Forgotten Realms - The Lady Penitent - Storm of the Dead

by Lisa Smedman

  The other apprentices mirrored his blank stare.

  Q’arlynd scooped up the staff. “All right,” he told his students. “I’m going to try it again. As before, please maintain silence. And …” he tapped his temple, “keep your distance.” He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the diamond.

  Show me the future, he silently commanded. Show me myself, a few moments from now, opening the door.

  The moment he thought the words, the push-pull sensation came back. He tightened his grip on the staff, refusing to let it tear from his hands. Then the vision came, as commanded. Q’arlynd watched, barely breathing, as his hand lifted to trace a sign on the door. A different sign from the one the vision-Eldrinn had traced.

  Then, just as the kiira-dominated Q’arlynd from the past had done, the Q’arlynd of the future deliberately hid the sign he was tracing from sight.

  “Why did you do that?” he exploded.

  The vision ended.

  His apprentices stared at him, waiting expectantly. For once, even Baltak said nothing.

  Q’arlynd was still trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. Like the kiira, his future self didn’t want anyone to see how he opened the door. But that meant that Q’arlynd himself couldn’t see how it was done. Yet someone had to observe how it was done, or the door couldn’t be opened.

  Q’arlynd stroked his chin, thinking. An idea occurred to him—one that he almost instinctively rejected. Grudgingly, however, he realized it was the only course of action that might work. If he invited the others into his mind, let them watch the vision-Q’arlynd from the future open the door, perhaps one of them might able to recognize the sign from its first, preliminary motions.

  He glanced around at his apprentices. At Baltak, his broad chest puffed with his own self-importance. Piri, slinking about in his demon skin. Eldrinn, chewing his lip, no doubt nervous about what his father was going to say about their having abandoned the expedition to the Acropolis. Alexa, standing next to the boy, taller than him by a head. And Zarifar, who stared dreamily at the door, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the others.

  “I need your help,” Q’arlynd said, each word a stone he had to force out. “Use your rings to join minds with me, everyone. Observe the vision I’m seeing. You’re about to see me, in the immediate future, opening Kraanfhaor’s Door. Pay close attention to my hand, we need to know what arcane sign is being made.”

  Eldrinn’s eyebrows rose. “So that’s how I did it.”

  “Yes.”

  The others glanced at the boy, a new respect in their eyes.

  “Let’s begin,” Q’arlynd told them.

  A moment later, he felt them slip into his mind, one by one. Thrusting their way in or stealing in on velvet slippers, as was their wont. Baltak had to elbow Zarifar to get the latter’s attention, but at last the geometer mage was inside, too—for all the good that would do.

  Q’arlynd drew the staff toward himself. “Show me,” he commanded it. “Show me the future. Show me myself, opening the door.”

  As it had before, the vision unfolded. When it finished, Q’arlynd lowered the staff. “Well?”

  His apprentices glanced sidelong at one another, stared at the ceiling, or scowled, thinking—all but Zarifar, who swayed back and forth, humming. Then Zarifar struck a pose. He pirouetted on one foot, one hand raised above his head.

  Piri eased away, as if afraid Zarifar’s madness might be contagious.

  Q’arlynd grabbed Zarifar’s wrist. “What are you doing?”

  Zarifar tugged against the restraining hand as if he couldn’t understand why he’d suddenly stopped twirling. “The pattern,” he said. His raised fingers twitched. “I’m the pattern.”

  Alexa signed something to Eldrinn. Q’arlynd caught only the last word and the finger flick that made it a question: .. . feeblewit?

  Q’arlynd sighed and let go of Zarifar’s arm. Maybe Alexa was right. Something had stripped both his own and Eldrinn’s minds of memories. It was possible that merely observing that last vision might have done the same to Zarifar.

  Zarifar stopped dancing and grabbed Q’arlynd’s left arm in both hands. “The pattern,” he said again, his eyes bright and intense, all trace of their former dreaminess gone. He yanked Q’arlynd’s hand up in front of his face and waved it back and forth. “The pattern!”

  Q’arlynd scoffed. All he was looking at was his own raised hand and the leather wristband below it, which bore his House insignia.

  “Yes,” Zarifar breathed. “That pattern.”

