by Lisa Smedman
“Did you believe the Nightshadow’s story?” Seldszar asked.
Urlryn shrugged. “Possibly.”
Noncommittal answers were typical of Urlryn. Yet the other master had obviously taken the visitor seriously. Like Seldszar, Urlryn had agreed to attach wizards from his college to the band of spies that would be snooping around Kiaransalee’s temple. Even then, one of the spheres orbiting Seldszar’s head showed Urlyn’s three conjurers making their departure. Fortunately, it zipped past too swiftly for Urlryn to make out details of the scene it contained.
“Did you tell the Nightshadow anything about the Faerzress?” Seldszar asked. He waited for the answer—there was a slight chance that Urlryn had confounded his earlier scrying.
The other master shook his head. “No.”
Seldszar saw his purple sphere speed past; its color hadn’t changed. Urlryn might have shielded his mind against intrusion—every mage capable of it did so whenever they stepped within range of Seldszar’s spells—but Urlryn couldn’t do anything about the crystal. He wasn’t lying. Their secret was safe.
And a strange secret it was. For centuries, it had been passed down from one master to the next. Seldszar wasn’t privy to how this had been done in the College of Conjuration and Summoning, but he knew how it worked within his own college. More than two centuries ago, when the previous master of the College of Divination had died and Seldszar had been selected to sit in the master’s chair, he’d had a dream. In it, the college’s first master, Chal’dzar, had appeared in ghostly form to impart the tale of how their city came to be.
More than four thousand years ago, Chal’dzar, together with a powerful conjurer named Yithzin who specialized in teleportation, had worked a spell that forever altered the face of Sshamath. They’d wrenched loose the Faerzress that permeated the stone surrounding the city, forever flinging aside this impediment to their spells.
Or so they thought. For three centuries prior to their casting, more males than females had been born. After the Faerzress “disappeared,” the city’s rulers—at that time, priestesses of Lolth—noticed that males trained in spellcasting were developing augmented powers. If the uneven birthrates persisted, those individuals, combined, would one day wield power greater than Lolth’s clergy. In a typically drow attempt to thwart the rebellion they were certain would come, the priestesses attempted a culling of those with arcane talent. Their attack quickly brought about the rebellion they’d tried to prevent in the first place. The noble Houses fell and the wizards stepped into power. The Conclave had ruled Sshamath ever since.
The ghostly Chal’dzar had imparted no details of the spell he and his partner had wrought, but he had speculated upon one point. That the Faerzress, instead of being shifted to another location in the Underdark, had found a new home in Sshamath: within the drow who inhabited the city. Were all of Sshamath’s drow to suddenly depart the cavern, he surmised, the Faerzress would return to the stone from whence it came.
The centuries that followed provided ample evidence that Chal’dzar had guessed correctly. As the city’s population rose, the percentage of those born with innate arcane talents gradually declined. The Faerzress, it seemed, spread itself thinner as it took up residence within all of the drow of Sshamath—both those born there and those only recently arrived in the city—until it bled out of them every time a drow cast a spell involving divination or any of the various modes of teleportation.
With a nod, Seldszar indicated the faerie fire that crackled between his forehead and the circling spheres. “Did the Nightshadow warn you that it’s going to get worse?”
“Yes. Though it won’t be as bad for us as it will be for you. Only about half of our spells will cease to function. We’ll still have one leg to stand on—until someone shoves us over.” Urlryn gave a sarcastic laugh. “I might be able to fool the other masters, for a time, by arranging for an ‘incident’ that will force a magical lockdown of the city, but Masoj will figure it out, in time.”
“As will the rest of the Conclave,” Seldszar said. He nodded at the sphere that showed the cluster of fine-spun stalagmites and stalactites that formed the temple of the Spider Queen, but it moved too quickly for Urlryn to peer into it. “And so will Lolth’s priestesses. They may jump to the conclusion that all of the colleges are about to topple. It could be the Rebellion, all over again. In reverse, this time.”
