me?”

“Her choice,” Obrin said, shrugging. “Trust her.”

Ruen looked at Obrin. The gruff, taciturn dwarf actually smiled at him. It was a faint, tremulous expression, and completely out of place on the warrior’s face, but then again, nothing made sense on this battlefield. Ruen had never dreamed he’d be sitting with these two dwarves in the middle of a war, talking about his hopes, fears, and loves.

Yes, he loved Icelin. Garn was right. Ruen couldn’t lie to himself—or her—anymore. He had to get out of here, back to Iltkazar before the drow attack came. He owed her an explanation for why he’d pushed her away.

Reality hit Ruen then. Several tons of rock lay between him and that lofty goal. Not to mention the fact that Icelin was probably furious at him for how he’d behaved. He likely had a lot of digging and then a lot more groveling ahead of him. Ruen groaned silently. “We should get moving,” he said.

GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

27 UKTAR

IT IS DONE,” LEVRIIN SOLTIF TOLD THE MISTRESS mother.

“The deception was successful?” Fizzri clenched her hands into fists to quell her excitement.

“We engaged the dwarves in what I believe was the largest skirmish yet with their forces,” the wizard replied. “We decimated their numbers and sealed them off from the city.”

“They will return,” Fizzri said. “Tunneling animals always find a way to return to their dens. We don’t have much time.”

Levriin bowed his head in assent. “Scouts report they are breaking through the debris even now and filtering slowly back to Iltkazar. If we strike again before the end of the tenday—”

“We attack on the morrow,” the mistress mother cut him off. “Our forces are already mustered for a multi-pronged assault. Prepare your magic and whatever apprentices you have left—those that will follow you,” she said, her lips curving in a wicked smile. “You’ve done well.”

“Mistress—” Levriin hesitated. Fizzri saw the doubts flashing in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed, but this did not deter the male. “I advise taking at least one day to regroup and rest our forces. When next we engage them in battle, the dwarves will be fighting from their home ground. The advantage is theirs. If we’re not prepared, we risk losing any advantage we’ve already gained.”

“Then you will ensure we are prepared,” Fizzri said. “See to it personally, Levriin. Consider it your test, another opportunity to prove your worth to the Spider Queen.”

“Mistress, we have been bold. We’ve proven that we can take Iltkazar, a feat that hasn’t been accomplished by any of the generations of drow who’ve come before us. We will take yet another piece of Shanatar.”

“You’re right, Levriin,” Fizzri said. “And we will do so on the morrow.”

Levriin’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He bowed again and left the audience chamber. Fizzri decided not to call him back or take him to task for questioning her judgment, no matter how indirectly he’d gone about it. She felt calm, more at peace than she had been since Zollgarza had disappeared.

He was alive. Lolth was still with her. Fizzri felt it deep inside her. The goddess was letting her prove that she had this conquest in hand. She would claim the Arcane Script Sphere for Lolth.

As for Zollgarza …

He was for the Spider Queen. The goddess had maimed him and marked him. He was the vessel, the conduit that when combined with the Arcane Script Sphere would usher in Lolth’s ascension to goddess of magic. And Fizzri would be there, conducting the ritual, giving Lolth exactly what she desired. The rewards for her service and Zollgarza’s sacrifice would be beyond imagining. All Fizzri had to do was retrieve him and the sphere.

Stay alive just a bit longer, Zollgarza. I’m coming for you.

Ruen assured himself for perhaps the fifth time that day that his arms were on the verge of falling off. Doubtless they’d just be hauled away with the rest of the debris from the tunnel collapse, along with Ruen’s exhausted body.

They’d been digging for hours, though time, in Ruen’s mind, had blurred together into an endless series of motions: fitting his hands around a piece of stone, prying it loose from the pile blocking the tunnel, and hauling it away to the Hall of Lost Voices. The man or woman in front of him and behind him shared those same motions, and at first they’d talked—and even jested a little, once they’d got over the initial horror and shock of the battle’s aftermath—as they worked to reopen the tunnel. Exhaustion had gradually set in, and they worked in a silence of lumbering movements and glazed eyes. Ruen had a new appreciation for the lot of a beast of burden.

The dwarf behind him tapped him on the shoulder. Ruen reached back automatically to accept the waterskin the dwarf held out and nodded his thanks. He took a measured drink and passed it on to Obrin, who worked in front of him.

They took brief rests for food and sleep, but the only thing worse than the backbreaking labor was sitting idle in the empty cavern among the wounded and the dead. They’d gathered all the bodies together beneath the carved stone faces and covered them with blankets. Only then did it become clear how costly the battle had been. Seeing the bodies did not bother Ruen, but he felt trapped in the tunnel, the stone pressing in on him from all sides. He was weary, sore, and so damned tired of being underground. Endless darkness and no sky above his head—he couldn’t live the dwarf life.

Ahead of him, a commotion erupted. Excited whispers drifted back to Ruen, but he was so absorbed in his own world that at first he didn’t realize what they were saying.

“They’re breaking through the wall!”

“I heard his voice! He came for us—the king!”

The dwarf standing behind Ruen began shaking him by the arm. Ruen turned and saw the wide grin stretched across the warrior’s dirt-streaked face. “Did you hear? We’re gettin’ out.”

Ruen smiled wearily at the dwarf. “The king himself comes to rescue us.”

The dwarf patted him roughly on the shoulder. “We’ll get those drow bastards yet. Watch and see.”

By the time Ruen worked his way to the front of the line of diggers, they’d cleared a path through the debris just large enough for a small man to crawl through it. Obrin stood near the opening. He gestured to Ruen.

“You’re thin enough to go through. The king wants a report on the battle.”

Ruen crouched down and, with his lean body, had little trouble squeezing through the makeshift tunnel. He came out the other side after a few moments to see a similar digging force assembled at the debris pile. They still had a long way to go before they’d be able to get the dwarves out in numbers.

King Mith Barak stood at the front of the gathered diggers, looking as haggard and dirty as the rest of them. An amused smile flickered across his face when he saw Ruen poke his head out of the tunnel.

“Should have known they’d send the scarecrow,” he said. He held out a hand to help Ruen to his feet. “Your girl will be glad you’re alive,” he said. “Save me another tongue lashing.”

“We suffered heavy losses,” Ruen said.

The king nodded gravely. He led Ruen to one of the smaller tunnels off the main passage so the diggers could continue their work. Ruen imagined he also did it so the others wouldn’t hear as he enumerated their losses and the strategy used by the drow to cripple them.

“They’ll hit us on the morrow, the day after at the latest,” the king said. “Doesn’t hardly make sense, though. The drow threw as much at us as we did at them. They may have sealed us off in our own tunnels, but they paid for it. Or am I wrong?” he asked, looking at Ruen sharply.

“You’re not wrong,” Ruen said. “We decimated their ranks as well. They have superior numbers, but I can’t believe they’d recover soon enough to attack us in two days.”

“They’ve picked up the pace, hitting us hard and fast,” the king said. “It’s a risky strategy.”

“Agreed,” Ruen said. “Drow scheme and plan their conquests for months—years—before they spring their trap, attacking and retreating like shadows. These strategies have been successful for them. Large-scale, brutal attacks fly in the face of their natures. Unless their target has nothing to do with the city.”

“The Arcane Script Sphere,” Mith Barak said. “It’s the artifact. I knew it was calling out, trying to free itself. It wants to move on to other wizards, but its purpose was established before Mystra’s death. Now that she’s gone, I thought by keeping it I was keeping it safe, preserving a part of her. Instead the artifact hid itself from me, and I’ve brought doom upon Iltkazar because of it.” The king shook his head and muttered, “And there’s Zollgarza.”

“It always comes back to that drow,” Ruen said. “What is his part in all this?”

“I don’t know, but it could be his part in the scheme is the most dangerous of all,” Mith Barak said.

Ruen frowned. “That’s suitably cryptic. Have you considered the possibility that he’s also merely a distraction?”

Mith Barak waved a hand dismissively. “Call me a fool if you want, but I’ve felt the touch of their goddess on Zollgarza. He came to the city to kill me, but he has a purpose beyond that, and until I know what that is, I mark him a threat to my city greater than ten drow armies.” He looked Ruen over, and his gaze softened. “You should head back to the city. The girl will be wanting to see you.”

Ruen abruptly realized how long he’d been gone. “Icelin hasn’t found the sphere yet?” he asked.

“Talk to her about it.” Mith Barak turned away. “She’s stopped looking for it.”

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

27 UKTAR

HE’S GONE,” SAID THE MASTER ARMSWOMAN WHEN Icelin entered the hall.

“Gone?” Icelin said, amazed. She’d thought the king never left his audience chamber. “Where is he?”

“He went to supervise the digging. We’ve got a narrow passage cleared into the Hall of Lost Voices. The king went to see the first of the survivors through. Said he had to be there. No one expected it, but he insisted. I haven’t seen him so afire since …” The master armswoman shook her head. Pride shone in her gray eyes. “It’s been a long time,” she said thickly.

Icelin could only nod. Her thoughts were a disconnected jumble. “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome, and oh, I almost forgot to tell you—Joya was asking for you. She’s at Haela Brightaxe’s temple.” The dwarf woman clapped Icelin on the shoulder and hurried away, leaving her alone in the great hall.

Icelin went back out to the plaza, wandering aimlessly as the wedding preparations went on side by side with preparations for war. It was the most incongruous sight Icelin had ever beheld. War banners and white silk—the latter covering a raised dais where Ingara and Arngam would stand to face their loved ones during the ceremony and gift exchange. After that, a feast and celebration—a revelry to end all revelries, judging by the amount of ale on hand.

On the morrow, they would go to war.

In the midst of all this, there had been no word from Ruen. Whether he was alive or dead, Icelin had already decided that she would fight with the dwarves. She told herself it was not out of revenge, though she did feel that need burning inside her. It was pointless to lie to herself about that. She would also fight for the Blackhorn family, and even for the king. She would unleash the most potent Art within her, regardless of the consequences.

Icelin made her way to Haela Brightaxe’s temple. Within the thick walls, silence reigned. Though the wounded dwarves—some of them came from the Hall of Lost Voices—still recovered here, the stone soaked up much of the sound, and the muted light coming from the silver lichen hanging near the ceiling created many dark corners and lonely alcoves.

Lonely—that was the word for this place, Icelin thought. Not abandoned or neglected, but sadness lingered in the absence of the goddess who’d once gathered her flock here.

She found Joya standing in front of an icon of the goddess. Arranged at the back of the temple, opposite the entrance, Haela Brightaxe stood clearly visible to all who entered. The stone sculpture depicted her with her hand raised as if in salute to those she welcomed to her house.

Joya turned when she approached. Her distant expression made Icelin hesitate. “Am I disturbing you?” Icelin asked.

“Not at all,” Joya said, laying her hand companionably on Icelin’s arm. “I was just meditating.”

A glint of light at Joya’s breastbone caught Icelin’s attention. The holy symbol of Moradin hung there. Icelin glanced between symbol and statue, but she bit back the question that rose to her tongue.

Joya must have seen it, for she smiled. “You wonder why I wear Moradin’s symbol, yet I walk in Haela’s hall?”

“I think I understand,” Icelin said. “Sometimes I pray to Mystra, though I know the goddess can’t hear. What I wonder is, does Moradin mind that you stay here, instead of walking the halls of his temple?”

“He and I have an understanding,” Joya said, her gaze lingering on the statue even as she gripped Moradin’s holy symbol in her fist. “I put my faith and trust in Moradin to guide me and my people, but what kind of servant would I be if I were so easily able to cast aside my former mistress? Moradin understands that I must grieve, even if that grief lasts for centuries,” she said. “Her loss is a weight on my heart that can never truly be removed.”

“I’m sorry,” Icelin said. “We don’t have to speak of it.”

“It’s all right,” Joya said, smiling. “Speaking Haela’s name keeps the goddess’s memory alive.” She steered Icelin to an antechamber off the main hall. Candles lit the interior, their sconces situated beneath red windows. Cut in the shape of anvils, the ruby-colored glass cast red glows all around the room that mimicked the light of the forge. Stone benches filled the room, but someone had stacked these against the adjacent walls, leaving the middle of the floor empty but for pools of red light.

“This is your chamber, isn’t it?” Icelin said as Joya led her to the center of the room. She looked up at the ceiling and found herself tilting her head far back to stare at a dome lit by small clusters of lichen affixed to the interior like stars. “It’s lovely,” Icelin murmured.

“The anvils of the forge symbolize our home beneath the earth,” Joya explained, “but the constellations mimic the world of Faerûn above. Between the two stand Haela Brightaxe’s followers. In answer to your question, it is a room for all, but I am the only one who comes here now. I thought it appropriate to bring you here. I have news to share.”

