Pharaun was surprised, not so much that the Archmage of Menzoberranzan would wish his sister dead but by the fact that he hadn’t see it before then. Gromph had much to gain by eliminating the only real rival for Triel’s ear. The archmage could not have designs on the throne of House Baenre itself, but he could be the puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes. Quenthel disagreed with everything her brother said, and vice versa, so she was an obvious and powerful impediment to any ambitions he might have.
Adding to that was the fact that Gromph had the knowledge of the Academy’s defenses and had the capability to summon forth the fiends used in the attacks. It was a talent few others possessed, at least few others with the interest to do so. There were other powerful wizards within the halls of Sorcere, and Pharaun supposed that some of them would like to see someone replace Quenthel as the Mistress of the Academy, but Gromph was the one who stood to gain the most.
Though he knew the answer, Pharaun wasn’t sure what to do with it.
On the one hand, he considered, I’m here with Quenthel. Does telling her aid me more? Or do I simply seal my fate upon returning to Sorcere? If I tell Gromph that Quenthel is trying to find out who’s after her, even do him a favor by misleading her— or eliminating her, a small part of his mind suggested—does my standing at Sorcere improve, or will he be unable to protect me from Triel’s wrath?
Of course, Pharaun knew that most of his decisions hinged on the eventuality of returning to Menzoberranzan, and he was planning to argue with Quenthel against that course of action. There were still too many variables, too many possible outcomes, before he would know which side of the siblings’ conflict to join. He could stall Quenthel for a while. She wouldn’t know what might be involved in his quest for her information. For all she knew, he could be working through a spell that actually took days to complete or negotiating with an elemental of some sort, making a bargain to exchange some commodity for a casting of a spell he himself did not know. There were a number of lies he could tell her to keep her waiting.
For the time being, then, he decided he would stay mute on his findings and see which way the rothé herd roamed. When the time was right, he would play it to his advantage. Either outcome, and he would improve his station within the Academy.
Pharaun rested a few moments longer on the floor, recovering from the exertions of the spell then began packing up his paraphernalia, stowing the strips of ivory away in a pocket of his piwafwi.
Next, Pharaun removed a small mirror from his haversack. He briefly wondered if using the same spell he had just employed to find Quenthel’s enemy would work better in these circumstances, but he couldn’t cast it again without resting for a few hours then studying his spellbooks. Firming his resolve, the wizard began chanting the words needed to activate the magical scrying.
The Master of Sorcere knew the spell was dangerous. Attempting to look in on a deity without permission could have disastrous ramifications. Still, he was intent on trying, if only to discern more of what was going on in the wake of the goddess’s absence. Drawing on the memories he had of his strange visit to the Demonweb Pits those decades past, he finished the spell and peered into the mirror, which was reflecting a cloudy image of elsewhere rather than his own dark-skinned face.
Pharaun gazed into the magical window for a while, waiting and hoping that he might recognize something in its murky depths. There was nothing. He willed the spectral eye that he knew was on the other end of his spell to glide forward, remotely peering this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of something, anything solid in the formless fog.
The mage felt a tingle, a warning in the back of his mind. He mentally scrambled to release the spell, to sever the connection with the eye at the far side of oblivion, and he almost succeeded, but not quite. A backlash of energy slammed into him, hurtled outward through the mirror like a punch, while at the same time Pharaun sensed a wall of force sliding down, cutting him off from his magical eye.
As his senses returned, Pharaun realized he was sprawled on his back, blinking as his eyes tried to focus on the ceiling. He groaned and sat up, seeing that he had been hurtled backward from the mirror more than ten feet. He rose onto wobbly legs and staggered back over to the mirror. It was cracked, its glass surface spider-webbed into hundreds of fissures. He stared at the ruined mirror for a moment, wondering if the pattern was representative of something or merely a coincidence.
Well, that answers that question, Pharaun thought. A mere mortal cannot penetrate the veil that has settled over the sixty-sixth layer of the Abyss, but perhaps a higher being can.
The Master of Sorcere shook his head and sighed as he gingerly gathered the fragmented remains of the mirror.
Why do I go through this trouble? he thought as he tried to figure out where he should discard the ruined thing. Everything I do for everyone, and all I get is grief in return. I’ll bet other folk don’t go through this much trouble to track down their deities, he thought wryly. I’m sure they just look them up anytime—
The wizard froze in the middle of the room, the beginnings of an idea forming. He almost smacked himself in the head.
Of course! he thought. I’ve been going about this all wrong. Why didn’t I think of this before? We’re asking the wrong . . .
Tossing the mirror down in a tinkle of glass, Pharaun began to pace, mulling his idea over more carefully. A plan was beginning to form, one that was getting him excited. The hardest part, he realized, would be figuring out how to convince Quenthel.
It was not long after that that Ryld and Valas returned from their own excursions.
The wizard took one look at the pair of them and quickly surmised that their endeavors had not only ended unsatisfactorily but violently. Both drow were glum as well as bloodied and bruised. Valas walked with a slight limp, and Ryld seemed unable to lift his left arm above his waist. Almost as one, they dropped their gear on the floor and dropped down onto their Reverie couches.
