At dusk the guards brought her fresh food, a bowl of some bland but nourishing stew and another half loaf of bread. Halisstra found herself ravenously hungry, and she devoured the meal with little thought to the possibility of poison or drugs. Soon after she’d finished, the door to her cell was unlocked with a rusty scraping of iron, and Seyll Auzkovyn slipped inside again.
The priestess had shed her long, heavy cloak, and wore an elegant lady’s riding outfit, an embroidered green jacket and knee-length skirt over a blouse of cream and high boots that matched the jacket. The sight of a drow priestess dressed as a noble surface elf struck Halisstra as jarringly incongruous.
“Did the surface lord dress you like that?” she sneered at the Eilistraee worshiper. “You seem almost a perfectly helpless gentlelady of the accursed sun elves in that outfit.”
“How else should I dress?” Seyll replied. “I’m among friends here, and need not wear armor. Besides, I found that the skull and spider motifs of my previous wardrobe seemed to alarm the surface folk.” She made a small gesture to the jailers outside, and the door was closed behind her. “Anyway,” she added, “there are no sun elves here.”
“They’re all the same to me,” Halisstra said.
“When you know them better, you’ll be able to tell their kindred easily enough.”
“I have no wish to know them better.”
“Are you so certain of that? There is always advantage in knowing one’s enemies . . . especially if they need not be your enemies.”
Seyll knelt easily on the floor beside Halisstra and composed herself. She was young, not much more than a hundred, and pretty enough in her own way, but her carriage was . . . wrong. Her eyes lacked the hungering ambition or the cold appraisal Halisstra was accustomed to seeing mirrored in the faces around her. One could easily mistake Seyll’s patient expression for a sort of submissiveness, the lack of the will necessary to achieve, and yet there was a calm assurance about her that hinted at strength held in check.
Halisstra’s eyes fell to Seyll’s hands, as the priestess smoothed her garments. They were strong, and callused like a weapons master’s.
“I had the opportunity to examine the heraldry of your arms today, and study the devices. Melarn is a leading House of the city of Ched Nasad, is it not?”
“It was,” Halisstra said.
She instantly regretted the slip. If the surface folk didn’t know of Ched Nasad’s fate, then she hardly needed to provide them with a gift of information. She had to set a price on anything she revealed.
“You were defeated in a House war?”
It was a reasonable guess on Seyll’s part, as most drow Houses that vanished, lost status, or otherwise fell low usually did so because of the actions of other Houses.
“Not quite.”
Seyll waited a long moment for Halisstra to elaborate, and when she did not, the Eilistraee priestess shifted tactics.
“Ched Nasad is a long way from Cormanthor. At least six or seven hundred miles, with the great desert of Anauroch and the phaerimm-haunted Buried Realms between here and there. Lord Dessaer is curious about the circumstances that would bring a high-ranking daughter of a powerful House of Ched Nasad into the lands of his people. To be honest, I am curious too.”
“So this is to be the method of interrogation, then?” Halisstra said. “A sympathetic ear to garner the answers to questions asked in seeming friendship?”
“Some account of your purpose in Cormanthor must be made before Lord Dessaer will release you into my parole. If your business is as innocent as you say, you need not be imprisoned here.”
“Release me?” Halisstra laughed long and quietly. “Ah, I see you have not lost your penchant for cruelty despite your apostasy, Auzkovyn. Did your surface friends ask you to play on a prisoner’s hopes by offering freedom in exchange for cooperation, or did you suggest the tactic? Did you really think a single day in this accursed cell would reduce me to desperately grasping at phantom hopes?”
“The hopes I offer are not phantoms,” Seyll said. “Tell us what you’re doing here, show us that you’re no enemy of the peaceful folk of Cormanthor, and you will have your liberty.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that.”
“I am here, am I not?” Seyll answered. “Clearly some of our kind learn to live in peace with the surface folk.”
“Of course you have nothing to fear among the surface folk,” Halisstra retorted. “Your vapid, dancing goddess is too weak to threaten them.”
