She looked up to the altar, hoping for a sign of Lolth’s favor. Nothing. The light from a single holy candle flickered on the polished body of the majestic widow sculpture that stood behind the altar—in reality, a guardian golem. The statue stared down at her with eight emotionless eyes.
In the distance, Yasraena heard an occasional shout from the forces arrayed atop her fortress’s walls. Hours before, thunderous explosions had shaken the complex, booming along the walls. Yasraena found the relative quiet ominous. She knew the Xorlarrin forces had pulled back well beyond the moat bridge to plot a strategy for another assault. Tension sat thick in the air. She saw it in the eyes of her troops, her mages, her daughters. The next Xorlarrin attack would be more forceful than the last. She was confident that House Agrach Dyrr would hold it off, but what of the one after that or after that? What would occur when a second House joined Xorlarrin? A third?
Her House had only days left to live, unless she found the phylactery and arranged a peace. Or returned the lichdrow to life and thus bolstered, demanded a peace.
So far, Larikal and the huffing oaf Geremis had been unable to locate the phylactery, yet Yasraena was convinced that it was within the stalagmite fortress. The lichdrow had seldom moved outside its walls. He would not have secreted the vessel for his soul anywhere but within the manor.
She called upon the power of the amulet at her breast and projected to Larikal, My patience grows thin.
She sensed her daughter’s anger through the connection afforded by their amulets.
The search continues, Matron Mother. The lichdrow was no mere conjurer. He has hidden his treasure well.
Yasraena let venom leak into her mental voice. Do not offer me excuses, she said. Offer me the phylactery or I will offer your life to the Spider Queen.
Yes, Matron Mother, answered Larikal, and the connection went quiet.
Yasraena’s threat was sincere. She had killed progeny before to make a point. She would do so again, if necessary.
From behind, she heard the beat of footsteps on the temple’s portico. She rose and turned just as Esvena sprinted through the open double doors and into the temple. The links of her adamantine mail tinkled like slave’s bells. She held her helm in her hand, and her face was flushed.
A hundred possibilities flew through Yasraena’s mind, none of them good. Her grip on her tentacle rod tightened.
“Esvena?” she asked, and her voice echoed through in the vaulted temple.
“Matron Mother,” Esvena huffed and ran up the aisle between the pews. She offered a hurried supplication to Lolth before broaching the apse and bowing before Yasraena.
Esvena’s otherwise plain face was as animated as Yasraena had ever seen it.
“We have him, Mother!” she said and stood, smiling.
Esvena did not need to say whom she meant by “him.” A thrill went through Yasraena, and she grabbed her taller daughter by the shoulders.
“Lolth has answered our prayers,” she said. “Show me.”
Together, mother and daughter hurried from the temple, past exhausted troops and sunken-eyed wizards, though empty halls and chambers, until they reached the vaulted scrying chamber and its stone basin.
The two homely male wizards, both in dark piwafwis, awaited them there. One of them—the one Yasraena previously had choked for smiling—greeted them with a bowed head and lowered eyes. He did not smile, instead eyeing Yasraena’s tentacle rod with dread. The other male stood over the scrying basin, his furrowed brow covered in sweat, his hands held over the still water, palms downward.
Without acknowledging the male, Yasraena pushed past her daughter and hurried to the edge of the waist-high basin. Esvena followed in her wake.
A wavering image showed itself in the waters. Gromph Baenre sat at a huge desk of bone, his gaze fixed intently on an unusual crystal set before him. Yasraena took the crystal to be a scrying device, though it showed only a gray mist at the moment.
Across from the archmage sat another wizard, a fat Master of Sorcere whose name Yasraena did not know. From time to time, they exchanged words. They appeared frustrated and tired.
“This is very good,” Yasraena said to the room. “Very good, indeed.”
She knew that she still had time to locate the lichdrow’s phylactery. The archmage remained at Sorcere. Perhaps his spell duel with the lichdrow had drained him so much that he would not make an attempt on the House at all.