“I gather that things did not go well today,” Pharaun commented. “No chance to haul Quenthel’s supplies out of here?”
“Three places,” Valas muttered. “We tried three places and got into two scuffles for our troubles.”
“There just isn’t a pack lizard to be had, it seems,” Ryld added, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “If there is, no one is ready to sell it to outsiders.”
“I don’t find that hard to believe,” Pharaun replied, “considering that no caravans have entered or left the city in such a long while. Everyone is holding tight to what they have, riding the crisis out.”
Pharaun busied himself straightening his own things while the other two males sat still.
“I’ll wager with you for who has to tell her,” Ryld said to Valas. “Rock, knife, and parchment?”
The scout shook his head.
“Let’s just make the wizard tell her,” he said, pointing to Pharaun. “He seems to delight so in tormenting her, anyway, so what’s one more bit of bad news out of his mouth?”
Ryld nodded, and Pharaun found himself smiling.
“Well, we all have a reprieve, at least for the moment,” the mage said. “She and the other two haven’t returned from the storehouse.”
“Really?” Valas asked, sitting up. “I would have thought they’d return before us for sure.”
Pharaun shrugged and said, “As would I, but none of them are here.”
“That’s fine by me,” Ryld said, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “The less I have to see of that damned draegloth, the better off I am.”
Pharaun pursed his lips, realizing that what he was going to suggest next might not set well with either the weapons master or the scout.
“I found out something today, too,” he said quietly.
Ryld opened one eye and looked at the wizard.
“Oh?”
Valas leaned forward on the edge of the bed.
“Have you determined what has happened to the Dark Mother?”
“I don’t know whether to consider that good news or not,” the scout said, sitting back again.
“Nor do I,” Pharaun agreed, “but I have also learned that something is sealing us out from the Demonweb Pits. I have attempted to scry there in hopes of learning something of the goddess’s condition—indeed, if she yet exists—and I could not penetrate inside. A barrier protects it and keeps me, and others, outside.”
“A barrier? You’re speaking now of things I have no experience with,” Ryld said. “What kind of barrier?”
“A potent one. I was nearly blasted into powder for my troubles,” Pharaun said, a wry smile on his face. “I have tried it before, even spoke with Archmage Gromph before we left Menzoberranzan. He has experienced similar problems.”
“It sounds as though whatever the Spider Queen is doing, she does not wish to be disturbed,” Valas said.
“If it’s her who’s doing it,” Ryld countered. “Perhaps another god has erected the barrier to prevent us from seeing her.”
“Exactly!” Pharaun said eagerly. “Surely someone knows—or can find out—what we cannot discover.”
“I thought that’s what our mission was . . . to discover Lolth’s fate,” Valas said. “That’s why we’ve come here.”
“Yes, you are correct,” Pharaun said, nodding, “though this business with storehouses of magic items seems to have become a higher priority. In the interest of bringing us back to the more fascinating part of our little expedition, I have an idea. I want to enlist help from the outside.”
“Help? From whom?” Ryld was sitting up, too.
The wizard began to pace again as he explained his plan to his companions.
“A mere mortal, even someone with my acumen, can’t penetrate the veil that has settled over the Demonweb Pits. Something is obviously intent on keeping us out. We need to enlist someone else’s help in finding out what’s going on there. Someone not of our own ilk.”
Both of the other drow were watching the wizard intently, doubt plain on their faces.
“You can’t mean . . .” Ryld said.
“Another god.”
The weapons master seemed aghast. Valas said nothing but might have been contemplating the possibilities of such an act—and the ramifications.
“Perhaps a higher being,” Pharaun continued, “especially one in close proximity to the Demonweb Pits—from one of the other layers of the Abyss—could, or possibly even already has, discovered more than we can possibly hope to on our own. Maybe we can convince one of them to tell us what has transpired or is transpiring inside.
“Not directly, of course,” Pharaun added hastily, “but through an intermediary . . . a follower.”
“You play a dangerous and foolish game, Pharaun Mizzrym,” Ryld said, shaking his head. “The Dark Mother may find such a course blasphemous, a betrayal to the faith.”
“Or she may congratulate me on being so innovative, so willing to examine and explore, whatever the risk. The other choice is to admit defeat, return to Menzoberranzan, and sit on our hands as our way of life ends.”
“Quenthel will not be happy with this plan,” Valas cautioned. “She will most likely consider it a personal affront to her.”
“Yes, well, Quenthel is too focused on lining House Baenre’s coffers to appreciate the larger picture before us. I’m beginning to wonder how wise a choice she was to lead this expedition. Don’t stare at me like that, Ryld. . . . You’ve questioned more than a few of her decisions since we departed.”
“Never openly. Not to her face.”
“She’s not here now, is she? My friend, I play with fire, I know that, but if I don’t act where my heart lies then I’ve failed our race far worse than she. I’m content to steer things from behind the scenes, letting her believe she controls our tempo, our course, but such a method requires patience, more than a little frustration, at times, and the possibility of being thwarted or exposed. It would stand a much greater chance of success if the three of us worked together to maneuver her. I could use your help.”