“As I told you before, I was a priestess of Lolth when I was captured,” Seyll said. She formed her hands into a gesture of supplication, a ceremonial pose Halisstra knew well. In the tongue of the abyssal planes where Lolth dwelt, Seyll mouthed the words of a high and secret prayer: “ ‘Great Goddess, Mother of the Dark, grant me the blood of my enemies for drink and their living hearts for meat. Grant me the screams of their young for song, grant me the helplessness of their males for my satiation, grant me the wealth of their houses for my bed. By this unworthy sacrifice I honor you, Queen of Spiders, and beseech of you the strength to destroy my foes.’ ”
The infernal words seemed to crackle with dark power, each harsh syllable charged with an evil potency that spread through the cell like a slick of poison. Seyll made a drawing motion of her hand, showing the manner in which the knife was to be wielded, and settled back on her heels.
Shifting back to Elvish, she closed her eyes and said, “Many hapless souls died beneath my knife, yet I found redemption and peace here. Whether the same awaits you is a question I cannot answer, but I offer myself as proof that you can walk these lands in peace if you wish.”
Halisstra stared at Seyll, almost as if seeing her for the first time. She had been about to condemn the priestess once more as a weak failure, a traitor to the one true drow goddess, but the words died on her lips. No one but a priestess of high station would have been taught that rite, yet Seyll had decided to turn her back on Lolth. Not only that, but she still lived, and seemed to have found some amount of contentment in her decision. Halisstra had of course been indoctrinated over years of training to regard heresy, apostasy, as the vilest sort of crime imaginable. Yet in her years of sacrifice and abasement before the Spider Queen’s altar she had never before encountered a true apostate. Oh, she’d slandered some of her rivals with false accusations of turning away from the Spider Queen, but actually sitting in the presence of someone who had committed the ultimate betrayal of the goddess, and—so far, at least—lived to tell the tale. . . .
“I want to challenge you to do something,” Seyll said. “I believe you have the intelligence and the imagination for it, but we shall see. Imagine, for a moment, that you could live in a place where you can walk the streets without fearing an assassin’s dagger in your back. Imagine that your friends—real friends—want nothing more from you than the pleasure of your company, that your sisters cherish your accomplishments instead of resenting your successes, and your children are not murdered for an accidental failing. Imagine that your lovers seek you out for who you are, and not your station or influence. Imagine that your goddess asks you to celebrate her with your joy, not your terror.”
“There is no such—”
“You answer too quickly. I asked you to imagine it, if you can,” Seyll said. She stood and moved away, turning her back on Halisstra. “I will wait.”
“I can’t imagine such nonsense. It’s an empty fantasy, signifying nothing. We’re not meant for such things; no one is, not dark elf, not light-elf, not even the insipid humans. Only a fool dwells on dreams.”
“Yet, for the sake of argument at least, would it not seem a pleasant thing?” Seyll said over her shoulder. “You must entertain impossible dreams all the time. All thinking creatures do. Perhaps you’ve dreamed of having your enemies in your power, or of a lover you couldn’t take, or of rising to the station you truly merit.”
Halisstra snorted, truly irritated, and shook her hands in her manacles.
“If you can imagine the destruction of all your enemies at once,” Seyll pressed, “you can certainly imagine the faithfulness of a friend or a goddess pleased by your loyalty, not your sacrifice.”
“All gods demand sacrifice. You delude yourself if you think Eilistraee is any different. Perhaps you’re simply too weak-minded to understand your bonds.” Halisstra looked away and added, “You have succeeded in boring me again. You may leave now.”
The priestess walked to the door. She rapped once on the rusty iron and waited, turning back to face Halisstra.
“What if I show you that you’re wrong?” she said softly. “Tomorrow night we dance in the forest for Eilistraee’s delight. I will bring you there, and you will see for yourself what our goddess demands of us.”
“I will have no part of it,” Halisstra snapped, finally irritated enough to forget her resolve to feign a grudging conversion to the surface dwellers’ vapid beliefs.
“Your faith in your Spider Queen is so weak you can’t bear to watch us dance?” Seyll asked. “Listen, watch, and judge for yourself. That’s all I ask.”