“The work was long, Matron Mother,” said the male she had choked. “The archmage’s wards were powerful. But we persisted.”
“You saved yourself a painful death,” Yasraena said. After a pause, she added, “Well done.”
The male almost smiled, but one look at Yasraena’s tentacle rod kept the corners of his mouth from rising.
The wizard went on, “Notice the gray mist present in the archmage’s scrying crystal, Matron Mother. If the archmage is attempting to scry House Agrach Dyrr through that crystal, as we suppose, the mistiness indicates that he has not yet breached our anti-scrying wards.”
She nodded. The lichdrow had well warded the fortress, better, apparently, than the archmage had warded his own chambers.
Yasraena saw that the archmage and the Master of Sorcere were speaking intently. From their body language, Yasraena thought that Gromph too easily tolerated impudence in his inferiors.
“Why can we not hear what they are they saying?” she asked the room.
Silence answered her. She looked up, and Esvena barked, “Answer the Matron Mother!”
The male Yasraena had choked cleared his throat and said, “Matron Mother, the basin does not allow for the transmission of sounds. I humbly apologize.”
Yasraena stared at the top of the male’s head for a moment before turning back to the image. The vision wavered too much for lip readers to be of much use. She would have to rely on observation to keep her apprised of Gromph’s plans.
She eyed the sweating male wizard who leaned over the basin, maintaining the image. He would not be able to hold the image for much longer. She looked to Esvena.
“Rotate our mages so that this image is constant. It is imperative that we know what Gromph Baenre is doing at all times.”
Esvena nodded.
Yasraena was beginning to think that the temporary Xorlarrin withdrawal was part of some larger ploy by the archwizard. Perhaps he would time his own assault with that of the Xorlarrin, hoping to sneak in under cover of the battle.
We’ve got you, Baenre, she thought, eyeing Gromph through the basin. With the Dyrr wizards’ scrying eye on him, the archmage would not be able to surprise them. If he came, they would be ready.
Yasraena took a deep, satisfied breath. She had asked the Spider Queen for an opportunity. She had been given more time, and that was opportunity enough.
Conscious of his companions’ eyes upon him, Pharaun pulled a swatch of bat fur from his piwafwi, positioned his fingers in a circle, and spoke a couplet.
An incorporeal, silvery orb took shape before him. With an exercise of his will, he saw through the ball as though it were his own eyes. At his mental command, the ball sped back through the chwidencha tunnel, up the vertical shaft, and through the wall of stone that Pharaun had created to cap the tunnel.
Through the eye, Pharaun saw the surface.
It was night. And raining. Spider carcasses and limbs dotted the landscape. The chwidencha bodies they had left behind lay torn in pieces. Pharaun saw no movement, no spiders. He ceased concentration on the orb, leaving it where it was, and returned his vision to his own eyes.
Quenthel stood near him, waiting. Danifae stood a few steps behind her, her expression veiled. Jeggred hulked over the battle-captive, staring at Pharaun with undisguised hunger.
“It is night, Mistress,” Pharaun said to Quenthel. “And raining lightly. The Teeming appears to have abated.”
Quenthel nodded as though she had expected nothing less.
“Then we go,” she said. “Open the way.”
Pharaun nodded. A simple spell would suffice to move them.
He visualized the surface and spoke a magical word that opened a dimensional portal between where they stood and the surface. A curtain of green energy formed in the air.
Pharaun reached out a hand for Quenthel, and her whip serpents reared up with a hiss. Even the snakes were more tense than usual. Pharaun’s confrontation with Jeggred had thrown fuel on the fire of the priestesses’ war of nerve. Pharaun reminded himself not to get caught in the conflagration when it inevitably blew.
“I must touch you if you are to use the portal,” he said to Quenthel.
She nodded and quieted her serpents. He put his hand gently to her shoulder. As he did, he raised his eyebrows and looked a question at her.
The high priestess’s expression showed that she took his meaning. They could leave Jeggred and Danifae behind, trapped underground.
Danifae shifted on her feet, as though she sensed the exchange.