Valas had his chin in his hand, thinking. Ryld shook his head, lines of worry creasing his brow.
“You fight against millennia of tradition and habit, Pharaun,” the weapons master said. “I can’t say that I welcome the idea of returning to Menzoberranzan no better off than when we left, but usurping the high priestess’s authority might very well see our heads on the parapets of House Baenre.”
“The wizard has already been at it for a couple of tendays . . .” Valas said.
“Perhaps, but until now, it was simply him against her; he hadn’t brought us into it.”
Pharaun clicked his tongue in exasperation.
“Do you honestly think that she won’t hold us all responsible, regardless of the relative levels of involvement?” the Master of Sorcere asked. “She will blame you simply because you are a male, Master Argith.”
Slowly, Ryld nodded.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “It still doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“I’m not suggesting we bind her with cord and throw her in a box, Weapons Master. All I’m asking is that you support me when I make a suggestion, that you back me, however subtly, when she and I disagree. Help me convince her that moving forward, rather than back to Menzoberranzan, is the wiser course of action.”
“You make sense,” Ryld replied, “but right now, your idea is just that. We must find someone willing to serve as the conduit. Do you know of any such creature?”
“I do,” Valas said quietly.
Pharaun crouched down in front of the scout and asked, “You do? Who?”
“There’s a priest I know, a follower of Vhaeraun.”
“Vhaeraun,” Ryld said in a clipped tone. “I doubt we’ll receive any aid from him.”
“Perhaps, but Tzirik is actually an old associate of mine,” Valas replied.
At Ryld’s surprised look, the scout added, “When you wander the wilds of the Underdark as much as I have, you have to be decidedly more pragmatic than in the cozy confines of Menzoberranzan. Tzirik Jaelre owes me a favor. If we can get to him, I think he might help us.”
Valas turned to Pharaun and added, “Assuming, of course, that you have a notion of what he should do once we get there.”
Pharaun replied, “I will when we find this priest. In the meantime, you keep this Tzirik Jaelre to yourself until I have words with Quenthel. At the right moment, mention that you know him, and we’ll show her the wisdom of seeing this through to the end.”
“I only hope the end comes later, rather than sooner,” Ryld said grimly.
chapter
nine
Halisstra couldn’t breathe. The blood pounded in her ears, making it difficult to hear what Matron Mother Zauvirr was saying. She didn’t want to listen, anyway.
“I wish it wasn’t true, Halisstra, I really do, but there’s no getting around it. We caught her in the act, and when we confronted her, she wouldn’t surrender. Your mother tried to flee, and the soldiers just did their jobs. By the time I got to her, I couldn’t help her.”
Halisstra shook her head, trying to rid her thoughts of the hated words. Her mother, dead. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be!
“No!” Halisstra cried out, pushing Danifae away. Her battle captive, all flimsy silks, was reaching out to her, trying to comfort her. “You’re lying!”
She struggled to spin free, to get out of the room, but she found all avenues of escape cut off. Matron Mother Zauvirr’s troops seemed to be standing idly by, as though they were merely guests in someone else’s home, but they were strategically placed about the room to guard the doors. She looked around for some of her own family’s soldiers, but there were none to be found. Matron Mother Zauvirr had planned well, delivering her devastating news from a position of strength.
&nb
sp; Wilting, Halisstra sank down to the floor, unsure what to do. Only Danifae settled down next to her, making soothing noises and trying to reach out to calm her. She didn’t want to be calmed. She wanted to slap the other drow, smack her across the room, but she knew better. If she had any hope at all of surviving this horrid situation, she would need the battle captive’s aid. She had to think.
It wasn’t so much that her mother was dead. Of course that didn’t bother her. In other circumstances, she would have delighted in it, but there weren’t any other circumstances. Her mother had been caught in an act of open treason against the city, or so Ssipriina claimed, and Halisstra had no way to refute it, despite the fact that it was a ludicrous notion. Her mother would never risk herself so openly, especially not aiding foreigners, regardless of how good the relationship was between their Houses. Not to mention the fact that smuggling the goods from Black Claw Mercantile out of the city would ruin House Melarn. There was nothing to gain from it and so much to lose.
Of course, when Ssipriina arrived in House Melarn’s audience chamber, sat right down in Drisinil’s throne and made her revelation, the unspoken implication was there. Drisinil was not acting alone. When the rest of the council learned of it, they would likely find Halisstra just as guilty of the crimes as her mother. They would imprison or execute everyone in the family, dissolve House Melarn, and divvy up its assets. Unless she found a way to counter it.
She had no doubt that Ssipriina was behind it all, was somehow benefiting from the destruction of House Melarn, but in order to make it work, she would have to eliminate Halisstra, too. Halisstra had to move fast, but she knew that the other drow wasn’t about to let the First Daughter of House Melarn out of her sight. Her only chance to get help was to send Danifae, and that would only happen if Ssipriina Zauvirr believed the battle captive was more interested in saving her own skin than in supporting her mistress.
Halisstra glanced over at Danifae, taking a deep breath to calm herself, then began to flash signs at her servant, working secretively so that only her companion could see.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 53