The endless black gale that shrieked up through the vertical streets of ruined Chaulssin welcomed Nimor’s return with a barrage of gusts so powerful that even he was momentarily rocked on his feet. His white hair whipping around his head like a wild halo, the Anointed Blade paused a moment in his steps to allow the blast to die away.
He could not remain long in the City of Wyrmshadows, not while Menzoberranzan’s army marched and the Agrach Dyrr contingent tramped along without him, but he wasn’t in such a hurry that he couldn’t tarry a moment in the hidden citadel of his secret House. Nimor Imphraezl was a prince of Chaulssin, after all, and the magnificent ruin, the hell-carved citadel, was his domain. He had not been born there, of course, nor had he spent his childhood years in the shadow-haunted city. The place was too perilous for the young, so the Jaezred Chaulssin fostered their princes in a dozen minor Houses in as many cities throughout the Underdark. From the time he reached adulthood and came into his ancient birthright, though, Nimor had regarded the windswept ruin as his own palace.
The gust passed, at least as much as any blast of wind ever did in the black chasm yawning around the city, and the assassin continued on his way. Menzoberranzan was little more than an hour distant through the Plane of Shadow, and so it was fairly easy for Nimor to manufacture an excuse to absent himself from the marching column to tend to some “personal matters.” Even if Andzrel Baenre summoned the House captains to a sudden council of war during Nimor’s absence, he took little risk in leaving for a short time. The army moved quickly, as armies go, but no one would find it overly suspicious for a noble to tarry in the city for a short time before riding out to catch up to the column.
He reached the great, spiraling stair cut through the heart of Chaulssin’s stone mountain and ascended quickly, taking the steps two at a time. In the great hall at the top, he found the patron fathers assembled again, clustered together in twos and threes as they traded news and fomented plots to advance the House during their time of remarkable opportunity. Grandfather Mauzzkyl turned to level his fearsome glare upon Nimor as the assassin entered.
“Once again you keep us waiting,” he said.
“I beg your forgiveness, Revered Grandfather,” Nimor replied. He drew up into the circle with the others and made a small bow. The winds outside the chamber moaned eerily in the distance. “I was summoned to a council of war that I did not think it wise to miss.”
“One might say the same of this gathering,” observed Patron Father Tomphael.
Nimor forced a smile and replied, “I have been working for some time to cultivate a particular identity and level of responsibility among Menzoberranzan’s defenders, Tomphael. That sort of effort is not to be lightly thrown aside. Until the revered grandfather instructs me otherwise, I will keep you waiting when it is necessary to protect our plots against the Spider Queen’s favored—”
“Enough, Nimor,” Mauzzkyl rumbled. “How do things proceed in Menzoberranzan?”
“Very well, Revered Grandfather. Crown Prince Horgar Steelshadow of Gracklstugh marches an army of nearly five thousand duergar on Menzoberranzan. The matron mothers have decided to meet the duergar in the field instead of awaiting a siege, since they fear the belligerence of other Underdark realms. I have, however, arranged for the crown prince’s army to steal a march on the Menzoberranyr, and I also have command of a contingent of troops who can be turned at the right moment to help assure the outcome we desire. Finally, I have convinced the cambion warlord Kaanyr Vhok to bring his army of tanarukks against Menzoberranzan as well, though I am less certain of the Scoured Legion. Vhok may or may not show, and if he does, he has little allegiance to our cause.”
“You intend to destroy the forces of Menzoberranzan in detail, then,” Patron Xorthaul observed. The black-armored priest stroked his chin. “What if the Menzoberranyr prove more resilient than you expect, and defeat the duergar instead? Or Kaanyr Vhok proves unfaithful? It might have been better to lure a smaller force into your trap, Anointed Blade. Your first play is too risky.”