“What news?” Icelin asked, her heart thudding against her ribs. “Is it Ruen?”

“Word came not long ago of the first of the survivors. Ruen is among them. He and the others, including the wounded, are on their way back to the city even as we speak.”

Icelin closed her eyes and swayed on her feet. Joya’s strong arm on hers kept her upright. “Thank the gods,” she breathed. “What of your family—your father and Obrin?”

“They live,” Joya said. “His comrades say Obrin is speaking in the common tongue—whether that heralds a miracle or the end of all things, they cannot say, but clearly there’s a tale to tell of what they went through in the battle.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Icelin said, her throat tightening around the words.

“Are you all right?” Joya asked, looking suddenly concerned. “I thought this news would make you happy, yet your face is so full of sorrow. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Icelin said, “nothing that can be helped or changed. I think I’ll go for a walk, if you don’t mind my leaving you.”

“Not at all,” Joya said, squeezing Icelin’s hand. “Go out the rear door of the temple and circle around the waterfall. There is a hidden garden attached to the temple. Few go there, especially now. It is a good place to be alone with your thoughts.”

“Thank you.” Icelin passed out of the red-lit chamber and exited the temple. She did not look around her or pay attention to the people she passed.

Ruen was safe. Unspeakable relief washed over her, making her dizzy, but coldness had settled in her stomach. Ruen would return, and she’d have to tell him that she intended to stop searching for a cure for her spellscar.

What would he think of her? Icelin thought she already knew the answer. He would leave, of course. What reason did he have to stay with her, if not for that goal?

All of a sudden, Icelin felt very cold. She walked around the outside of the temple until she saw the waterfall Joya had mentioned. It enclosed the garden on three sides, creating a private little space accessed by a walkway.

A perfect place to hide.

When Ruen at last saw the buildings of Iltkazar reveal themselves through the widening tunnel, he wanted to go to Icelin immediately.

Moradin’s clerics had other ideas.

They pushed and prodded him into following the wounded to Haela’s temple, where he accepted more healing and let them clean him up and give him fresh clothes. He hadn’t realized how filthy he was with dirt and caked blood until he caught one of the dwarves wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Amidst these ministrations, he asked for Icelin and learned that she’d gone out to the temple garden. He left to find her as soon as they let him.

The temple garden was peaceful—not at all what Ruen would have expected from a goddess who’d reveled in battle, but perhaps even Haela Brightaxe needed peace and solitude sometimes.

A waterfall spilled from channels in the upper balcony, enclosing the garden below on three sides with water and the fourth side with a wall of stone. The narrow footbridge Ruen stood upon provided the only access to the garden. The stone path gently parted the water curtain, revealing silvery blue lichen hanging from wire baskets on the far wall.

Through the entry, Ruen saw Icelin. She moved past the opening and then behind the water curtain to become a distorted shape, a play of shadows and light, not quite real but no phantom either.

Ruen’s silent steps carried him to the opening. His heart beat an aching rhythm in his chest. Her back was to him now. She faced the wall, her arms knotted around herself.

The garden was made of stones. Beds of them ringed the base of the waterfall, the outermost stones dark with wet, and the inner ones silver from the light of the glowing lichen. Ruen allowed himself a small smile. He should have expected no less from the dwarves.

He stalled. Ruen wanted to speak, to make Icelin turn and look at him, but now that the moment had come, he couldn’t speak. How was he supposed to give voice to everything that was inside of him, to what had been building for months.

You’re a coward, Ruen thought. You always have been. You’re a coward, and she’s fearless.

Not in that moment. In that moment, she trembled. He read the anguish in her hunched shoulders, neck muscles rigid. She would retreat into herself and disappear if she could.

“It says on a plaque here that travelers used to visit this garden, bringing offerings of stone,” Icelin said, shattering the silence and startling Ruen so badly that he actually jumped.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, trying to tamp down his incredulity.

She turned to face him. Her eyes were clear—clear, and so remote, so distant that he grew more frightened. Was he already too late?

“She said travelers chose the rarest, most beautiful stones from their journeys in Faerûn and brought them back to Haela’s temple to place in the gardens.” Icelin walked along the stone beds, her eyes on the rocks. She seemed to be looking everywhere in the tiny garden except at him.

“The goddess’s memory is strong here,” Ruen said. He could think of nothing else to say. The pain in his chest nearly overwhelmed him.

“There are stones from Aglarond and Cormyr,” Icelin went on, “from Thay and Rashemen and from Mulhurond—lands that have disappeared from the world. Can you imagine it? It made me wish I’d brought a stone from South Ward in Waterdeep. A flat rock, worn down by caravan wheels and caked with dust, though I doubt Haela would have minded. So many goddesses lost,” Icelin murmured, speaking as if to herself.

“You’ve been in that damn library too long,” Ruen said suddenly, harshly. “Surrounded by sorrow-filled lore and with that drow creature haunting your every move, it’s no wonder that you’re …”

“What?” She did look at him then, waiting for him to finish, but he just stared at her. He took a step toward her, unsteadily, his arm half-raised.

She backed away from him. If she’d used magic to erect a barrier, it could not have been more effective. Ruen dropped his hand to his side and closed his fingers into a fist.

“Did I lose you then?” He said it in a whisper. The hand he clutched at his side trembled. “Did I go so far wrong that you won’t let me … that I can’t be with you?”

Icelin closed her eyes, and a tear slid down her cheek. “I am so very tired, Ruen,” she said. “I’m very sorry too.”

“Why?” he demanded. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

“Because I couldn’t do it.” Her voice echoed in the small garden, swallowed up by the water. “The king’s library was beautiful. All those books filled with knowledge from dead dwarf scholars. Books that have souls, living memories, stories that draw you in—literally!—to their pages. So much that’s been lost, and I remember it all now. I can’t forget all the names I read or the people who used to inhabit the city and gave it life.” She slid into a crouch, leaning against the temple wall. “I don’t mind remembering it all,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her. “But Zollgarza is there too. He speaks, and I remember everything he says—”

“I knew it—that bastard drove you out of there.” Ruen lashed out, kicking the stone wall in frustration. A wave of pain shot up his leg. It was a stupid thing to do. “The king told me you stopped looking for the sphere.”

“That’s right.” Icelin stood shakily and faced him. Ruen again suppressed the urge to reach out and support her. “I don’t want the Arcane Script Sphere anymore. It’s over.”

“Don’t say that.” Ruen heard the catch in his voice and despised himself for it. When had he become so weak? “We can still find a cure elsewhere. Faerûn is a vast place.”

“How long will we search?”

“What?” Ruen was absorbed in thoughts and plans. They would leave the city in the morning. Godsdamn the drow, Mith Barak, and all the rest. If they couldn’t find what they were looking for here, it was time to move on. Why waste more time?

“Ruen, look at me.”

“Icelin, it’ll be all right,” Ruen said. “We’ll find a way.”

“I don’t want to look for a cure anymore.”

“What?” he repeated. She wasn’t making any sense. The drow had done more damage than he’d thought. “You’re tired, and you don’t know what you’re saying.”

She shook her head. “I do know what I’m saying, and I know what I want.” She clasped her hands in front of her, but when she looked at him, she was no longer weeping. Clear-eyed, she stared him down. “I want to live my life on my own terms. I won’t spend any more of it chasing down a cure for my spellscar. What happened to me shaped who I am. I’m not ashamed of it, and I’m not afraid to die. I’m more afraid of living without hope and love.” She laughed then, without humor. “Zollgarza showed me that, if you can believe it. His existence is so empty, so utterly devoid of warmth—of anything, that isn’t bitterness and hatred.”

“You’ll never be like him,” Ruen said.

“I know.” Icelin took a step toward him. Ruen tensed, but it wasn’t out of fear. His heart pounded in his chest. She lifted her hand, held it in the air an inch above his cheek. She looked in his eyes, seeking permission.

“Yes,” he said.

She laid her hand gently against his cheek—the lightest touch, but within it a world of meaning. The pulse of Icelin’s life beat against his skin, warmth and vibrancy radiating from each fingertip—but the whole was weaker than it should have been. The life force was brittle at the edges, cracks and seams running through it, flaws that would only spread until it ate away at all the warmth. Ruen gasped. The pain of it was a tangible force, like five needles in his skin.

“Don’t,” Icelin whispered. “Don’t run away from me. Please.”

“I’m trying.” Ruen closed his eyes tightly. He forced himself to focus only on her touch, the warmth of her fingers on his, the softness of her skin. The physical pain was all in his mind. He breathed deeply, pressing down the fear and hopelessness that always came with his gift. When he was calm, the pain went away. It was impossible to ignore the rest, but if only he could distract himself—

“I love you,” Icelin said.

Ruen opened his eyes.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

27 UKTAR

ICELIN’S HAND TREMBLED. RUEN REACHED UP, TOOK HER hand, and brought it to his lips. “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m an insufferable, overprotective, taciturn rogue?”

“Because you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

“You can’t have many men to compare me to in your experience.” He smiled briefly, and the expression sent warmth through every part of Icelin’s body. “I am everything you’ve ever accused me of,” Ruen said. “Every flaw, it’s true.”

“And I know that I’m the last woman in the world that should be asking you to love me,” Icelin said. “To look past what you feel when you touch me.”

“That’s doesn’t matter,” Ruen said.

Her brow furrowed. “You mean you can stand to touch me, even knowing what you’re going to feel?”

“I mean I love you,” Ruen said. “I have for some time.”

Icelin grew suddenly lightheaded, a similar feeling to what she experienced when the wild magic roiled inside her, but this time there was no pain, only confusion, fear, and the small beginning of what might have been joy welling up within her. “What do you … how long?” she stammered.

“For a couple of months,” Ruen said.

“Since we left Waterdeep?” Icelin was having trouble concentrating. “But you never said, you told me you didn’t feel that way about—”

“I know,” Ruen said. “I lied. I thought it was enough to give you back your life, save you.” He looked away. “I was afraid.” He made a fist at his side, but Icelin kept hold of his other hand. She wouldn’t let go.

“Kiss me,” Icelin said, stepping closer.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Ruen said. “I want you to be happy.”

“Oh, gods, man, do I have to ask you again?” Icelin rolled her eyes and glared at him with mock severity. “Of all my many conquests, you’re by far the most difficult.”

“Am I?” Ruen framed her face in his hands and kissed her. Icelin wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his. He held her tightly, touching her, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Now that he’d finally started, he seemed content to go on holding and kissing her forever.

“Ruen,” Icelin said haltingly, running her hands over his chest.

“Yes?” Ruen said. His lips traced her jaw.

“It occurs to me … that we have … too many clothes on,” Icelin murmured.

“A stunningly insightful observation,” Ruen replied. “We should remedy the situation immediately.”

“In Haela’s temple garden?” Icelin pulled back, smiling against his lips. Somehow, though, she thought the goddess would approve.

The sounds of music, shouts, and raucous laughter drifted faintly from the plaza. The wedding guests were gathering for the ceremony. Icelin felt cool, moist air touch her bare skin as Ruen lifted her shirt over her head.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.” Icelin kissed him again, and they didn’t speak again for a long time.

Later, Icelin listened to the sound of falling water and marveled at the fact that she was lying on cold stone, with only a pile of clothing, her cloak, and Ruen’s body heat to keep her warm. She had no interest in moving, of course, so she put the cold out of her mind. Ruen seemed just as content, for he hadn’t moved or spoken since they’d made love, except to stroke his index finger gently over her hip and thigh beneath the cloak. The rhythmic motions lulled Icelin into a half sleep, but the sound of music and laughter drew her awake.

“Ingara’s wedding,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t miss it. Sull will be looking for us, too.”

“You’re right,” Ruen agreed. “But we’d best get dressed first.”

“Age and wisdom—that’s why I love you,” Icelin said. She fished her shirt out of the pile of discarded clothing and pulled it over her head. Thoughts of Ingara’s wedding led her to think about the Blackhorn family and the battle ahead. Since they’d come together, a peace such as Icelin had never known had settled over her, but their immediate future was still uncertain. “Where do we go from here?” she asked.

Ruen paused in the act of pulling on his boots. “We stay and fight or we leave the city after the wedding,” he said. “Garn told me there are still secret ways open to the surface. They’ve sent some children and elders from the city by those routes. We’d be relatively safe using them.”

“I don’t want to run,” Icelin said, “but there’s a good chance that if we stay to fight, we’ll die.”

“A very good chance,” Ruen said, never taking his eyes from her face.

Icelin smiled at him wistfully. “Isn’t this the kind of thing adventurers are supposed to do? Live on the edge of death and take on impossible causes for riches and glory?”