Quenthel seemed to consider it before surreptitiously signing, All go.
Pharaun did not let his disappointment reach his face. He looked past Quenthel to Danifae and said, “Mistress Danifae?”
At her nod, he walked over and put his hand on hers, letting it linger for a moment on her smooth skin. Her flesh felt hot to the touch.
“Jeggred too,” she said with a seductive, predatory smile.
Pharaun eyed the draegloth, who offered him a fanged smile and a cloud of foul breath.
“Of course,” Pharaun said, wincing at the stink. He stepped to the draegloth, who slavered at his approach.
True to his promise to Jeggred, Pharaun had put a contingency spell on his person that would automatically cast another spell should the trigger be met. Pharaun had cast the spell such that if Jeggred attacked him, even if Pharaun was incapacitated or otherwise made unable to speak or cast, the draegloth would instantly be attacked by a giant, crushing hand of force. The hand was bigger than the draegloth, stronger, and would squeeze him until his bones broke.
“Gently, mage,” Danifae warned.
Pharaun said over his shoulder, “Jeggred already knows how gentle is my touch. I won’t hurt him, Mistress Danifae.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” she answered.
In whispered Infernal, the tongue of demons, Jeggred said, “Only her command keeps me from ripping your head from your shoulders, contingency or not.”
Pharaun understood the demonic tongue, as he did many other languages, and he answered in kind, “Should you even attempt to do so, your end will be rapid and painful. In fact, I wish you would.”
He stared a challenge into the draegloth’s face. Jeggred’s lips peeled back from his yellow fangs, but he did nothing else.
“Enough,” Quenthel commanded.
Without another word, Pharaun slammed his fist into the draegloth’s shoulder—hard. He might as well have been punching a wall of iron.
Jeggred only smiled
“Mistress,” Pharaun said, backing away from Jeggred. “Your nephew remains, as always, an excellent conversationalist.” He looked to Quenthel and added, “I believe we’re all ready, now.”
He stepped near Quenthel, and she took him by the arm.
“Us, first,” she said.
“Of course,” Pharaun answered.
Together they stepped through the dimensional portal.
They materialized instantly on the surface. All was quiet, and pieces of spider were everywhere. After the chaos of the Teeming, the surface felt eerily still. Eight bright stars like the eyes of a spider beat down on them from the otherwise jet black sky. A light rain pattered against the rocks.
Pharaun hissed, “Do you not think Danifae would look better dead, Mistress? And your nephew would be a fine trophy for—”
Quenthel silenced him with an upraised hand. Her whip serpents hissed.
“Of course she would,” said the high priestess, “but she will look better still as a sacrifice. The insolent bitch dies when I will it, mage. And my nephew, for all of his stupidity, remains a Baenre and the matron mother’s son.”
Before Pharaun could reply, Danifae and Jeggred appeared beside them, both in a fighting crouch. Seeing no ambush awaited them, they relaxed their stances. Jeggred snorted with contempt, as though disappointed that his aunt had not attacked.
Quenthel didn’t bother to disguise her own sneer. She held her whip in her hand and nodded at something one of the serpents, Yngoth, whispered in her ear. She looked up to the line of souls in the sky and followed them with her eyes in the direction of the distant mountains. Their darkvision did not extend far enough, and the jagged peaks were lost to the night.
Quenthel said, “Lolth bids us to hurry onward.”
The wind gusted; songspider webs sang above the falling rain. Quenthel nodded absently as though the webs had spoken to her.
Pharaun perked up at Quenthel’s statement. He asked, “Mistress, if Lolth bids us hurry, perhaps it is time that we make our way across this unfortunate landscape via magical means?”
He was more than a little tired of walking Lolth’s wasteland. “Indeed it is time, Master Mizzrym,” answered Quenthel.
Mentally, Pharaun checked through his spells. “With all of the stray energies present here—” he gestured at the vortices of power that still dotted the sky—“I would not recommend teleportation. But I have other spells that might—”
Quenthel held up a hand to silence him and stared at Danifae.