  Belatedly, Q’arlynd realized the apprentice’s mind was still touching his own.

  Zarifar at last let go of his arm.

  Q’arlynd realized his mouth was hanging open. He didn’t care. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “That’s what opened Kraanfhaor’s Door?” He waggled his fingers, pretending to practice a gesture. Silently, he asked Zarifar a question: Have I got it right? The pattern is the glyph for House Melarn?

  Zarifar nodded.

  Q’arlynd had to fight hard to hide his smile.

  The others might, in time, figure out the truth. Q’arlynd doubted it would matter. In his vision of Eldrinn opening the door—the vision he hadn’t shared with them—Eldrinn had traced a different symbol on the door. A different House glyph, Q’arlynd surmised. Likely that of his own House.

  Kraanfhaor’s Door, he suspected, would open only to someone who knew how to use his own, very personal, knock.

  Q’arlynd understood why he had hidden his hand from view. Why he would hide his hand from view.

  “Right,” he said. “Time to get this thing open.”

  He handed the staff to Eldrinn then turned, faced the door, and raised his hand.

  CHAPTER 13

  Halisstra stared at the ghost that floated a few paces away. The spirit stared back at her with hollow, haunted eyes. Behind the ghost, a drow female in gray robes and skullcap slipped quietly out through the door, exiting the ruined building.

  The spirit’s voice was a chill whisper. “You serve Lolth?”

  Halisstra gave a feral grin. “I was the Lady Penitent. But no more. I’m dead.”

  “Dead?” The spirit laughed softly. “No. You live.”

  Halisstra blinked in surprise. She was alive? She glanced down at herself and saw her bruises fading, the slow knitting of the flesh she’d scraped in her tumble from the portal. The sight sent a chill through her. She hadn’t died on the Negative Energy Plane. Lolth, once again, had forced her to live.

  “No,” she snarled in dismay.

  The spirit drifted closer. “You wish to die?”

  Halisstra took a step back. “Where am I?” She glanced around. “What is this place?”

  “The Acropolis of Thanatos.”

  Halisstra noted the rings on those ghostly fingers. “You serve Kiaransalee.”

  “Yes.”

  Through the ghost’s translucent body, Halisstra spotted a tiny spider on the wall behind the spirit. Her eyes widened. Lolth’s sign—in Kiaransalee’s stronghold. Halisstra hadn’t arrived by chance. The Spider Queen had sent her.

  A test!

  Halisstra flexed her claws. Her eyes locked on the spirit. Before she could spring, however, a commotion erupted outside. Halisstra heard several female voices, singing a hymn, and a male voice, shouting an insult. The ghost started, let out a whispered curse, then slipped through a wall, disappearing.

  Halisstra hurried to the doorway and peered out.

  Five priestesses of Eilistraee stood in a circle, swords in hand. With them was a male wearing cloth-of-gold and a skullcap. They were surrounded by more than a dozen of Kiaransalee’s priestesses. Gray-robed Crones bore down on them, cackling and chanting.

  Halisstra hesitated. What did Lolth expect her to do? Slay the living? The dead? Both?

  One of Eilistraee’s priestesses—a halfling—burst from the circle, whirling a sling over her head. Halisstra had been spotted! That decided it. She leaped from the ruined
building. She, too, could fight with song—with her bae’qeshel magic. But even as she began to sing, the halfling’s stone thudded into her chest and smashed to pieces against her hardened skin. Silence enveloped her.

  The halfling halted and fitted another stone to her sling. She didn’t see the spirit-Crone rising out of the stone behind her. Another of Eilistraee’s priestesses spotted it and rushed the spirit, sword raised. Before she could get close, the ghostly Crone opened her mouth in a wail Halisstra couldn’t hear. Like stalks of scythed wheat, the priestesses of Eilistraee fell.

  Halisstra snarled, envying them.

  Now only the Crones remained. No matter. Halisstra would still do her best to prove herself. She lashed out with a fist, snapping the neck of a nearby Crone. She tore a second to pieces with her claws.

  The ghost-Crone turned, her pale face a study in rage. Her features stretched, thinned, became even more ghastly. When the priestess shrieked, Halisstra could feel waves of magical fear billowing toward her. Her body, however, was a rock that parted this chill current. The magical fear skewed off to each side, leaving her unscathed.