“If I had presented the duergar as less of a threat, the matron mothers would have been sorely tempted to ignore them altogether. As matters stand, one of three results may come of the battle between Gracklstugh and Menzoberranzan. The duergar might win, it could be in effect a draw, or the drow could prevail. We’re doing what we can to deliver Menzoberranzan’s army into the crown prince’s hands, but even if he fails to destroy the Lolthites outright, there is an excellent chance the duergar will badly maul the Menzoberranyr—in which case, the duergar may weaken our enemies so badly we can overthrow them ourselves. At the worst, if Gracklstugh is routed, well . . . other than the failure of our plan, we lose little.”
“Remember, Patron Xorthaul, our strategy against Menzoberranzan is a strategy of attrition,” Mauzzkyl said. “The city is too strong to take in one stroke, so we must bleed it to death with a dozen cuts.”
“Menzoberranzan’s wizards will certainly divine the existence of such a great army so close to their city,” Patron Tomphael, himself a wizard, observed. “The matron mothers will recall their force, or reverse your ambush on the duergar instead.”
“Our allies in Agrach Dyrr have helped us with this,” said Nimor. “Gromph Baenre has vanished. The Masters of Sorcere are quite naturally testing each other’s resolve and resources to determine who shall be the next archmage.”
“There are many powerful wizards serving the city’s Houses, Nimor,” Tomphael replied. “They will not be distracted by an opportunity at Sorcere.”
Nimor permitted himself a rueful nod and said, “True, but as we well know, House wizards tend to spend a lot of their time spying out the weaknesses of other Houses. So far, no one seems to have come forward to dispute the version of events I advanced to the Council.”
“It would be no more than the better part of wisdom to set your plans with the assumption that your plots will be unmasked at the most inconvenient time possible,” Patron Xorthaul said. “What will you do if some raw apprentice in some second-rate House happens to scry the approach of the crown prince’s army, and the matron mothers recall theirs? They might stand a siege forever.”
“Now you understand,” Nimor said patiently, “why I went so far as to approach Agrach Dyrr with an open offer of alliance, and decided to risk bringing Kaanyr Vhok into the equation. We need the Fifth House against that very possibility, to admit Horgar’s army—or the Scoured Legion—into the city, if it comes to that.”
Mauzzkyl folded his arms and lowered his fiery gaze.
“In either case, we shall have them,” the revered grandfather said, a smile of dark satisfaction twisting his features. “If Kaanyr Vhok betrays you, you still have Agrach Dyrr. If Agrach Dyrr betrays you, you have the cambion. I presume that Dyrr and Vhok know nothing of each other?”
Nimor said, “I thought it best to reserve at least one surprise against e
ach of my ostensible allies, Revered Grandfather. It seemed wise to me to make certain that I would have as many options as possible, for as long as possible, in developing the attack on the city.”
“Excellent. What assistance might we provide you?”
The Anointed Blade considered the question. He was sorely tempted to say none at all, and claim all the glory of the victory to come, but the time was coming when his ability to move from place to place would be limited by the role he played at the head of Menzoberranzan’s army, and he needed help in handling Kaanyr Vhok. Besides, if the Sceptered One proved unfaithful, he could blame whomever had been sent to the warlord.
“We should gather our strength and be ready to strike when our allies play their part in reducing Menzoberranzan’s defenses,” he said.
“We do not have any great force at arms, Anointed Blade,” Mauzzkyl said. “I will not commit the Jaezred Chaulssin to a pitched battle.”
“I understand, Revered Grandfather.” If they gathered all their strength in one place, the secret House would hardly amount to the numbers of a single minor House of Menzoberranzan—though the Jaezred Chaulssin could have an impact out of all proportion to their numbers. “I need one of my brothers to go to Kaanyr Vhok’s Scoured Legion and steer the warlord in the right direction. My responsibilities in Menzoberranzan’s army and my efforts to guide Horgar Steelshadow and the renegade Agrach Dyrr do not permit me sufficient time to look after Kaanyr Vhok as well as I would like.”
Mauzzkyl nodded and said, “Very well. Zammzt, there is nothing left for you to do at Ched Nasad. I want you to go to Kaanyr Vhok and serve as our voice in his camp. Do whatever you must in order to keep his army aligned against Menzoberranzan, but you will answer to Nimor.”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 99