“Call what aid you can, priestess,” Quenthel said, “if you would accompany me. Lolth demands the quick arrival of her Yor’thae.”
“Is that the reason, Mistress Quenthel?” Danifae asked with a cryptic smile. She threw back her hood. Spiders crawled along her hair, her brow, her lips. “Or are you concerned that Lolth’s mind might change over the course of a longer journey?”
Anger brewed behind Quenthel’s eyes. Her whip serpents lunged at Danifae but did not bite. All five of them hissed into the battle-captive’s gorgeous face,
“Impudent whore!” said one of the females, K’Sothra.
Jeggred snatched at the heads with an inner arm, missed as they retracted. The draegloth growled. Pharaun couldn’t remember ever having heard the serpents speak aloud.
Danifae only smiled innocently and said, “I intended no offense with my question.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Quenthel said, and her whips swirled around her head.
Jeggred growled, as though he could he hear the serpents’ mental projections to their mistress.
Pharaun felt very tired all of sudden. He just wanted the whole affair completed. If Lolth wanted it done quickly, all the better.
“Mistress,” he said to Quenthel. “I have spells that—”
“Silence!” Quenthel ordered, without removing her gaze from Danifae. “Use what spell you will to follow me, Master Mizzrym, but you are to transport only yourself. Do you understand?”
For emphasis, her whip serpents turned their gaze from Danifae, stared at Pharaun, and flicked their tongues. Pharaun bowed his head in acquiescence.
To Danifae, Quenthel repeated, “I said, summon what aid you can, priestess, if you wish to accompany me further.”
Pharaun saw it then and was not sure what to make of it.
Quenthel was taking Danifae’s measure, testing her abilities as a priestess. That was why she had ordered Pharaun to transport only himself. All in the group had at least a sense of Quenthel’s personal power. No one knew the scope of Danifae’s except Danifae. Quenthel meant to find out before sacrificing the battle-captive.
The two priestesses stared at one another for a moment longer, Quenthel’s challenge hanging between them. The wind blew. The rain fell. The webs sang.
“Very well, Mistress Quenthel,” Danifae said, and she inclined her head slightly.
Jeggred stared at Pharaun and said to Danifae, “I could remove the ring of flying from the wizard’s corpse and—”
Danifae he
ld up her hand for silence, and the draegloth trailed off.
Pharaun answered Jeggred’s stare with what he knew to be an annoying smirk. He held up his hand and waggled his fingers to show the draegloth the ring.
Quenthel turned her back on the junior priestess and her nephew and prepared a summoning. She moved away a bit and used her jet disk holy symbol to trace a circle on the blasted rocks—not a binding circle but a summoning circle. Power trailed behind her movements, leaving a distortion in the air. Throughout, she softly chanted a prayer, which Pharaun recognized as the initial words to a spell that would reach into the Abyss.
Quenthel was calling a demon to transport her.
Danifae watched Quenthel’s back for a time, listening to her spell. Perhaps Danifae understood Quenthel’s play and was attempting to determine an appropriate response. Presently, she began her own spell.
Holding her holy symbol to her breast, Danifae used her heel to trace a second summoning circle into the dirt, away from Quenthel’s. She too chanted the while.
Pharaun and Jeggred stood a few paces apart between the dueling priestesses, doing nothing. Pharaun moved a few steps farther from the draegloth. The wind was carrying his stink to Pharaun, and the damp only magnified its foulness.
The voices of the priestesses mingled with the call of the wind and the patter of the rain. Quenthel’s voice rose as she began the actual summoning. Danifae’s voice, still in the midst of a preparatory chant, rose in answer.
The wind gusted hard and for a moment sang above them both, favoring neither.
Pharaun spared a glance at Jeggred, expecting to see the drooling oaf trying to threaten him with his glare, but the draegloth had eyes only for Danifae. He looked rapt. Pharaun could only shake his head at the simpleton.
R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Extinction, Annihilation, Resurrection Page 84