  Halisstra taunted the spirit in silent speech. Kill me. Lolth dares you to try.

  Mention of the goddess’s name maddened the spirit. She howled loud enough to send a tremble through the stone on which Halisstra stood. Something hit the ground next to Halisstra’s foot in utter silence, exploding into white fragments: a skull. Halisstra glanced up. The building she’d just exited stood in an enormous cavern with a knobby white ceiling. Loosened by the ghost’s wailing, other skulls tumbled from it. Through this ghastly rain, the ghost drifted forward.

  Halisstra threw open her arms in invitation.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the gray-robed females pounce on a body that had just rolled into view out of nowhere. As the female bent, a sword blade skewered her eye and exploded out of the back of her skull. The blade yanked back, disappearing. A drow leaped into view through an invisible gate—a female who was naked, bruised, and holding a singing sword.

  Cavatina. She had escaped the Abyss!

  The Darksong Knight’s eyes locked accusingly on Halisstra, who made out the word without hearing it: “You!”

  Halisstra whirled and sprinted back to the hollowed-out building. The ghostly Crone flew after her—moving faster than Halisstra had anticipated. Just as Halisstra reached the doorway, the ghost struck her back and flowed through her, boiling out of her chest in a chill white cloud.

  Emptiness rushed into Halisstra in an icy wave, draining her of all sensation. She stumbled and fell. As she tumbled through the air toward the black sphere, she saw Cavatina bearing down on the ghost from behind, sword in one hand, holy symbol in the other, her body and weapon wreathed in twined auras of radiance and shadow. Then the Darksong Knight thrust her sword into the ghost’s back. The ghost whirled, Cavatina’s blade still within her spinning torso, and plunged her dagger into Cavatina’s throat.

  For the space of a heartbeat, the two glared at one another, eye to eye. Then the ghost exploded into a thousand fragments of mist. Cavatina slumped to the ground, blood pumping from her throat. And Halisstra was sucked into the void.

  Q’arlynd traced the House Melarn glyph on the door with a forefinger. Just as Zarifar had observed, it resembled a dancing drow: triangle head; two strokes down for arms, one hand turned down, the other up; two angled strokes that were bent legs, each ending in a crescent representing a foot.

  Q’arlynd lowered his hands. He waited for the door to open, barely daring to breathe. This was it, the moment he’d been striving toward for so long. A moment more, and wealth unheard of would fall into his hands.

  He kept watch on his five apprentices. He’d ushered them all to his right, to a spot where he could watch for sudden moves. Each looked tense, expectant. Even Zarifar leaned forward, eyes on the door.

  For several painfully long moments, there was only silence.

  “Huh,” Baltak grunted. “It didn’t work.”

  Q’arlynd wet his lips. He could see that. He’d try again. He raised his hand and touched the door …

  And felt a bulge rise under his fingertip. A bulge with a sharp point.

  A kiira! Expelled from the door.

  With trembling fingers, he eased it out of the block of carved stone. Gleaming crimson against his dark fingers, hexagonal in cross section, it was half the length of his little finger and tapered to a point at each end.

  Eldrinn’s hand twitched in a silent gesture: the betrayal Q’arlynd had been fearing, but from an unexpected source. With a thought, Q’arlynd activated his ring, rendering all of his apprentices rigid. Then he shook his head. “Eldrinn. I never thought you’d be the one to—”

  “Cahal!” Piri cried. He lunged forward and slapped a hand against Q’arlynd’s cheek—a bare-fingered hand.

  Q’arlynd leaped away from Piri, but too late. The left side of his face was already numb. A cold, prickling sensation spread down his neck, toward his heart. Poison! It didn’t fell him, however. As a boy, Q’arlynd had been deliberately exposed to several common poisons to inoculate him against the worst of their sting.

  Piri’s surprise at seeing Q’arlynd still on his feet gave Q’arlynd the instant he needed. He scrabbled at his pocket, found the fur-wrapped sliver of glass. He thrust it at Piri and shouted an evocation. Lightning burst from his hand, striking the other wizard in the chest.

