Storm of the Dead зкp-2

by Lisa Smedman

  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, swimming 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."

  The male ancestor's eyes blazed. High magic is what condemned us! We were uncorrupted, still clean. Not like them. Q'arlynd's head wrenched to the side, directed by a mind that was not his own. It forced him to look at the dim shadows that were his apprentices. And yet we were condemned to share the same fate as these Ilythiiri.

  The sentience released Q'arlynd. Relief flooded him. Losing control of his body, even for a moment, had felt uncomfortably close to the time he'd been forced to wear his slave ring.

  It wasn't enough for Aryvandaar to wipe Miyeritar from the face of Faerun with their killing storm, the presence continued. They could have left those few who survived to eke out their lives, but even that small mercy was beyond them. They and their allies had to alter our very bodies and drive us from the surface with their dominating magic, forever imprisoning us in the Dark Realms Below, together with those whose alliance we never sought.

  Q'arlynd drew in a sharp breath at what his ancestor had just said. Those two words. Z'ress-to hold dominance or to remain in force. And faer-magic. Q'arlynd had heard these words for a lifetime, but always the other way around. As Faerzress: "magic that remained." Faerzress, he'd been taught during his days as a novice at the Arcane Conservatory, was native to the Underdark. A form of raw magic that was similar to a volcano, or a rushing river, in its ability to build or carve away stone. Something that had always been around, from the moment of the world's creation.

  With the words reversed, the resulting term took on an entirely different layer of meaning. "Dominating magic." Magic that compelled.

  "You mean to tell me that Faerzress was a creation of high magic?" Q'arlynd asked. "That it was linked to the Descent?"

  It created much of the Dark Realms Below. It lured us into that prison and locked us inside. The male frowned. Did it never occur to you to question why the drow chose to found their cities in regions that were permeated with Faerzress?

  Q'arlynd understood. "Because we
were drawn to it? That would make sense. It would ensure we couldn't teleport out. Or use divination to view the World Above."

  Thus we were "contained." That was the word the mages of Aryvandaar coined for our imprisonment. We could, through manual effort, return to the surface-climb up through those few tunnels the Faerzress had created that touched upon the World Above-but each time we emerged, the warriors of Aryvandaar beat us down again. The male shook his head sadly. And now we learn, through your thoughts, that it has become possible for us to escape this prison and reclaim the daylit sky-but that this freedom may once again be denied us. That the Faerzress ebbed, but is rising again.

  "I played my part. I teleported the Protectors to the Acropolis. Whatever the Crones are creating with the voidstone will be destroyed."

  And if it isn't?

  The male was replaced by the female who had spoken when Q'arlynd first placed the kiira on his forehead. I am disappointed in you, grandson, she intoned. I would have expected more of someone who had sworn himself to the Lady.

  Q'arlynd glanced down at his wrist-at the House insignia that adorned his bracer. The glyph it bore was no mere stick figure. It was, just as Zarifar had observed, the figure of a dancing female.

  Eilistraee.

  Q'arlynd swore softly, "Mother's blood."

  The male returned. Indeed, grandson. It flows in your veins-and in the veins of all who can trace their ancestry back through bloodlines that are of pure Miyeritari descent. I suspect there are few of us, now-fewer with each generation. The Ilythiiri will have mixed their bloodlines with ours, producing yet more offspring who bear the demon's taint. But I am glad to hear that some of us continue to serve the goddess. Some of us remember her and keep the faith.

  Both voices spoke together. Male and female, backed up by a chorus of dozens more. That is why this lorestone, and others like it, were placed here. Because we knew that, some day, the goddess might guide the footsteps of someone who would be able to hear us.

  "Me," Q'arlynd whispered.

  Yes.

  He touched a finger to his forehead. "But why did you strip me of my memories, the first time I wore you?"

  That was a different selu'kiira. Because you were not of its House, its embodied sentiences stripped you of all memory of it and forced you to return it to this place. They did the same to the boy. He was of the correct House but not wholly worthy of wearing that selu'kiira. He is fortunate that some dark elf blood, at least, flows in his veins. Else he would have died the instant it touched his mind.

  "Just as the chitines did?"

  He felt their disapproval and overheard a snatch of conversation.

  … certain he is Miyeritari?

  He is.

  "So…" Q'arlynd glanced at Kraanfhaor's Door. By concentrating, he could just make it out. "There are more kiira in there?"

  Dozens. One from each House whose patriarch or matriarch survived the Killing Storm.

  He touched his forehead. "And since I'm a Melarn-a pure descendant of your House-you'll teach me high magic?"

  When you're ready to wield arselu'tel'quess, then yes.

  "What must I do to prepare?"

  Learn to trust.

  "Done." Q'arlynd waved a hand in the direction of his apprentices. "You can see the proof. I brought them along to share in whatever knowledge I might glean."

  Is that why three of them still stand bound by your magic?