“There’s no treasure to be had, and we’ll likely die alone and unmarked,” Ruen pointed out with a gallows smile.

“I suppose I can live with that, too, as long as you’re there beside me,” Icelin said. “I’m not chasing death,” she added.

“I know.”

“But if I do die, it will have meant something,” she decided, nodding to herself. “Yes, I think my parents would have agreed.”

“A wedding first,” Ruen said.

“Yes.” Icelin went to him and kissed him. A part of her still marveled that he didn’t pull away.

They emerged from the garden together and crossed the walkway back to the central plaza. Icelin’s mouth dropped open when she saw the size of the crowd that had gathered. The plaza was completely full, the crowd spilling over onto the surrounding bridges over the river. They packed into any open space, waiting to get a glimpse of Ingara and Arngam.

And the king, Icelin realized. Mith Barak stood on the raised dais with the master armswoman, Joya, Garn, Obrin, and a group of dwarves that Icelin didn’t recognize. They must have been Arngam’s family.

“This is more than just a wedding,” Ruen said, echoing Icelin’s thoughts. “The city gathers to hear the king speak on the night before the battle.”

“What will he say?” Icelin wondered.

“Whatever it is, we won’t hear it,” Ruen said. “We won’t get near the center of the plaza.”

Icelin looked up at the surrounding buildings. One of the shops near the temple had a stone lip running around it about fifteen feet off the ground. She led him through the crowd until they stood beneath the lip. “I have an idea,” she said. She stepped closer to Ruen and put her arm around his waist. She gripped her staff in her other hand and murmured the words of the spell. “Hold on,” she said.

The magic took hold, and they levitated above the crowd. Ruen grunted in surprise and tightened his grip on Icelin. “This wasn’t what I had in mind,” he said.

“Why not? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Icelin said teasingly. She raised an eyebrow when he didn’t respond. “Gods, you aren’t really, are you?”

“No,” Ruen said tersely as they halted before the stone lip. He hoisted himself onto the shelf and helped Icelin up beside him.

“You’re lying. I can tell by that look of irritation. Oh, this is too wonderful.” Laughter bubbled up inside Icelin. “Shall we go a little higher? We could sit on the roof, you know. It’d give us a wonderful view down into the plaza.”

“This shelf is very narrow,” Ruen said, taking hold of Icelin’s waist. “I’m not sure the crowd would react in time to catch you if you fell.”

Icelin squeaked and shot him a mock glare. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A truce, then. But I won’t forget this weakness of yours, Morleth.”

He sighed. “Of course you won’t.”

Icelin started to reply, but across the plaza, Ingara and Arngam had stepped up onto the dais. “Gods,” Icelin murmured. “She’s beautiful.”

Dressed in the suit of armor her beloved had made for her, Ingara looked every inch the warrior queen as she stood before her king and bowed. Her long mahogany locks had been meticulously plaited. On her head rested a mithral helmet. Three obsidian horns curled from the top and sides. In her hands, she carried Vallahir.

Mith Barak stepped forward and raised his hands as the couple came together. A roar erupted from the crowd, and Ingara raised the war axe above her head for all to see. Red light glowed from deep within the carved runes on the axe, a ruby flame like the heart of the forge.

“The heart of the dwarf people,” Icelin murmured.

“What did you say?” Sitting slightly behind her, Ruen leaned over Icelin’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“The war axe, the armor—there’s so much more here than a wedding,” Icelin said.

“They know what’s at stake,” Ruen said.

Arngam stepped forward, and Ingara held out the axe to the king. Mith Barak took it and held the blade upright. Ingara lifted her hand to the axe and pressed her finger against the naked blade. They were too far away to see the blood that welled up from the wound, and Ingara’s gaze never left Arngam’s as she raised her finger to her lips. Arngam stepped forward and opened his own wound on the blade, brought it to his lips, then stepped forward and took Ingara’s hand.

The king spoke then for the first time.

“I stand as witness to this union between Ingara Blackhorn and Arngam of the Gallowglar clan. His shield is hers, and her blade strengthens him. May weapon and shield never be sundered. May their family thrive, and may Moradin’s blessings be upon them.”

Blood from their wounds on their lips, Ingara and Arngam kissed. Before they parted, the axe passed from Ingara’s hands to her husband’s, and he raised it above their heads, shaking it in triumph. The crowd erupted in cheers and raucous shouts.

Ruen’s arms tightened around her, and Icelin leaned back against him. Tears blurred her vision as Ingara embraced her husband again and planted another kiss on the blonde dwarf’s lips. The cavernous, lonely city filled with the sounds of joy and new beginnings, and for that instant, Iltkazar was full of life and vigor. Time pealed back, and Icelin imagined the city as it was at the height of its glory.

Did the dwarves feel it too? Did it give them hope? Icelin’s gaze strayed across the plaza, seeking the king. In this moment, more than any other, he had the chance to rally his people for the battle ahead.

He was gone. Sometime between the king’s declaration and the kiss, Mith Barak must have slipped away. Neither the crowd, nor Ingara and Arngam seemed to notice his absence. Icelin sought Joya in the crowd and found her standing beside Garn. Even from this distance, Icelin saw their troubled expressions.

“The king’s gone,” Icelin said, unsure if Ruen heard her over the crowd noise.

“I saw him heading for the hall,” Ruen said into Icelin’s ear, disapproval in his voice.

“Or the library,” Icelin said, “back to Zollgarza.”

“There’s Sull,” Ruen said, pointing to a table at the base of the dais, where the butcher directed several dwarves carrying platters of food. The wedding feast was about to begin.

Once the drinking and merriment started, the dwarves weren’t likely to notice the king’s absence. It was clear they wanted to celebrate while they could.

“Try to get Sull’s attention,” Icelin said, sliding toward the edge of the ledge.

“Where are we going?” Ruen asked, holding out a hand to steady her.

“To see the king,” Icelin explained. She cast another spell and waited for the levitation to take hold of them. “I’ve seen the damage obsession can do—in that drow prisoner and in us. No race is immune to its grip. Mith Barak can’t afford to be distracted now. Many of his people are going to die. He has to be there for them now, more than ever.”

“It’s likely he won’t listen,” Ruen cautioned her. “If he’s not able to speak to his own people, he won’t let outsiders into his confidence.”

They drifted to the ground. Ruen signaled to Sull, but the butcher had already seen them and was weaving his way through the crowd.

“Wondered where the two of you had gotten to,” Sull said, his face flushed and his apron stained with food. “You’d better get some food quick before it’s all—”

His eyes widened. Icelin looked down at her hand clasped in Ruen’s, with no gloves or other barriers between them. Already it had become so natural, so much a part of her that she hadn’t realized the effect it would have on Sull. The butcher stood before them positively glowing.

“We’re on our way to see the king,” Icelin said. “Will you come with us?”

“Sure, sure,” Sull said, a wide grin stretching across his face. “My job’s mostly done anyway.” He fidgeted, scrubbing a hand through his hair, as if he were about to burst. “You two … I mean, have you … you have, haven’t you, you—?”

“I think our butcher might be delirious,” Icelin said serenely, raising herself on tiptoe to kiss Sull’s cheek.

“Must be the forge smoke,” Ruen agreed, slapping Sull on the arm. “Gets to all of us after a while.”

“Forge smoke! Idiots, the both of you—well, it’s about time!” Sull cried happily, sweeping them both into his arms in a crushing hug. “We’re family now. Nothin’s goin’ to change that.”

“Unless you suffocate us,” Icelin groaned. When Sull released her, she straightened her shirt. “Got that out of your system now?”

Sull was practically bouncing. “We’ve just had one weddin’, and here right off we’ll have another—”

“Hold on,” Icelin said. She raised both hands to rein in the butcher’s enthusiasm. “We haven’t talked about any of that yet, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re far from home, we’ve a drow invasion looming over us, and a dwarf king who’s lost his head to deal with. You know, small details like that.”

“No, Sull’s right,” Ruen said unexpectedly. He stared out at the plaza and the revelers. Ingara and Arngam were on the dais, dancing while a trio of dwarf musicians played songhorns for them. “This is the time—the place doesn’t matter.” He drew his dagger. Icelin realized what he intended to do just a breath before he pricked his index finger with the point. Blood welled, and he touched it to his lips.

Icelin’s heart filled. She reached out to take the dagger. She pricked her finger on the blade and touched the blood to her lips.

“Will you stand as witness?” Ruen asked Sull.

Tears welled in the butcher’s eyes. “You know I will.”

“As will I,” said a familiar voice from the crowd, though Icelin was used to hearing it speak only Dwarvish.

She turned, only then realizing that several dwarves among the revelers had seen her and Ruen’s exchange and had gathered silently to watch. Obrin stepped from among them, with Joya and Garn trailing behind.

“I witness this union on behalf of the Blackhorn family,” Garn said. Obrin drew his axe, holding it in his hands so that the obsidian horns shone in the torchlight.

“I bless this union in the name of Mystra, Haela Brightaxe, and Moradin,” Joya said in her sweet voice.

“I speak with the voice of Icelin’s mother and father, and her great-uncle, to approve this union,” Sull said formally. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from Icelin’s cheek. Then he turned a stern gaze on Ruen and added, “And I’ll speak with my fists and my mallet if you hurt her.”

Approving chuckles passed among the dwarves. Ruen did not laugh, but bowed respectfully to the butcher. Joya stepped forward and took Icelin and Ruen’s hands. She pressed them together. “By stone and flesh are you bound before these witnesses. Be now bound by blood and heart, for as long as you live.”

Heart pounding, Icelin wrapped her arms around Ruen’s neck. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, their blood mingling in the dwarf tradition.

What a tale all this would make, Icelin thought fleetingly. Then Ruen deepened the kiss, and she thought of nothing at all for the next several breaths.

When they broke apart, Ruen still held her close, and Icelin saw his muddy red eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She started to make a jest about this being a truly momentous occasion, but she stopped. Instead, she stood on her toes and kissed the corners of his eyes, smiling at him.

“My thanks,” Icelin said, turning to Garn and the others. “But there are things we must do. We must see the king.”

Garn exchanged a look with Joya and Obrin. “He’s declared he won’t see anyone,” Garn said. “You’ll be wasting your time.”

Icelin shook her head vehemently. “He will see us.”

At the doors to the king’s hall, Icelin gave her name to the guards and told them to relay it to King Mith Barak. After only a few moments, they returned and ushered her, Ruen, Sull, and the three members of the Blackhorn family inside.

Mith Barak was not seated on his throne, but rather paced the floor in front of it. When he saw the group, he scowled.

“All come at once to badger me, have you?” he said testily.

“The king’s absence at the wedding feast is conspicuous,” Joya said, ignoring Mith Barak’s deepening scowl.

“The king’s absence from his city is conspicuous,” Icelin said. The dwarves tensed, but she had no more patience for dallying around the subject. She barreled on. “Your city and your people need you, yet you hide in this room—”

Mith Barak stopped pacing. He turned a black glare on Icelin. “Have a care how you speak to me, little one. I am not your butcher or your man, that you can tame me with a tongue lashing.”

“She’s right,” Ruen said. “Your people need their leader. Why don’t you go to them?”

“I will lead them!” the king cried, rage and anguish twisting his features. “To death, to annihilation, whatever the gods will, but for this last night, leave me in peace! Gods, you don’t know how I’ve longed for just one moment of peace in a century.”

“They don’t understand, my king,” Joya said gently. She went to the king and tried to take his arm, but he shrugged her off with an incoherent cry. “Your people don’t know what you have suffered. You must tell them the truth.”

“What right do they have to the truth?” Mith Barak roared. “What right to rip open the wound, to pour through my mind and heart?”

“Because they have shed blood for you,” Garn said. He gazed at the king with hard eyes, and his voice was not gentle like Joya’s. “Your people have endured torments of their own. They will not see their king as weak for having his own share of scars.”

“Scars, aye.” The king let out a bitter laugh. “Claw marks raked into stone.” He stood before Icelin. “Is that what you want, then? To see into the abyss?”

Fear surged through Icelin, but she didn’t back down. “I want to understand,” she said.

“And you to heal,” Joya said, laying a hand on Mith Barak’s shoulder.

“Very well,” Mith Barak said hoarsely. Silver flecks swirled in his eyes, a hypnotic light that snared Icelin and wouldn’t let go. “I’ll go with you to the dark places. I hope neither of us gets lost.”

Icelin opened her mouth to reply, but an icy gust of wind cut off the words, filling her mouth and making her chest ache. The world fell away, and she was flying, soaring high above dozens of mountain peaks. In and out of the cloudbanks, she dived and reeled. Terror and elation filled Icelin as she soared upward to even more dizzying heights.