  Piri reeled back, clutching at the spot where his demon skin had been blasted away to expose raw red flesh. He raised his hand to cast a spell, but Q’arlynd’s second lightning bolt slammed into him before he could complete it. Piri crashed into the wall, then slumped at the feet of the other apprentices, dead. Still frozen by the enchantment, they stared past him at the spot where Q’arlynd stood.

  Q’arlynd glared at them, silently daring the rest of them to attempt what Piri just had. The poison had spread to his left arm; the fingers of that hand felt thick and unresponsive. But the poison had halted its spread after numbing that one arm. It wasn’t strong enough to kill him.

  The remaining four apprentices could see and hear him, even if they couldn’t move or respond. Q’arlynd glanced down at Piri. Wisps of smoke rose from Piri’s chest, filling the air with a burned-meat smell. Q’arlynd patted down the apprentice’s pockets and found his ring.

  “What he just did,” he told the others in a flat voice as he tucked Piri’s ring into a pocket, “was stupid.” With his good hand, he lifted the kiira up where they could see it. “I promised to share the secrets of this lorestone with you. I’ll keep that promise, but only if I can trust you. Your actions, when the enchantment I just cast on you wears off, will determine whether I keep that promise. In the meantime, please reflect on the fact that I’m the master of this school, and you four who remain are mere apprentices. Conduct yourselves accordingly.”

  Q’arlynd stared into the depths of the kiira and took a deep breath. Did he dare touch it to his forehead? Would the lorestone feeblemind him or rip all memory of what had just transpired from his mind?

  He could feel an awareness pressing against his. Eldrinn’s. The boy’s mind was filled with anger and outrage. A single thought forced its way through: I tried to warn you about Piri. I saw him remove his ring.

  Q’arlynd’s eyebrow rose. “Did you?” He’d been wrong about the boy; Eldrinn hadn’t been about to cast a spell. He stood, stroking his chin, debating whether to release Eldrinn. The enchantment that rooted his apprentices to the spot would keep them out of mischief, but if anything went wrong in the meantime, the boy just might be able to help.

  Q’arlynd touched Eldrinn’s forehead, releasing him. “Stand over there,” he instructed. “Keep silent and observe.”

  Eldrinn nodded. He did exactly as he was told.

  Q’arlynd took a deep breath. Then he touched the kiira to his forehead.

  A presence exploded into his mind, filling it. His own awareness became a small, slippery thing. A tiny minnow, swimm
ing blindly up the vast current of time. The other awareness swept toward him: an enormous entity, swollen with knowledge. Powerful and ancient. Thousands upon thousands of memories, twined into a single sentience. Q’arlynd’s intellect—the acquired knowledge of a century—was but a dim candle compared to the fierce red blaze of its combined wisdom. It blinded him, shrank his own paltry thoughts to insignificant shadows.

  But at the same time, it welcomed him and made him warm.

  Q’arlynd Melarn?

  Q’arlynd’s lips formed the required word of their own accord. “Yes.”

  Welcome, grandson.

  The second word reverberated with deeper meaning. “Grandson” was inadequate to the task. Whoever was speaking through the kiira was much farther removed from Q’arlynd’s time than that. Not mere centuries, but millennia.

  Yes.

  Q’arlynd no longer saw the corridor he stood in, the door in front of him, or his apprentices. All faded to distant shadows. His mind’s eye filled instead with the figure the kiira shaped for it. A female with long white hair and a face that reminded Q’arlynd of his mother—but without the harsh lines and pinched, suspicious eyes. Instead, this female’s expression conveyed both serenity and sorrow. On her forehead was a kiira. He was startled to see how dark it was against her skin. Her face wasn’t an ebon hue, but something several shades lighter. A faded brown.

  Understanding filled him. “You’re a dark elf,” he said. “Not a drow.”

  I am what we were.

  The figure suddenly changed. A male stood where she’d been a moment ago, his skin as black as Q’arlynd’s own. And I am what we became.

  “I am honored to meet you, ancestors,” Q’arlynd said, bowing low. Excitement surged through him. At last! Dark elves, from the time of the Descent! He couldn’t even begin to guess what secrets their minds might hold.

  High magic?

  Q’arlynd nodded carefully. He’d have to keep a tighter rein on his thoughts. The kiira was able to hear his every word, even those that remained unspoken. “Yes. If you’ll teach it to me.”