Urlryn conjured a silk handkerchief into his hand and wiped his forehead. Despite the cool, dry air of the scriptorium, he was sweating. A flick of his fingers, and the handkerchief vanished. “Do you think it is the Crones?”
“I don’t need to think. I know. They are the cause of it.”
Urlryn tilted his head slightly, something he did whenever he had second thoughts. “Should we inform the Conclave? Send an army?”
“No,” Seldszar said. Forcibly. “That would be the wrong thing to do.”
Urlryn nodded. “One of your premonitions?”
“Yes.” Seldszar spoke more to himself than to Urlryn. “Absolutely the wrong thing to do. Observe.” He held one palm over the other and spoke an incantation; after a moment, an image appeared between them. Into it, he projected the memory of what his brief contact with the Astral Plane had revealed: a glimpse into a future in which the warriors of Sshamath fought, died, then rose to fight again—against their former comrades. Wave upon wave of undead spread through the Underdark, overwhelming all like a rushing tide, feeding and growing with each new army sent against it. As the vision unfolded, a single word pealed like a bell: Defeat … Defeat … Defeat.
“Thus did the Observarium predict,” Seldszar said, clapping his hands shut.
It was a moment before Urlryn spoke. “If we could find a way to reverse the spell that Yithzin and Chal’dzar cast and drive the Faerzress back into the stone, then perhaps—”
“I thought of that too, but it’s no solution. It will conceal the problem but not make it go away. Inside us or inside the stone of Sshamath’s cavern, the Faerzress will still negate our spells.”
“Our colleges could relocate. Somewhere beyond the effect.”
“To where? A city ruled by these?” Seldszar snatched one of his crystals out of the air, focused it on Lolth’s temple in Menzoberranzan, and held it up for Urlryn to see. Inside the tiny sphere, a priestess moved through a temple nursery, her snake-headed whip driving a terrified gaggle of children ahead of her. One male slipped on his own blood, fell—and continued to be whipped, long after his small body had stopped twitching.
Urlryn’s lip curled.
Seldszar flicked the sphere back into orbit. “Even if we chose to flee, it would only be a temporary measure. Our visitor said the effect would spread across all of Faerûn. Throughout the Underdark. There’s nowhere to run to. Save for the World Above. And that’s somewhere, I’m sure, neither you nor I would ever choose to live.”
“There must be a way out of this,” Urlryn said. “We just haven’t seen it yet.”
Seldszar glanced at his fellow master, eyes glittering. “I’d like to show you something. Indulge me, if you would. Transpose us.”
The other master looked puzzled. “As you wish.” He moved a few paces away from Seldszar, then held up his hand. “Ready?”
Seldszar nodded.
Urlryn stared at Seldszar’s feet, then snapped his fingers. Instantly, the two swapped places. Urlryn stood next to the water clock, his body shimmering with faerie fire. Seldszar peered back at him through his own veil of pale-green sparkles.
“Again,” Seldszar demanded.
With a whispered word, Urlryn magically swapped their positions a second time.
“Again.”
By the third translocation, both mages were covered head to toe in glittering faerie fire. Urlryn, squinting, threw up his hands. “Enough! What does this prove?”
Seldszar held out his arms and turned in a slow circle. “What do you observe?”
Urlryn squinted against the glare of the faerie fire that surrounded
him. He waved a hand in front of his face, as if trying to shoo away a gnat. “Not much, thanks to this.”
“Yes, but note the color. Your faerie fire is a deep blue. Mine, a pale green.”
“Signifying?”
“Indulge me a moment more. Summon faerie fire intentionally, this time. See if you can make it violet, instead.”
Urlryn spoke a brief incantation and traced a finger through the air. The water inside the clock was suddenly illuminated from within by motes of indigo. A frown of concentration on his forehead, he shifted the hue to a lighter blue, then to green, then back to blue again and finally to a purplish shade.
“As I thought,” Seldszar said. “You can consciously manifest faerie fire in any shade you wish, but the involuntary manifestations are limited to your habitual color.”
Urlryn stared at Seldszar. “‘Habitual color.’ That’s a term I haven’t heard before.”