“What is this?” she cried. She expected the wind to steal her voice, but instead a mighty roar split the air and shook the snow from the mountain peaks. Above her, the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the mountains in gold light.

“Look below you.”

Mith Barak’s voice reverberated in her mind. Icelin recognized it, and yet the voice was different, bigger, and full of an immense, mind-shattering power barely kept in check.

Icelin looked down and saw the shadow of a massive serpentine body on the unblemished snow. A pair of talon-tipped wings unfolded from its body, and its frilled neck ended in a thick, horned head.

By the gods, Icelin thought. This can’t be happening. If she’d possessed a body in this strange vision, she’d be trembling, weeping with the wrongness of what she saw.

I can’t do this. I can’t ride a dragon’s mind.

“You’re not seeing the worst of it, girl. If you can’t handle a simple flight, you’ll go mad with what’s to come.”

“You’re not a dwarf at all,” Icelin said. The mountains fell away, and they flew over a vast pine forest just as a flock of crows broke from the trees and surrounded them. The birds screeched loudly in Icelin’s ears and flew away. “For centuries, you’ve ruled Iltkazar, yet you’re—”

“A dragon,” Mith Barak finished for her. “I came to the dwarves over fourteen hundred years ago. When their ruler died, he appointed me, Mith Barak the Clanless, his successor, knowing what I was, because he knew I could protect his people.”

“But why?” Icelin exclaimed. “I see your mind.” Images of open spaces and fresh, cold air blasting her in the face—it couldn’t be a coincidence that these were the memories Mith Barak had sought first when he let her enter his mind. “You don’t belong underground, in the dark.”

“Neither do you,” Mith Barak said, his booming voice full of an unexpected humor. “Yet here we are. Suffice to say, the dwarves needed me, and I needed them. Don’t doubt that it was a fair exchange.”

“How?” Icelin asked. The dragon’s shadow rippled over the treetops. She couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t reconcile the dwarf she’d known these past several days with the creature whose mind she rode.

“Why? How?” Mith Barak echoed. “Do you really want to know, or are you still dumbstruck?”

“Can you blame me?” Icelin cried. “You could have warned me!”

“I am warning you,” Mith Barak said. All traces of humor disappeared. “Where we’re going next won’t be pleasant. If you want to know how it was a fair bargain, I’ll tell you. You’ve heard the stories of the king who becomes a mithral statue for decades, leaving his people to fend for themselves.”

“Do you sleep for that time?” Icelin asked. “Is it something unique to … er … dragons? Some kind of hibernation?”

“In a way,” Mith Barak said. “It allows me to travel. When last I went to the stone, I was gone a very long time.”

“Where did you go?” Icelin gasped as the forest dropped away. Suddenly, thousands of glittering lights surrounded them.

“I came here,” Mith Barak said, “to the Astral Sea.”

Gods, Icelin thought, the dwarf—dragon—had been right. She wasn’t ready for this. Part of her wanted to close her eyes, to shut away the scene, but if she did, she might miss something extraordinary.

A vast ocean of darkness enveloped them, broken by starlight and misty threads of cloud. On the horizon, the darkness lightened, reminding Icelin of the times she’d watched the light change over Waterdeep harbor, or the early mornings when she sat on the roof of her great-uncle’s shop and waited for dawn. The dragon swam in an ocean of starlight, and Icelin rode his memories, tasting each image as if it were alive.

I’ll never forget any of this, she promised herself.

“Your people say you weren’t the same when you came back from here the last time,” Icelin said, struggling to focus. She could lose herself in the beauty of this place if she wasn’t careful.

“I was delayed,” Mith Barak said, “by that.”

Icelin looked ahead, and a scream welled up in her throat.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

27 UKTAR

WHAT’S HAPPENING TO HER?” RUEN DEMANDED.

Icelin and the king stood facing each other, no more than a couple of feet apart, with their eyes closed. Ruen had assumed Mith Barak was using magic to show Icelin a vision, and up until a breath ago, all had seemed well. Then Icelin screamed and clutched her head as if seized by a terrible pain.

Ruen rushed forward, intending to pull her away from the dwarf. Obrin and Garn got to him first, restraining him by the arms. He set his weight against them, but they were immovable. Sull’s face reddened with anger, but Joya clutched his wrist.

“You can’t interfere,” she said. “You’ll do more harm.”

“She’s in pain,” Ruen said through gritted teeth. “Stop this.”

“No, you must let them see the vision through,” Joya said. “Icelin will know what must be done. Trust her.”

“It’s him I don’t trust,” Ruen said.

“Icelin’s strong,” Sull said, though he looked as worried as Ruen felt. “Give them a little more time.”

Ruen watched Icelin’s face contort as she struggled with the vision Mith Barak had planted in her head. What was she seeing—what had Mith Barak seen—that had terrified him so?

They flew toward a massive darkness, ripped like a gigantic scar across the Astral Sea. Roiling within the scar was a five-headed beast. Its serpentine necks braided together in shades of red, black, green, white, and blue. Icelin tried to pull back, but Mith Barak flew them relentlessly toward the maw.

“Turn away,” Icelin cried, frantic. “Why are you taking us toward it?”

“Because it’s already too late,” Mith Barak said in a remote voice.

Before Icelin could answer, a loud screech split the air, and two giant masses slammed into them from either side. Mith Barak roared and went into a diving roll, so that the stars blurred together in a sickening storm. Lightning tore apart the sky, but it was not a natural phenomenon. Energy crackled in blue waves across the dragon’s body. Icelin saw it through Mith Barak’s eyes, the electric heat rippling over his belly. She felt no pain from this attack, but Mith Barak’s anguish ripped through her as keenly as the lightning bolts.

They were going down. Icelin’s gut twisted. A breath later, an object loomed in front of them, large and brown with jagged peaks not unlike the mountains they’d flown over earlier. The floating mote had very little open ground, but it didn’t matter. The dragon slammed flat onto it with the full weight of his body and the other bodies clinging to him. The crash echoed across the remoteness of the Astral Sea.

He’s surely dead, Icelin thought. No one can survive a fall like that. Yet he obviously had, and already the dragon stirred, attempted to lift his broken body while the lightning burned black threads into his scales and the creatures pinned him from either side.

“It’s all pain now,” Mith Barak said thickly. “All pain for so very long. Pain … and then silence. I couldn’t move. They had no need to restrain me. The pain—and fear—kept me still.”

“Who were they?” Icelin asked when she’d recovered her voice. “Why did they capture you?”

“Servants of Tiamat, the dragon goddess. You saw the five-headed serpent,” Mith Barak said. “I beheld her image just before they took me. As to why—because I am old, powerful, and I guard knowledge they covet. Perhaps they did it because I oppose their goddess. Perhaps they did it for the pure enjoyment of it. After the first decade, I stopped asking why. After the second, I prayed for my own death. Sometime later, I simply lost myself to pain and madness. I did not care what happened to me.”

“Gods above,” Icelin said. Sorrow welled inside her. How long had he stayed there, in life and in his memories? Had he ever truly escaped this nightmare? “How did you escape?” Icelin asked.

“Luck and a lapse in judgment,” Mith Barak said. “My captors grew complacent. I’d stopped resisting years ago. They thought I was mind-dead. I realized this gradually, and a part of my soul woke up. I conserved my strength, planned, and waited for my moment. Finally, it came, and I broke free. I still remember what it felt like to wake from the stone, to shake it off like molted skin. It had become so much a part of me. And my dwarf form—intact, unblemished—it was a miracle not to feel pain.”

“But you weren’t intact,” Icelin said. The dreamlike world, the glimmering stars floated in her periphery, but Mith Barak wasn’t looking at it. He hadn’t stirred since they’d crashed on the drifting island. “Your spirit had been scarred.”

“Being in my hall was a comfort,” Mith Barak said. “A large enough nest that I could return to my true form if I needed to defend myself, yet it did not have the openness of the Astral Sea or the vast, echoing caverns of Iltkazar and the Underdark. I stayed there as much as I could when I awoke, dispensing counsel. At first, no one knew anything had changed. My people were too grateful I was back.”

“You felt safe,” Icelin said. It was not so different from how she’d felt in Waterdeep, nestled in her great-uncle’s shop. Waterdeep’s walls protected her from the outside world and all its dangers. Wider Faerûn held no interest for her, until she’d met Ruen and Sull and ventured outside her small world.

“There’s no such thing as safety,” Mith Barak said. “I’d thought of everything. A vast underground city, heavily fortified with walls and magic, protected by the dwarves—my physical body could not have been safer while I traveled the Astral Sea. I was arrogant and left my spirit vulnerable.”

“That’s why you rule Iltkazar,” Icelin said, “why you dwell among the dwarves when you’d rather be soaring through the skies. They protected you, and in return you guided the city and shared your wisdom with the dwarves.”

“I failed them,” Mith Barak said. “I was gone too long, and what came back from the Astral Sea … it’s an empty shell.”

“That’s not true,” Icelin insisted. “You can still lead your people. They need you now more than ever.”

“I see drow faces in my dreams. They strike at my body and reopen old wounds. I have to protect my city from them, from Zollgarza.” Mith Barak’s voice broke, and he sounded small again, like the old dwarf she knew.

“Zollgarza isn’t your torturers,” Icelin said. “His only power over you comes from what you allow him to have.”

“No!” the dragon snarled, making Icelin quail with fear. “I let them catch me unawares once before. Never again! I will not let my people suffer the way I suffered.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Icelin whispered. “Protect your people—or are you really just trying to protect yourself?”

“Of course I am!” Mith Barak shouted, rage and anguish filling the dark corners of the Astral Sea. “I would rather die than let myself be taken—used—again.”

“You’ve lost so much,” Icelin said, “and you have scars that won’t ever go away. Yet you live, and you are needed—you are also loved.”

“You don’t love a broken thing, something scarred beyond recognition,” Mith Barak said. “It’s not worthy.”

“You’re wrong,” Icelin said gently. “Those are the souls that have truly lived.”

The stars around them faded, and shapes pushed out of the darkness—columns and a throne, the outlines of figures standing in a semicircle before them. Gradually, their faces resolved into those of the Blackhorn family, Ruen, and Sull.

Icelin looked for Mith Barak, but her vision, caught for a breath between the Astral Sea and the dwarven hall, perceived the shape of a great serpentine body filling the room. Its skull brushed the vaulted ceiling, silver scales arranged like a fall of pure water. One of its curving claws stood as tall as Icelin’s body. She saw her distorted reflection in its polished surface.

The moment passed, and the dragon’s body faded into nothingness. Mith Barak stood before her, shrunken, aged, and so weary that Icelin wanted nothing more than to step forward and wrap her arms around him.

Garn and Joya got to him first. They positioned themselves on either side of their king and lent him their shoulders when he wavered on his feet. Joya turned, likely intending to lead him to his throne, but Mith Barak resisted and instead sat down right where he was on the cold stone floor.

“Are you all right?” Ruen stood at Icelin’s shoulder, concern shining clearly from his muddy red eyes.

“I’m fine,” Icelin assured him and nodded to Sull, who looked pale and scared. “How much did you see and hear?”

“We heard you cry out, and in the end, when you came back from wherever you were …” Ruen hesitated. “Was it real? Is he truly a dragon?”

Icelin nodded. She related in a low voice what she’d seen in the Astral Sea. Mith Barak stared off into the distance, seemingly unaware of their presence. Joya and Garn stood on either side of him while Obrin looked on, fingering his axe helplessly.

“Did we do the right thing, forcing him to confront the past?” Icelin asked, staring at the king. “Or did we do more harm?” She addressed Joya, she who of all of them seemed closest to the king. “Did you know what had happened to him?”

“Parts of it,” Joya said. “I guessed the rest. My family—plus several others who are not here—knows what our king is. We know where he went, the dangers he faced.” She looked at Mith Barak with sorrow-filled eyes. “I thanked Moradin when he was restored to us, but I did not know how to heal his grief.”

Mith Barak stirred, blinked, and slowly pulled back from the vision that held him in its grip. He looked at Joya as if seeing her for the first time. “You’ve too much grief already, girl, to think so much of an old wreck like me.” He patted her hand. When his gaze rested next on Icelin, she instinctively dropped her eyes, embarrassed at having seen him so exposed. He was an ancient soul, and he’d given her glimpses of things beautiful and terrible. She hadn’t meant to pry into those memories. No human was meant to see such things.

“No, don’t look away,” Mith Barak said. “You deserved to know the truth as much as those gathered here. I would have used you without regard for the consequences.”

“You offered a fair bargain,” Icelin said.

“I was obsessed with knowing Zollgarza’s secrets.” With Garn and Joya’s aid, Mith Barak stood up. Silver light burned in his eyes. He stood straight and shook himself as if chasing away shadows. “I’d tried everything to break through that drow’s magic and uncover the truth of his purpose here. Then you arrived in the city like a gift from the gods. I thought you’d find the sphere and use the Silver Fire, succeeding where I couldn’t. I didn’t care if I put you in danger. I was still half-dead, broken.”

“I made the choice,” Icelin said. “You didn’t force me.”

“You showed courage when you confronted me in the library—courage that I lacked. It shamed me out of hiding, if only for a little while.”

“I would have hidden as well if I’d endured what you have,” Icelin said. “It’s enough to break most people.”

“I was supposed to be stronger than that,” Mith Barak said harshly. “I should never have let it happen in the first place.”

“You mean because of what you are?” Sull spoke up suddenly. “That’s a lot of rubbish.” All eyes turned to him, and he reddened. “I mean, all beings in Faerûn feel pain, don’t they, whether they’re among the high and mighty or the lowliest creatures. They can be hurt, and they can be broken. It’s a sad truth, but it makes us all equal in somethin’, at least.”

Mith Barak stared silently at the butcher. Icelin thought she saw Garn nod in approval. Sull is right, she thought, though it gave her no comfort. We are equal in our ability to suffer—even Zollgarza suffered at the hands of his inner demons.

In the battle ahead, there was no such equality. The drow outnumbered them, but if their target was the Arcane Script Sphere, if it had been the artifact all along, and its purpose was tied to Zollgarza’s memory loss, then there was only one thing left for them to try, one way to give back Zollgarza’s identity and discover what the drow were plotting. She’d refused to do it for herself, but if it saved the dwarves …

Icelin stepped forward, addressing the king. “None of the drow know your secret, do they?”

“Not from what I’ve gathered from Zollgarza’s mind,” Mith Barak said. “What are you getting at?”

Joya raised an eyebrow. “I think she’s suggesting you meet the drow as you truly are.”

“As a dragon?” Sull whistled. “That’ll surprise them. You can be sure of that. What’ll your people think, though?”

“They’ll think their king is willing to do whatever it takes to save his people,” Ruen said. “Even reveal a secret that makes him vulnerable.”

Garn shook his head. “We’d never ask him to take such a risk.”

“And why not?” Mith Barak said sharply. “Earlier you said my people have shed blood for me, and you were right. How can I do less?”

Icelin nodded. “And while you fight, I’ll strip away the magic that cloaks Zollgarza.”

“No,” Mith Barak said immediately. “It’s too late anyway. There’s no time to find the sphere.”

“But I think I know where it is,” Icelin said.

“Where?” Mith Barak asked, sounding skeptical.

Icelin shook her head. “I want to be sure. I need to go to the library to speak with the seneschal.”

“Lass, are you sure about this?” Sull asked.

Icelin nodded. “Yes. I’m doing this because—” but she couldn’t finish. Her throat closed around the words.

“Because Iltkazar isn’t dead yet,” Ruen said. “The city can still be saved.”

“The city will be saved,” the king said, looking at Icelin. He nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Joya, Garn, Obrin—bring the master armswoman, the warmaster, and the regency council here. We have a lot to talk about and little time to do it. I want our scouts recalled as soon as possible. Collect all their information, their best guesses as to the strength of the drow force and where they’ll hit the city’s defenses first.”

“They won’t attack the doors,” Obrin said. “That much we know. They’ll hit us at our weakest points along the wall and try to breach it.”

“That’ll be perfect,” Mith Barak said, nodding. He pointed at Icelin. “Take yourself and your men to the library, but wait for me outside the doors. Do you hear? Don’t go in to Zollgarza unless I’m there with you. Whatever happens, I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

“You’re needed with your army,” Icelin protested. “I can do this—”

“You forget you’re arguing with a king,” Mith Barak said, “and a dragon. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that that’s not a wise thing to do?” His voice held a trace of humor, but his eyes were hard. “We do this my way or not at all, understand?”

Icelin nodded and bowed. “As you say, my king.”

Around her, the others bowed as well, and a chorus of “my king” echoed in the vast hall.

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.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

28 UKTAR

YOU NEED HEALING,” RUEN SAID. “WE’LL GET YOU TO Joya.”

Trying to be as gentle as possible, he and Sull helped Mith Barak to his feet. The dwarf swayed unsteadily, breathing hard, but he waved off their support. “Don’t worry about me. I’m thinking about that one,” he said, nodding at Zollgarza.

The female drow lay on her back, chest heaving, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Every few breaths, she laughed, a horrible sound that raised the flesh on Ruen’s arms.

Icelin walked carefully up to the drow and spread a blanket over her to cover her nakedness. “Can we leave her like this?” she asked.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mith Barak answered. “If we can’t question her, then we’ll use her as bait. I’ll send the scouts out with a message, see if her mistress wants to parlay for the return of her pet—or whatever this is.” Mith Barak looked at the drow in disgust.

Ruen met Icelin’s gaze. Surely he saw the compassion there and the guilt. He must have known she felt responsible for Zollgarza’s current state. “We have hope for the battle now that we didn’t have before,” he told her. “And she may recover in time. You’ve given her back her true form.”

Whatever reply Icelin might have made was interrupted when Mith Barak succumbed to a fit of coughing. “Are you well enough to fight?” Icelin asked the dwarf, “or even to parlay with the drow?”

“Aye, I think I can manage not to plunge my axe in the mistress mother’s skull while we have a conversation—a short one,” Mith Barak said with a dark smile as he wiped a blood smear across his lips. “Whatever’s amiss inside me isn’t going to be cured quickly. May as well live with it while I can.”

When Icelin stepped out of the hall, she swallowed an awed cry.

The dwarves of Iltkazar had assembled.

Bodies filled the plaza as if again in preparation for a wedding feast. The difference was the light from the glowing lichen that reflected off thousands of swords and axes, and the finest suits of armor in all Faerûn, by Icelin’s judgment. Beyond the plaza, they stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the city streets. Banners from the dwarf clans waved when King Mith Barak emerged from the hall behind Icelin. Grim-faced and deadly, Iltkazar’s sons and daughters had gathered for a fight. They awaited only their king.

The master armswoman stepped forward. “The scouts have reported in,” she said. “We know the location of two of their attacking forces for certain—the western and southern walls. They must be planning to break through the magical barriers. The rest of their forces, if there are more, have the advantage in that we don’t know where they will strike.”

“My thanks, Dorla,” Mith Barak said. He turned to the gathered army. Icelin heard him mutter a word under his breath, and a tingling sensation kissed the back of her neck, a momentary flush of arcane power.

“Warriors of Iltkazar!” Mith Barak cried, and his voice carried to the farthest corners of the cavern, amplified by magic. “We knew this day was coming, and now we stand on the precipice. The drow press us from all sides, attacking from the west and the south. They have already desecrated the Hall of Lost Voices, slain thousands of our people in these endless battles, century upon century. We have suffered, bled, but we have not fallen!”

A deafening roar arose from the crowd. Boots stomped and blades pounded on shields, striking sparks in the cold cavern air. Gooseflesh rose on Icelin’s arms at the fervor in the dwarves’ faces.

Mith Barak raised his hands, and the army quieted. “There are those who would have us believe we are a doomed people. They would have us roll over quietly and accept our fate, abandon our city to the shadows.”

“Never!” cried a single voice, and the cry echoed through the crowd like wildfire. “Never!”

Mith Barak raised his hands again for silence. He hesitated, gazing with shining eyes over the army, though only those standing closest to him saw the tremor that passed over his face, the breath of sorrow and joy that seized him. “I have lived long enough to dwell among the greater and lesser races of this world. Along that path, I’ve seen the towering spires of mighty empires and the hovels of the poorest, meanest wretches. I have walked alone and with others at my side. In all that time, I have never claimed a true home or family for myself. Clanless, I called myself, and clanless I remained. Until now.”

Icelin expected shouts and cheers from the crowd, but a hush had fallen over the army. Thousands of dwarf bodies pressed close, hanging on the words of their king, a kind of desperate longing in their eyes. Tears standing in her own eyes, Icelin reached behind her for Ruen’s hand.

Mith Barak bowed his head; then, gazing at those dwarves nearest him in turn, he nodded. A peaceful stillness descended over his weary face. “This day, I say that Iltkazar is and ever was my home, my clan.” He moved forward, passing into the gathered throng.

The crowd parted, but only enough to let the king pass. The dwarves reached to meet the hands Mith Barak stretched out to them. In a minute, the army had enveloped him, and the only way to follow his progress across the plaza was by the joy that broke over the faces in the crowd.

The master armswoman followed the king. Icelin smiled as Joya and the rest of her family emerged from the crowd. Ingara and Arngam followed close behind.

“We should get ready,” Ingara said. She turned to Icelin and Ruen. “Our family is overseeing the defense of the city near the main gate. We’d be honored if you joined us there.”

“The honor is ours,” Ruen said. “Lead the way.”

Icelin hesitated. She glanced back at the great hall. “I need to do something first.”

“You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ back in there to see the drow?” Sull asked. “He’s … she’s out of her head, lass.”

“Then it won’t matter one way or another,” Icelin said. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll come with you,” Joya said. “She might benefit from healing.”

“Don’t be long,” Garn said. “The king walks among his people for a purpose. He’ll be getting the army into position, and we don’t know yet if this ‘parlay’ is going to happen.” His tone left little doubt what he thought of negotiating with the drow.

Icelin followed Joya back through the hall to the library door. Joya drew her axe. “Just in case,” she said in answer to Icelin’s questioning glance.

When they entered, Zollgarza was sitting up by the fire. Icelin blinked in surprise when she recognized the seneschal standing over her.

“Any change?” Joya asked, tension stiffening her posture.

The seneschal looked up at them and smiled faintly. “I knew you would come back one last time,” she said, addressing Icelin. “I am pleased you found what you sought.”

“Thank you,” Icelin said, “for everything.” She glanced at Zollgarza and was surprised again when the drow met her gaze. A bright, feverish light danced in her eyes. Icelin didn’t know if that was a sign that she was coming out of her madness or descending further into it.

“You,” Zollgarza said. She had a beautiful voice, soft and husky. “You’re the one I need.” She spoke with an effort. “I can’t … kill you.”

“Better you don’t try, either,” Joya remarked, though she made no move to brandish her axe.

Zollgarza didn’t seem to hear her. She reached out a hand to Icelin, who tensed but let the drow clasp her wrist. “Take me to him,” she said hoarsely. “To Mith Barak. I have what he needs.”

“The king?” Icelin said. Understanding dawned on her. “If you’re a drow priestess, you have information about the attacking force, don’t you?”

“Part of me does,” Zollgarza said. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. “It’s not strong yet, dominant. It fights with him, with the unclean parts of me. But it won’t win,” she said, gritting her teeth as if fighting off physical pain. “We have to hurry.”

“What’s your price?” Joya asked, suspicious. “And how are you just remembering this information now? The king already rooted through your mind and found nothing.”

An ugly smile flitted across Zollgarza’s face. “He was looking in the wrong mind,” she said. “I have lain in dark rooms and whispered plans with the mistress mother of the snake-headed scourge. I know why Fizzri—no, why Lolth—wants the Arcane Script Sphere.” Her hand tightened around Icelin’s wrist. “My price is my freedom—safe passage out of the city.”

“The king will never release you,” Joya said. “You know too much.”

“If I win my battle against what’s inside me, if female dominates male, all that knowledge will be gone,” Zollgarza said. “I will purge it with the rest of this disease. It’s a sacrifice I gladly make.”

“Why are you doing this,” Icelin asked, “betraying your people, your goddess?”

The light in Zollgarza’s eyes dimmed, and a shudder wracked her body. “I have no goddess—not while I am … this.” She held her hands up in front of her face, as if she didn’t recognize what she was looking at. “Half of one being, half of another. She did this to me, made me into an abomination, a sacrifice.” She looked up at Icelin with pleading eyes. “I will not let it happen.”

Icelin nodded. “We’ll take you to the king,” she said. “I just hope we can get to him in time.”

Ruen tensed when Icelin and Joya came out of the hall with the drow in tow. Garn and Obrin cursed and gripped their weapons. Ingara turned away in disgust.

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Ruen said, raising an eyebrow and looking pointedly at Icelin.

“Why do you always blame me?” Icelin said, putting a hand on her hip. “I never ask for the sort of trouble that follows me around like a plague, do I?” She related Zollgarza’s request quickly. “The king can decide what’s best to do,” she added. “We need to get to him, quickly.”

“You can use the stone flyers,” Garn said. “This way.”

He led them over the bridge to a set of caves in the back of the cavern wall. Iron bars set across the entrances kept in two massive creatures with skin made of stone. To Icelin, they vaguely resembled wolves with wings folded alongside their flanks. Garn spoke to the stable master and got the keys to one of the pens.