Seldszar smiled. “It’s one I came up with a few years back. A little academic, but it will serve. Ask a drow to evoke faerie fire, and he’ll habitually manifest a particular color. The same color, I’ll wager, that he’s involuntarily manifesting now.” He gestured at the unconscious mages. “Were we to wake one of them up and repeat the experiment I just performed, you’d see the same thing. The faerie fire he manifests when asked to cast a divination or to teleport will match whatever his habitual color is.”
Seldszar snatched one of his crystals from the air. “Observe the mages of my college.”
Urlryn moved closer and peered into the crystal. Within it, blue faerie fire crackled around the head of one wizard as he cast a spell, and green around the hands of another. Still other mages emitted lavender or purple hues when casting their divinations.
Seldszar tossed the sphere into orbit again. “There’s a hypothesis I’ve been researching for some time. That Faerzress and faerie fire are one and the same thing. Hence, the odd spelling. ‘Faerie’ instead of ‘fairy.’ It wasn’t originally ‘faerie fire,’ but ‘Faerzress fire.’”
Urlryn folded his arms. “You mean to tell me that every drow on Toril has Faerzress energy inside him? Not just those in Sshamath? Did Yithzin and Chal’dzar’s spell extend that far?”
“I don’t think so,” Seldzar said. “But it looks as though every drow—spellcaster or not—can channel that energy. Act as a conduit for it. Our race is linked with it, somehow.”
“That would explain why drow are the only ones affected by the augmentation of the Faerzress.” Urlryn paced back and forth. “But why would Kiaransalee’s cult—if they are indeed behind this—instigate something that would hamstring every drow on Toril? What purpose would that serve?”
“Who knows?” Seldzar shook his head. “From the little I’ve heard of Kiaransalee’s worship, that goddess is even more crazed than Lolth. Perhaps this is Kiaransalee’s version of the Silence.”
“A ‘web of silence,’” the other master said, quoting the ancient song. “‘And at its center, death.’” He looked up. “So how does your deeper understanding of ‘Faerzress fire’ help us?”
“It doesn’t—unless we can find a way to break the link between drow and Faerzress energy.”
“A difficult undertaking,” Ulryn observed.
“Yes. One that may take months—even years. Time we don’t have.” Seldszar locked his eyes on the other master. “Which is why I asked you here today. I propose an alliance of our two colleges. Pooling our respective talents is our best hope at finding the answer before it’s too late. You will share with me the fruits of whatever your sages might discover—and I will do the same, with you.” He paused. “Well? Will you agree to it?”
“I will.” Urlryn bowed, his stomach straining the front of his vest. “You have my word on it.”
A quick glance at the discernment sphere—which had darkened, but only slightly—told Seldszar the other master was telling the truth, for the most part. He would cooperate. For now.
“I thank you for your time,” Seldszar told Urlryn. “And your ear. It’s comforting to know that another master shares my concerns.”
“Q’arlynd, what a pleasant surprise,” Qilué said. “I had wondered if I would see you again. Your departure from the Promenade a year and a half ago was somewhat … abrupt.”
Q’arlynd, Eldrinn and the other two diviners bowed as the high priestesses entered the room. Qilué was just as imposing—and beautiful—as Q’arlynd remembered. “I apologize for that, Lady Qilué, but I had pressing business elsewhere,” he said as he rose from his bow.
“You wound up in Sshamath, Miverra tells me.”
“The city of wizards suits me, Lady. I’ve made my home there.” This wouldn’t be news to Qilué. She would have scried him after he left the Promenade. Several times since then, the back of his neck had prickled, telling him that someone was looking at him from afar. Of course, that could have been Master Seldszar.
“Miverra also told me you’ve founded a school of wizardry there. Are these your apprentices?”
Q’arlynd noted—without directly looking at Eldrinn—that the boy’s shoulders tensed. The other two wizards Master Seldszar had chosen for this mission were listening closely; they would have already noted the time Q’arlynd and Eldrinn had been spending together, and would wonder if the son was planning to step out from his father’s shadow.