“The rest of them are already being used by the army. These are older, but the stable man says they’ll fly true. The king’ll be at the front of the army near the main gate,” he told them as he swung open the door to the pen. He raised a hand and spoke soothingly to the stone creatures, who watched the group warily. Stroking the necks of two of the beasts, he led them out of the pen. “Obrin,” he said to his son, “you carry the drow.”

“I want to go too,” Icelin said. “Will they carry Ruen and I?”

“Can you ride a horse well?” Ingara asked, looking concerned.

“Yes,” Icelin said.

“That’ll help,” Garn said. “We’ve trained them as aerial cavalry. They’ll follow a leader, and Obrin’s riding one of the ones we’ve trained to lead. Guide them only when you have to. They know what they’re about.”

“Just be careful,” Sull said, wringing his big hands.

“I will,” Icelin promised.

Obrin mounted the lead flyer, and Zollgarza crawled up behind him, being careful not to touch the dwarf but instead holding on to the raised stone ridges along the beast’s flank. Icelin and Ruen mounted the second flyer. The roughness of the flyer’s stone skin scratched and caught at her breeches. Could statues fly?

She wrapped her arms around Ruen’s waist for balance and held the Arcane Script Sphere tightly in the other. The lupine creature rocked back and spread its wings. A weight pressed down on Icelin as the creature’s wings came down, lifting them off the ground. Beating its wings furiously, the flyer took off, gaining momentum as the cavern floor disappeared beneath them. In a breath, the weight lifted, and a light, giddy sensation clawed at Icelin’s stomach. She tightened her grip on Ruen’s waist. It was then she noticed how rigid he sat on the flyer’s back, as if he, too, were made of stone. They were very high up in the air.

“Sorry,” Icelin said, wincing as she looked down at the stone buildings passing beneath them. “I never expected we’d be doing this.”

A gust of wind hit her, and the flyer changed direction slightly. Ruen put up a hand to hold his hat in place. “Which part?” he said dryly. “This whole adventure is starting to look a little bit mad from where I’m sitting.”

Below them, the army assembled before the main gate. Other flyers hovered in the air in formations of ten and twenty beasts, flying their own banners and following a single lead. Ballistae arranged in a semicircle near the main gate stood poised to fire. The king stood near one of the machines, surrounded by a group of scouts.

Soldiers looked up and saw the flyers descending. They hurried to clear a path, but several pointed at the drow and murmured in alarm. Icelin wondered briefly if they’d made a miscalculation, bringing Zollgarza into the middle of the army. There was a chance the dwarves would slay the drow on sight. Then they landed, and Icelin had no more time for doubts.

The king must have seen them approach as well, for he pushed through the crowd when the flyers’ feet hit the ground. “What is this, Obrin?” he growled, pointing at Zollgarza.

“Ask her,” Obrin said in Common.

Icelin flinched as the gazes of hundreds of dwarf soldiers and their king turned her way. Surprisingly, Zollgarza spoke.

“I have what you wanted,” she said to the king. “I can tell it to you, or you can rip it from my mind—more damage won’t matter.”

“Speak,” the king said bluntly.

“The mistress mother’s armies will distract your forces while her infiltrators seek out the Arcane Script Sphere,” Zollgarza said. “When they find it, and me, they will use my body and the sphere as a conduit for a ritual that will aid in the creation of a new Weave, reshaped by Lolth’s power. She will become the new goddess of magic.”

Icelin gasped. “Can she do that? The sheer power involved …”

“Preparations are being made in drow cities all throughout the Underdark,” Zollgarza said. “Artifacts, powerful tools of arcane might, are being gathered by the faithful. The Arcane Script Sphere bears a piece of Mystra’s essence and memory, and my body and mind are the union of male and female, arcane and divine. I would have been the nexus for the power Fizzri intends to channel. At least that was her intention.”

“Was?” Mith Barak said, gazing at Zollgarza narrowly.

“All I want now is to go free, away from this city, away from Guallidurth, away from every living thing. I have lived as a male. I am already tainted. I will not be Lolth’s sacrifice.”

Mith Barak raised an eyebrow. “And if you’re lying? What if you’re captured again? Why shouldn’t we kill you to make sure Lolth’s plan doesn’t come to pass?”

Icelin spoke up. “I believe Zollgarza speaks the truth,” she said.

“Why?” Mith Barak asked sharply. “Because of what you saw in her mind? She could spin lies to ensnare you too. Be careful with your compassion.”

“Not just because of what was in her thoughts,” Icelin said. “I saw it in her eyes, the same shadow I saw over Joya—and in me,” she added softly. “I know what it’s like to grieve the loss of your goddess, whether by death, betrayal, or simply never knowing her at all.” She met Zollgarza’s feverish gaze. “The drow betrays her people because she herself has been betrayed.”

The king considered Zollgarza. The lines around Mith Barak’s face had deepened, and he moved more slowly than he had before, but Joya was right. A new fire kindled in his eyes. He clapped his hands together and grinned. “So be it, then. We’ll have a hell of a fight, and you’ll have your freedom. Dorla!” he cried. “Prepare the doors, and sound a call to march.”

“You’re opening the doors?” Icelin said.

“Aye,” Mith Barak said, smiling wickedly. “We have guests, so it’s only right that we surge out the doors at full strength to meet them. With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to circle around and flank the dark elf forces at the western wall. Numbers mean less when you’re surrounded, trapped like rats in a tiny hole.”

“You’ll leave the city open to invasion,” Ruen said.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Mith Barak said. “Too bad we haven’t got flyers poised above the city,” he waved at the stone beasts hovering overhead, “or a thousand more dwarves hiding in the homes and temples all along the river.”

“You have more soldiers than those assembled here?” Icelin said. “But your numbers—”

“The drow aren’t the only ones able to deceive,” Mith Barak said. “They use illusions to make us think their numbers are overwhelming. I told every one of my warriors that if they were captured and interrogated, to say that Iltkazar’s numbers were less than a third of what they actually are. Oh, we’re still outnumbered and probably outmatched, too, but we’ll give them a surprise or two that might give us the edge we need to win.” He looked at Icelin. “I’ll be defending the city as well.”

Icelin’s eyes widened. He truly was going to reveal himself. Gods, they might win the battle yet.

In the distance, a horn blared, a loud, ominous sound that drew the attention of the assembled army. The soldiers around Icelin raised their weapons and pounded fists once against their chests.

“It’s started,” Mith Barak said. “The drow are here.” He gestured impatiently to Zollgarza. “You’re with me. The rest of you know your stations.” He nodded to Icelin briefly. “Go,” he said, “be safe, and fight with the Blackhorns.” Then he was gone.

Icelin and Ruen hastily mounted the stone flyer again as one by one the doors to the city opened, and the army marched to meet the drow.

Ruen had the passing thought that, years later, they would call this the Battle of the Nine Doors. King Mith Barak’s forces flowed out the doors in rivers of glittering mithral, darksteel, and hizagkuur. Mith Barak’s plan carried much risk, but he won his first victory when half the dwarf soldiers circled around the perimeter of the city and flanked the drow army burrowing at the western wall.

Scouts brought back word that the magical defenses had triggered at the drow dig sites. Gaping stone mouths opened in the walls to attack and swallow the diggers, while waves of magical force blasted the army back, crushing dozens of drow soldiers and slaves in the tunnels.

Into this chaos, Iltkazar’s forces attacked, and the echo of Dwarvish battle cries passed through each of the nine doors to the ears of the defenders within. The cry strengthened them, and they would need that strength, Ruen thought, for once the drow forces realized Mith Barak had thrown open the doors, they’d launched a massive assault on the city.

Drow poured into caverns and engaged the city defenders at the River Dhalnadar and the Deepflood. The water slowed their progress, but the fighting had become one bloody snarl between the rivers and the doors. Reinforcements trickled in from either side, but neither had gained significant ground after hours of fighting.

Ruen and Icelin flew over the battlefield on their stone flyer, along with the other aerial cavalry units. From the skies, they were able to pick out drow targets, but they had to be extremely careful not to hit their own soldiers.

Icelin held the Arcane Script Sphere in a white-knuckled hand. “Go left,” she told him, “angle toward the back of the cavern.”

“I can’t,” Ruen said. “There’s too many cavalry already picking out targets.”

Icelin cursed.

“Not very ladylike,” he remarked. Then he added, “Be patient. I’ll find you a suitable spot to hurl down death and destruction.” He dug his knees into the flyer’s stone sides, and the beast flew higher, making a tight circle that had Ruen gripping the reins and Icelin clutching his waist in a death grip. “Sorry,” he tossed back over his shoulder. Though he’d gotten more adept at guiding and controlling the beast over the past few hours, he suspected his knees were going to be covered in bruises from digging them into stone flanks. “Are you sure you can control the Silver Fire?” he asked.

“No,” Icelin admitted. “That’s why I want to find a spot as far away from the dwarves as possible. Then it won’t matter if the Silver Fire goes out of control.”

“And you?” Ruen asked, feeling a clench in his gut. “What will happen to you?”

He felt her press her forehead against his upper back. “I’ll be as careful as I can. I promise.”

“That’s all I ask.” Ruen murmured a prayer for protection to whatever gods happened to be listening. “There,” he said, pointing, “in that alcove.”

“I see them—perfect,” Icelin said. She readied the sphere. “Wait for my signal.”

Ruen brought the flyer in on a level course that would pass right over a portion of the drow force regrouping at the back of the cavern. When they got close, Icelin clutched his arm, giving the signal. Ruen fell forward, wrapping his arms around the flyer’s neck, and sent it into a dive. It gave Icelin a clear line of sight ahead and below them. She raised the sphere, and the cavern erupted in Silver Fire.

The silver radiance raced through the air to strike the drow. It bounced from one drow to another, knocking them to the ground. Harsh screams and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Behind him, Ruen heard Icelin gag, but she kept a firm grip on the sphere and on the Silver Fire, as far as he could tell. She brought the sphere up and held it in both hands above her head.

Sheets of silver poured forth, this time shielding them as the drow on the fringes of the spell saw them and aimed their hand crossbows. The black quarrels burned away to nothing when they struck the silver barrier.

They approached the cavern wall. At the last moment, Ruen pulled up on the reins, and the stone flyer struck its clawed feet on the wall and turned, wings pumping furiously to get them out of their dive and back to a safe height.

Icelin shifted the shield around to protect their backs as more quarrels poured in. They leveled out at the same moment a ball of fire streaked past Ruen’s left ear. He flinched away from the heat of the orange mass, and the flyer staggered in midair.

“He’s getting tired,” Ruen said. “We have to land.”

“Can we make one more pass?” Icelin asked.

Ruen shook his head. “Even if he had the energy to keep going, they’ve seen we’re a threat. They’ll be looking to blow us out of the sky.”

“Gods, look at that!” Icelin cried. She pointed at a spot below them, where the Dhalnadar and the Deepflood joined.

A silver dragon burst from the river and took flight.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

28 UKTAR

MITHBARAKAZ SPREAD HIS WINGS AND JOINED THE SKY outside the Astral Sea for the first time in centuries. He raised his head and roared as he flew over the battlefield. Below him, Iltkazar burned under the ravages of drow magic. They and their slaves crossed the rivers and charged into the center of the city, toward the temples of Moradin and the lost Haela Brightaxe. Toward his hall.

If he allowed them beyond the river, his soldiers would not be able to purge them from the city. Zollgarza’s information, Mith Barak’s own strategy, Icelin’s sacrifice—all of it had given them hope, but in the end, they didn’t have the numbers.

Iltkazar—his home. He had to save it, no matter the cost.

Reaching out through a mindlink still active—though the one on the receiving end was not aware of it—Mithbarakaz sent one final command to his army.

Icelin screamed and clutched her head. She lost her grip on the sphere, and it spun away into the chaos below. Dizziness seized her, and she felt herself slipping, falling off the side of the stone flyer.

Distantly, she heard Ruen curse. He snatched her wrist and hauled her back upright, but he must have jerked the reins sideways to do it. For that violence, the stone flyer had apparently had enough. The beast went into a dive and skidded across a stone path on the opposite side of the river from where Icelin had cast the Silver Fire. The flyer crouched and shook itself, dumping Icelin unceremoniously onto the ground.

Ruen landed beside her a touch more gracefully, but he immediately went to where Icelin lay.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Was it the sphere?”

“No.” Icelin started to shake her head but thought better of it. A throbbing that started up in her temples threatened to make her sick. “It’s … something else.” An image of Mith Barak’s dwarf face flashed in her mind, intensifying the pain. More images followed it—the river, the bridges, more instructions, and an overwhelming urgency that set her heart pounding in her chest.

“Watch out!” Ruen cried.

Icelin looked up in time to see a group of three drow surging over one of the smaller bridges toward them. They carried rapiers, not crossbows, thank the gods, but Icelin had no ready defense. She’d dropped the sphere. Gods, it was gone!

The pain in her head made it hard to concentrate. Was Mith Barak trying to contact her, mind to mind? Not now, she pleaded silently.

Ruen sprang to his feet and hurled his dagger. The metal flashed once and buried itself in the neck of one of the running drow. He choked and went down at the foot of the bridge. The other two ignored their comrade and kept going.

Dropping into a crouch, Ruen ducked the lead drow’s rapier swing and slammed his shoulder into the drow’s stomach. The force of the impact was audible, and for a moment, Icelin didn’t think Ruen’s slight weight would slow the drow, but suddenly Ruen thrust his hands out and shoved the drow away from him. Reeling, the drow fell and struck his head against the stone bridge. He lay still, dazed.

The other drow was faster than his comrade had been. He ducked a wild punch Ruen threw and stabbed him in the shoulder. Ruen hissed and danced back. He brought his hands up, palms out but held close to his body, as if gathering his strength. When the drow lunged at him again, he thrust his hands forward, catching the drow in the chest. The drow fell back, driven to the edge of the river. He fell and clutched his chest, gasping for breath.

Ruen pressed a hand to the wound in his shoulder and went back to where Icelin lay. “We have to move,” he said. “There’s no cover here, and they’ll be coming over the bridges in waves. How are you doing?”

“I have a message from the king,” Icelin said, though she could hardly believe what she’d heard Mith Barak say in her mind. “We have to pull all the soldiers across to this side of the river.”

Ruen glanced around. “I’ll find someone to sound a call,” he said. “What’s the king planning?”

“Do you remember what Garn did to that bridge on our trip down to Iltkazar?” Icelin said grimly.

“Yes.”

“He’s going to do the same thing, only a lot bigger.”

Fizzri watched the silver dragon circle overhead, a thread of fear working its way into her heart like the most subtle poison. She had only felt such doubts and conflicts on one other occasion, and that had been just before she asked Lolth for the power to transform Zollgarza.

Zollgarza, this is all your doing, Fizzri thought. A surge of hatred for her old lover went through the mistress mother. If only Zollgarza had succeeded in obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere, this attack wouldn’t be necessary.

Rage and frustration burned in Fizzri. Ever since the Arcane Script Sphere began calling to her, disturbing her dreams, she’d been planning her tribute to Lolth. The artifact that held Mystra’s essence—in Zollgarza’s hands, the conduit would channel the arcane and the divine. Zollgarza’s sacrifice, the sacrifice of a piece of Mystra—all to Lolth’s glory. Fizzri would earn ultimate favor with the goddess.

When Zollgarza had been captured, she’d feared all was lost. Now they were on the verge of taking the city, yet they still hadn’t located Zollgarza or the sphere.

“Press forward!” she shouted to Levriin, who stood with one of his apprentices, looking worn and battered from the continuous magical assault. “The priestesses will deal with the dragon.”

She filled her voice with confidence, but in truth, Fizzri had noticed that several of the priestesses had disappeared since the battle began. For all she knew, they were dead or separated from the main army.

“Aagona,” Fizzri called out to her second in command, who’d been directing the wizards and watching for treachery at the same time.

No answer came.

Fizzri turned and saw Aagona lying on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at the cavern ceiling. Cursing, Fizzri approached the body. A dagger protruded from the dead drow’s chest, a dagger affixed with the figure of a spider. Fizzri drew the dagger out, saw the remnants of the poison seeping from the spider’s hollow leg, and a chill passed over her.

“Hello, my lover,” said a velvet-soft, feminine voice behind her.

“Zollgarza,” Fizzri whispered, slowly turning to face the priestess. “You’re back.”

“I never truly left, Fizzri,” Zollgarza purred. “You knew that.”

The noise and frenzy of the battle faded into the background. Amid the bodies of dwarf and drow, the two females faced each other. Zollgarza’s dagger fell from Fizzri’s hand. The look on Zollgarza’s face—the crazed, triumphant light and the hatred smoldering in her scarlet eyes—Fizzri felt that up until this moment she’d never seen Zollgarza’s true face, whether male or female. This face heralded something entirely new, something that frightened Fizzri terribly.

“What happened to you?” Fizzri demanded, trying to hide her fear. “How did you return to your true form?”

“You won’t believe it,” Zollgarza said with a wistful smile. “A human girl, a child, broke the spell. She’s one of Mystra’s faithful.”

“Mystra is gone,” Fizzri said. “You speak blasphemy.”

“Oh, my beautiful Fizzri, the truth has unknotted my tongue. I sought purpose, and purpose found me.” Shudders wracked Zollgarza’s body. “A battle rages inside me, brighter and bloodier than anything you see on this field.” She kicked aside a dwarf corpse. “Purpose will win. Female will win. I know this.” Sweat shone on her face, and she breathed heavily, as if she’d been running for miles through dark tunnels.

“You’re insane,” Fizzri said, lip curled in disgust. She had nothing to fear from this broken creature. “Lolth has revealed your weakness—”

“Weakness?” Keening laughter burst from Zollgarza’s throat. The sound raised the hairs on Fizzri’s arms. “I have played the game from both sides. Secrets live in me that wizards and priestesses would kill to know.” She pounded a fist against her chest. “I understand now. The strongest will win out. I will tear the weakness from my soul. If it destroys me, so be it.” A pensive expression creased her sweaty face. “But if I win … if I win, I will have found my purpose—Lolth be damned.”

Fizzri hissed and drew her snake-headed whip. “I will tear your tongue from your mouth.”

Zollgarza smiled indulgently at her, which incensed Fizzri more. “I don’t blame you, my precious one.” Her smile widened, and her shoulders shook—with contained laughter or hysterics, Fizzri couldn’t say. “You’ve not known true desperation. Throw yourself on the ground, prostrate yourself before the goddess, crawl, crawl, and crawl, and all will be well again. Lolth needs those like you, the pliant and the blind, those she can twist to suit her.”

“Godsdamn you,” Fizzri cried. “Let your sacrifice be now. I will take the sphere without you.” She didn’t bother with the whip. Hissing the words of a spell, she reached for Zollgarza, fingers curled in a clawlike grip. Black lightning poured from her hands. The dark energy struck Zollgarza and twisted around her, encasing her like a cage.

Zollgarza staggered, but her fixed, hysterical smile remained in place. She lifted her trembling hands in the air and shouted an answering spell. She thrust out her hands and poured the energy back at Fizzri.

Fizzri had her defenses in place, but the shadow of the dragon passing overhead distracted her, and the black energy poured past her spell shield and seized her. Gasping with the pain, Fizzri suddenly looked to the sky.

A build-up of arcane energy—power that sizzled, crackled, and threatened to tear apart the air itself—came from the dragon. Zollgarza must have felt it too. She tipped her head back, white hair spilling amidst the black energy of Fizzri’s attack. Spreading her arms, she sketched a shaky bow to the silver dragon soaring overhead.

“What have you done?” Fizzri screamed at Zollgarza. She spit out a phrase and hurled a sheet of flame at Zollgarza, but the drow leaped nimbly aside and took cover behind a large rock. “You’ve destroyed everything! For what? Lolth, why have you let this happen?”

The exclamation burst from Fizzri before she could stop it. She covered her mouth in horror at her own words. Trembling with fear and pain, she backed up a step.

Fiery pain erupted at the small of her back. Fizzri looked down and saw the tip of an axe blade protruding through her stomach. She tried to turn, but her legs would not obey her. With a jerk, the axe came free, and Fizzri dropped, loose-limbed, to her knees. Her attacker circled around so she could see his bloody axe. Three black horns protruded from the weapon, all stained with blood. The dwarf stared down at her and muttered something in his own language that Fizzri didn’t hear. Then he was gone, running across one of the bridges over the river.

Above her, the arcane energy continued to build, along with Zollgarza’s laughter. Fizzri tried to summon the strength to care about any of these events, but her thoughts were getting fuzzy around the edges. She reached out with her fading consciousness, seeking Lolth’s power, but her cry was a hollow echo, met with only silence.

Icelin squinted through the smoke of a dozen fires that raged on this side of the riverbank. The battle had begun to shift, the dwarves pouring across the river at the sound of a horn. Garn and Obrin stood at the bridges, shouting to anyone within earshot to fall back. The drow forces seemed confused by the sudden exodus and did not immediately follow. Perhaps they sensed a retreat and wanted to take advantage of the lull in the fighting to regroup and hit the dwarves while they fell back to more secure ground.

Icelin saw this from her vantage on the ledge at the edge of the plaza, the same spot where she and Ruen had watched Ingara and Arngam’s wedding. It felt like a tenday ago.

“He’ll do it now,” Icelin said as she levitated to the ground. Sull and Ruen stood waiting for her. “Gods, the power—I can feel it in the air, as if the whole city is one huge conduit for magic.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

“He’s calling upon the runes,” Garn said, pushing through the stream of dwarves flowing into the plaza. “Protective spells placed all over the city—they react to the king’s will, and he can use them—or destroy them—as he wishes.”

“The same thing you did to the bridge on our way down here,” Ruen said.

Icelin remembered the look of sorrow and loss she’d seen etched on Garn’s face when he’d destroyed the ancient piece of architecture. Her heart ached for what the king was about to do. “Is this the only way?” she asked.

Garn nodded once. His expression softened somewhat as Joya and Ingara came through the crowd, looking pale and weary. “Where have you been?” he asked. “We were worried.”

“At the temple,” Ingara said. “I asked Joya to tend to Arngam.”

“Is he all right?” Icelin asked.

“I think so—took in too much smoke. He’s unconscious.” Ingara glanced at her sister. “Are you ready?”

Joya nodded. “We should hurry.”

“Where are you going?” Garn demanded as the two women headed for the bridges. “The king ordered us to fall back.”

“There are wounded on the other side of the river,” Joya said. “I’ll get as many of them up and moving as possible.”

“It’s too late for that,” Garn said, “and even if you got there in time, the drow will tear you apart as soon as they see you.”

“They’ll be too distracted by the king,” Joya said. “I can’t abandon the wounded.” She put her hand on her father’s shoulder and said something in Dwarvish. Garn’s expression hardened, and he shook his head. But Joya was equally stubborn. She took her father’s face between her hands, kissed the runes on his face, and then she pressed her forehead against his. A breath passed, and Joya pulled away. Ingara took her place and repeated the gesture. Then the women headed for the bridge.

“Wait, Joya!” Icelin cried.

Joya turned to look at her, but Icelin found herself at a loss for words. She didn’t know why she’d called out to the cleric. A lump rose in her throat.

Joya smiled and nodded. Then they were gone, passing through the smoke and hidden from sight.

Icelin turned to Ruen, but before she could speak, a tremor shook the cavern, raising dust clouds from the stone. Awareness surged in Icelin’s blood, a massive buildup of power, pulsing, raging …

As if in a dream, Icelin looked up, and for an instant, all the magical runes in the city flashed with brilliant, blue-white radiance. In the heart of the magical storm, the silver dragon pulled up, wings beating the air, and released a breath of gas in a line along the opposite side of the river. The drow caught in the blast collapsed, paralyzed.

The dragon flew higher, and the runes continued to pulse until Icelin raised her hands to her head as if she could ward off the surge in magic. Frantically, she turned to Sull and Ruen.

“Get down!” she cried, but the words were lost in an explosion that deafened her.

All around her, drow and dwarf eyes turned to the sky, their expressions reflecting fear and awe. Icelin looked with them, but she could barely see Mith Barak beyond the glow of the magical light. The runes burst apart before her eyes, and the cavern ceiling above the dragon collapsed. A roaring filled Icelin’s ears, and the tremors became a shuddering that threw her to the ground. Sull and Ruen crawled to her, and the three of them huddled close as the world came crashing down around them.

She floated in darkness, broken only by surges of arcane light—magic that burned where it touched her skin. Icelin flinched in pain, but there was nowhere to go.

Gods, make it stop, she cried silently. I can’t bear any more.

Let go.

The feminine voice came from the darkness, and again Icelin had the sensation of hands encircling her from behind. The same soothing coolness and sense of calm she’d felt in the library when she’d been connected to Zollgarza’s mind reached out to her now.

She’d heard the woman’s voice before, in her dreams.

Who are you? Icelin asked.

Let go, the voice repeated. Don’t fight the storm. All will be well.