Q’arlynd smiled. “Having a school recognized as a college is the dream of every wizard in Sshamath,” he said smoothly. “As for my ‘school,’ it’s little more than a salon. A gathering of friends of the master’s young son, here.” He spread his hands. “I teach them what I can.”
Qilué’s eyes locked on his. “Teleportation?”
“Among other things.”
“You were very good at it, as I recall.”
Q’arlynd tipped his head.
He wondered if the teleport he’d just performed had been a test, either of the Promenade’s defenses or of the degree to which the increase in Faerzress energy was affecting Sshamath. Perhaps both. He supposed he’d passed. Despite the faerie fire that had erupted when he’d cast his spell, it had been a relatively easy jump. It helped that the room Miverra had shown him in her scrying was quite a distinctive chamber: circular, its walls ribbed with arched columns that met overhead, and with only the one exit. The floor was inlaid with thousands of chips of colored stone: a mosaic that showed drow females practicing swordplay.
Qilué turned to the wizards who had accompanied him. “I am Lady Qilué, high priestess of the Promenade, Chosen of Mystra. And these mages are …?”
Q’arlynd gestured at their most senior member. “Khorl Krissellian, sorcerer and farseer.”
Khorl was a sun elf with pale skin and off-white hair. As he stepped forward and returned Qilué’s bow, his age-seamed face betrayed just a hint of haughtiness. He was nearly four centuries old and had lived the bulk of his life in Sshamath. Long enough to dress like a drow and be just as scheming, yet he still ranked drow one notch below the “true” elven race.
His greeting, slow and deep, was entirely cordial, however. “Lady Qilué, Chosen of Mystra. It is indeed an honor to meet the one about whom I have heard so many wondrous tales.” The magical amulets on the fringes of his piwafwi tinkled as he rose.
Q’arlynd introduced the second mage. “Daffir the Prescient.”
“Madam,” Daffir said, bowing. He was a human from the south, his skin nearly as dark as a drow’s. He was bald, whip-thin, and as tall as Qilué. Dark oval lenses hovered just in front of his eyes, hiding them. He leaned on the staff Eldrinn had been holding when Q’arlynd found him on the High Moor. The fact that another wizard had been allowed to carry it out of the city proved just how seriously Master Seldszar took their mission; the staff was one of his most treasured possessions. Next to his son, of course.
“A human and a sun elf,” Qilué said. “Wise choices for where you’re headed.”
Q’arlynd nodded. “Our third member is Eldrinn Elpragh, also of the College of D
ivination.”
Eldrinn bowed. “Will you lead the expedition, Lady Qilué?”
The high priestess shook her head. “I have pressing business that requires my presence here in the Promenade.” As she spoke, her right hand drifted toward her hip to the place where a sword would normally hang, then halted as if she’d just realized she was unarmed. A curious gesture.
“I wanted to meet you all in person, and to thank you for joining our expedition,” Qilué continued. “Please come with me. I wish to speak to all of its members before you depart.”
Q’arlynd and the others followed her through the door. She led them deeper into the building, which turned out to be a barracks. They passed several closed doors. The sound of voices raised in song filled the area—predominantly female voices, underscored by a handful of deeper male voices.
Eventually the corridor ended at massive double doors that opened onto a large, rectangular marshalling hall. Shields hung on the longer walls, while crossed swords were mounted above each doorway. The vaulted ceiling’s carved central beam resembled a crescent moon resting on its points. Yet it wasn’t the architecture that caught Q’arlynd’s eye. Three drow stood at the center of the hall, glancing around as if they too had just arrived there.
Two were male, one female. One of them, Q’arlynd immediately recognized: Gilkriz, one of the senior wizards of Sshamath’s College of Conjuration and Summoning. Beak-nosed, Gilkriz stood with arms folded, his ring-bedecked fingers restlessly drumming against his cloth-of-gold sleeves. A gold skullcap adorned his shaven head.
Q’arlynd tucked a hand under one arm, nudged Eldrinn with his elbow and spoke in sign with his hidden hand. What’s he doing here? And who are the other two?
Eldrinn answered in kind. Don’t worry. Father warned me about this. They’ll be working with us.