I’m afraid. Icelin let the invisible hands draw her through the darkness, as if she floated on her back in a pool of deep water. She was terrified of sinking, but she wanted to relax into the arms that held her. Warm hands they were, like a mother’s touch.

That’s better. The more you fight, the more the magic will bind and drag you down into the abyss.

Who are you? Icelin repeated, desperate. Please tell me.

You know. Humor touched the woman’s voice. We haven’t been formally introduced, but I think we’ll get on well.

Mystra? The memory of the goddess, speaking to her through the Arcane Script Sphere? Had the artifact been speaking to her through her dreams all along? All this time she’d been connected to the goddess and hadn’t known it. Icelin’s fear evaporated. She floated in the dark, but she no longer felt alone.

Lady, she called out in her mind, I am very, very glad to know you.

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

29 UKTAR

THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS WERE LARGELY A BLUR FOR Icelin. She remembered waking, her head jostling against Ruen’s shoulder. He carried her, stumbling, across the rubble-strewn plaza. Staring up at the smoke-filled sky, Icelin saw that half the temple of Haela Brightaxe had been blown away by the explosion. The stone garden lay in ruins. The king’s hall and the temple of Moradin had both sustained damage, but they and most of the other buildings in the plaza still stood. Ruen carried her in the direction of Moradin’s temple.

“I’m all … all right.” Coughing, Icelin tried to slip from Ruen’s arms, but he held on to her.

“Try not to move,” Ruen said. “You hit your head. You need healing. Sull’s already at the temple.”

“Joya,” Icelin said faintly. “She can … heal me.”

“She’s missing.” Ruen’s arms tightened around her. A weight settled in Icelin’s stomach.

Gods, I’m so weary, she thought. Fires still burned throughout the city, and soldiers moved through the plaza, but she saw no sign of the drow.

“Is it over?” Icelin asked.

“The drow fled in the wake of the explosion,” Ruen said. “The soldiers are dealing with the stragglers. From what I hear, there’s no sign of the mistress mother or any of their other leaders.”

“What about the king?” Icelin asked. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Her mouth tasted like smoke.

“He’s alive,” Ruen said. “I don’t know any more than that.” He looked down at her. The lines at his eyes and mouth had deepened. He looked aged, and as weary as Icelin felt. Yet he refused to put her down. “Questions can wait. Sleep now.”

“But I have to tell you … Mystra … she …” But Icelin’s strength failed her. Her eyes drifted closed. She wanted so badly to tell him about the woman’s voice, the arms that had comforted her. Instead, she let go, and relaxed into the warmth of Ruen’s arms.

When she woke again, she was in Moradin’s temple. Lying on her back, she looked up at a carving of Moradin’s symbol on the far wall. Veins of mithral ran through the stone grooves, which created a soft, liquid glow in the dim light from bunches of lichen arranged low along the walls.

Slowly, Icelin sat up. The temple was full of wounded, and dozens of soldiers milled around, offering aid, but there was a noticeable hush in the air. Icelin looked for familiar faces and saw Sull and Ingara standing on the other side of the room, talking in low voices. Icelin made her way over to them. Her body felt emptied out, hollow inside from all the magic she’d used in the past days.

There would be a price for what she’d done. Icelin had accepted that going into the battle. She couldn’t bring herself to feel regret, but for Ruen’s sake, and for the sake of the life they had ahead of them, she wondered how much more of her longevity she’d given up, hoping the price hadn’t been too high.

Let go, she told herself, echoing the voice she’d heard whispering to her in the darkness. The future would take care of itself, and no matter what happened, she would not have to face it alone.

“You’re awake,” Sull said when Icelin reached them. “How are you feelin’? We were worried when you didn’t wake up right away.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Icelin asked anxiously. “What’s happened?” She touched Ingara’s arm. The woman hadn’t spoken or greeted her. A haunted expression lingered about her eyes. “Is it Arngam?” she asked.

Ingara managed a small smile. “He’s well,” she said. “A little bit of smoke won’t slow him down.”

Icelin swallowed and nodded, but her relief was tempered by a terrible knowledge that filled her as she looked around the temple and failed to see Joya’s familiar presence there. “Your sister,” she said. “She didn’t make it, did she?”

Ingara shook her head. Her eyes shone. “We found her near the bridge. Not a mark on her—she was just … gone. Father thinks—” she cleared her throat “—the grief was too much, that it was time. Moradin came for her. And it wasn’t in vain. At least a dozen dwarves are alive because of her.”

“I’m so sorry, Ingara.” Icelin closed her eyes and let the grief come.

They had lost Joya, and Icelin had let the sphere slip away from her. Yet Icelin had heard the artifact call out to her, the memory of Mystra. Was it in drow hands now? Or had it moved on, freeing itself? She hoped and prayed it was the latter.

“Where is Ruen?” she asked.

“He’s with the king in his hall along with Garn, Obrin, and the master armswoman, plus the regency council,” Sull said. “You were summoned too, but we didn’t want to wake you. The council’s decidin’ what’s to be done.”

“Done about what?” Icelin asked. “Is the king all right?”

Sull and Ingara exchanged a glance. “You’d better go,” Sull advised. He held out a hand to help her.

When they exited the temple, Icelin was able to take in the full extent of the damage to the city. Fully half of it had been destroyed, buried in piles of rock and debris from wrecked dwellings. Fresh grief seized Icelin at seeing the devastation.

“They got the nine doors closed,” Sull said, following her gaze. “Whatever drow didn’t get out in the retreat got trapped, and the soldiers took care of them. They weren’t expectin’ the explosion, and they were too slow reactin’ afterward.”

“It cost the dwarves, too,” Icelin said. “I wonder how many of them were also caught in the blast. But it was the only way, wasn’t it? The drow won’t risk attacking again.”

“Don’t see how they could,” Sull said. “They lost half their force and their mistress.”

“What happened to Zollgarza?”

Sull shrugged. “The king was going to let her go free, but she disappeared during the battle—probably killed in the explosion too.”

They entered the hall, and a pair of guards escorted them to the king. Mith Barak sat on his throne, his hands resting heavily on the stone arms. A shell of what he had been, pale, his once silvery beard flat gray, the king nevertheless stood when Icelin entered the hall.

“Thought you were going to sleep the winter away,” he said gruffly. “Are you all right, then?”

“I’m fine,” Icelin said, “just a little bruised.” Ruen, Garn, and Obrin stood off to the side, behind the council members. She nodded to father and son. They acknowledged her by lifting their weapons. No words needed.

“My thanks to you all,” Mith Barak said, directing the words to the council. “You know what to do, and I trust you to do it.”

“My king,” the council murmured. One by one, they bowed low and left the hall. When the doors closed behind them, Mith Barak said to Garn, “Well, old friend, I’m leaving you a fine mess; that’s certain.” The king held out a gaunt hand to the runepriest. “I wish it could be otherwise. I truly do.”

“We’ll be all right, my king,” Garn said roughly, clasping the king’s forearm. “When you reawaken, the city will be built anew.”

“You’re going back to the stone,” Icelin said. Of course. Magic had exacted its own price from the dragon. Mighty Mith Barak would have to sleep a very long time to recover from the battle. Longer than her life, and Ruen’s, maybe longer than Garn’s. Judging by the look on the runepriest’s face, he knew it too.

Mith Barak turned when Icelin spoke. “The sphere is gone,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Icelin nodded. “I’m sorry.”

The king waved her off. “It’s for the best,” he said. “It’ll find its way into better hands than the children of Lolth.” Mith Barak beckoned Icelin closer and leaned in to speak. “Will you think less of me, girl, if I admit to being afraid?”

The statement surprised her, but Icelin immediately said, “Not at all. I understand.”

“Do you? I’m afraid for my people, but it’s more than that. I haven’t felt safe in so long, and I see an uncertain future before me.” Mith Barak smiled ruefully. “You’d think, at my great age, the fear would go away.” His voice dropped. “But it never does. It shames me to say it, but it never does.”

Icelin hesitated. What could she possibly say to him? She reached out to touch the king’s shoulder. If he was surprised by the gesture, Mith Barak didn’t show it. Icelin remembered her dream, the voice in the dark. “You have to let go,” she said. “No one can be certain of the future. Trust in your people. They will watch over you and think of you every day of their lives.”

Mith Barak looked at her for a long time in silence. Slowly he nodded. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so young, to have so much faith,” he said. “My thanks.”

He turned to ascend to his throne, and Icelin could bear it no longer. She looked at Ruen pleadingly, and he nodded. Together, they and Sull left the chamber to give Garn and Obrin one last moment of privacy with their king.

Outside the hall, the three of them stood silently in the middle of the ruined plaza. Icelin felt as though she’d just attended the first of many funerals for the days ahead. She wiped her eyes and tried to smile, but she couldn’t manage it. She found herself thinking of the library suddenly. What would happen to the seneschal while Mith Barak was gone to the stone? Would she carry on, alone, guarding the tomes of dwarf lore? How many of them had been lost, damaged beyond repair in the explosion?

“They’ve lost so much,” Sull commented, echoing Icelin’s thoughts. “Is it worth rebuildin’?”

“It’s worth it,” Ruen said.

This time Icelin did manage to smile. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming an optimist. I’ve had one too many shocks today. I might expire from this one.”

She’d intended it as a pure jest, but she hadn’t thought about how the words might affect Ruen. Glancing uneasily at his face, she saw humor alight there. He tipped his hat to her. “Being in your company as long as I have, I suppose it was only a matter of time,” he said.

He smiled at her, and Icelin’s heart warmed.

It’s going to be all right, she thought. We will heal from this.

“We should be leaving soon,” Icelin said. “I’m ready to see the sky again.”

“About that,” Sull said, clearing his throat.

“You have a destination in mind?” Ruen said, raising an eyebrow at the butcher.

“Well, I’m all for this adventurin’ life, but I’m goin’ to need to go back to Waterdeep at some point to replenish my supplies and check on my shop,” Sull said. “In the spring, maybe?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Icelin said.

“Adventurers, then?” Ruen said. He looked at Icelin. “That’s what you want?”

“I think so,” Icelin said. “My parents embraced the life, and it brought them happiness. In truth, I think it doesn’t matter where I go or what I do. I have what I want most right here, within reach.”

THE UNDERDARK

ZOLLGARZA EMERGED FROM THE SHADOWS OF THE tunnel, past the last remaining outpost of Iltkazar. No one hindered her. No one was left alive to do the job. Still, she moved cautiously, using instincts honed from years of stealth training—training that had happened only in her mind. Zollgarza’s lips curved. Even a false personality had its uses.

Those false memories slipped into her conscious mind, whispering to her, trying to assert themselves over the other, true memories that were just coming back to her. Zollgarza leaned against the wall and pressed her forehead to the stone, concentrating. Suddenly, she slammed her head against the stone on a curse.

Pain erupted behind her eyes, and Zollgarza slid limply to the floor. Shivering, Zollgarza clutched her shoulders as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will.

“I am Zollgarza,” she whispered to the darkness. “I am Zollgarza.”

The vast expanse of the Underdark loomed before her, but it offered no answer. She’d considered going back to Guallidurth. With Fizzri gone, she could assert a place for herself in the temple of Lolth. She’d once held great power in the city. Whatever story Fizzri had made up in her absence could easily be denied or altered. If she wanted to, she could …

Inside her, the Black Creeper reared up in denial. I will not place myself at the mercy of the priestesses. Those bitches that look at me with contempt. Never!

“Be silent!” Zollgarza cried aloud. She forced herself to stand even as a wave of dizziness clutched at her head. “I will master you, devil. I will. I will.” She chuckled at the way her high-pitched voice echoed in the tunnel.

Mother Lolth, I will master this. Watch your broken one. I will master this, and I will return.

She looked down at the Arcane Script Sphere clutched in her hand and laughed again.

Zollgarza shuffled off down the tunnel, into the depths of the Underdark, still uttering that hollow laugh, until the darkness swallowed her.

JALEIGH JOHNSON SPENDS MOST OF HER DAYS PASSING in and out of various fantasy worlds, though she insists the real world is by far the strangest and the most difficult to navigate. She has written five novels and several short stories for the Forgotten Realms setting. She lives in the Champaign/Urbana area with her husband, and in her spare time, she enjoys gardening, video games, and going to the movies. Visit her website at www.jaleighjohnson.com.

LOLTH, ALONE IN HER
DEMONWEB PITS,
IS WEAVING HER DARK
SCHEMATA INTO THE WORLD.

AND HER DROW ARE STIRRING EVERYWHERE, FROM THE LIGHT OF THE SURFACE WORLD TO THE DEPTHS OF THE UNDERDARK …

RISE OF THE UNDERDARK™

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Bruce R. Cordell
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Richard Baker
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SPIDER AND STONE
Jaleigh Johnson
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