  "I had to. Piri-"

  You placed that enchantment into the rings long before that.

  "Yes, but the point remains that Piri-"

  What did you expect of someone who bonded with a demon? the male chided.

  You cannot fault Q'arlynd for trying, the female interjected. The yearning for companionship, for family, comes instinctively to him. It was only the cruelties he suffered as a child that beat it into dormancy. There is a kindness in him still.

  Q'arlynd bristled. They seemed to be implying that he was the equivalent of a surface elf, soft and weak. Not a true drow at all.

  Your skin may be black, but you're no dhaerow, the female said. She gave the word its original meaning: traitor. A spark of moonlight flickers within your heart. The dhaerow did their best to extinguish it, but it dances there still.

  That sounded just like something Qilue had once said.

  "Enough about me," Q'arlynd said. "Now, about those spells…"

  When you're ready. After a century or two of study, perhaps.

  "Surely I don't need to wait so long! Aren't you forgetting something? I already cast high magic, once before."

  When Eilistraee willed it, yes.

  Q'arlynd clutched at that straw. "Well, doesn't she will it again? If Kiaransalee's Crones aren't defeated, Faerzress throughout the Underdark will become as potent as it was at the time of the Descent. Your descendants are going to be trapped, just as you were. Aryvandaar will win."

  Righteous anger hit him like a physical blow. He reeled. Then a wordless song eclipsed the angry voices. So beautiful was it that Q'arlynd's eyes welled with tears. A memory flooded his mind: Halisstra, singing to him, healing him, that time he lay unconscious after the riding accident.

  Halisstra had used bae'qeshel magic, rather than Eilistraee's hymn, but she had saved him just the same. Maybe the goddess had been watching over him even then, using Halisstra as a conduit to…

  "That's it!" he gasped. He turned his attention to the spot where the chorus had come from. By concentrating intently, he could see a crowd. Dozens of people.

  "Are you all mages?" he asked.

  Mages, priestesses, warriors-for nearly three millennia the matrons and patrons of our House wore this lorestone.

  "And the other kiira you spoke of-do they all contain the combined wisdom of mages and clerics as well?"

  Of course.

  "And each kiira is capable of casting the spell that stripped my memories when I wore the wrong lorestone?"

  Yes.

  Q'arlynd laughed with delight. "Then we still have a chance. Listen."

  Swiftly, he outlined his idea.

  That may be possible, the lorestone said when he was done. With Eilistraee's blessing. I know that it is possible to hand you the sword you seek. As to whether you can wield it…

  "We have to at least try."

  Yes.

  As the voices of his ancestors faded, Q'arlynd became aware of his surroundings once more. Eldrinn was watching him intently, his eyes gleaming.

  "We've got work ahead," Q'arlynd told him with a grim smile. "Kiaransalee is about to get a taste of her own poison."

  *****

  Cavatina gasped as her awareness returned to her body. A moment ago, she'd been drifting toward Eilistraee's sacred grove, weaving her way through the moonstone-hung boughs, her spirit dancing in time with a song whose beauty made her weep. Now she lay on her back on a cold stone floor, her throat tight and sore. Eilistraee's song had vanished, replaced by a ghastly wailing and the muffled rattle of bones.

  A male bent over her, one hand resting lightly just above her left breast.

  And she was naked.

  "Karas," she growled. She was halfway to her feet, fists raised to fend him off, when she realized what he must have done. She lowered her hands and turned her motion into a bow. A little less gracefully than she would have liked, but a bow nonetheless. "You healed me?"

  He nodded.

  "Thank you."

  Cavatina glanced around. They were in a small, cell-like chamber with stone walls and a single exit. The door was closed and barred with what looked like a femur. The walls bore ghastly murals, painted with what looked like dried blood. Shifting shadows screened the worst of it-Karas's doing, no doubt.

  There was no point in asking what had happened. Cavatina remembered all too well the feel of the ghost's dagger plunging into her neck. "Where are we?" she asked, rubbing her throat.

  "A distant corner of the Acropolis," Karas said in a low, cautious voice. "A chamber, now hallowed by the Masked Lady. But
my prayer won't hold the Crones at bay for long. Even Cabrath-the spirit you slew-will rejuvenate eventually."

  Cavatina's eyebrows rose. "You knew her?"

  "I knew of her, when she was still alive. She was one of Kiaransalee's priestesses, back in Maerimydra. A mortal, then."

  Cavatina let that go. She glanced around but didn't see her singing sword. "What about Leliana and the other Protectors?"

  "Dead. I'm the only one who still lives. Even disguised, I could drag only one of you away." He pulled a small, silvered sword, hanging from a broken chain, out of his pocket. Her holy symbol. "I managed to retrieve this."

  Cavatina took it. She held it to her chest and whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. "I'm surprised that…" She stopped herself just in time. She'd been about to question why he hadn't just skulked away from the Acropolis and saved himself-that would have been more in keeping for a Nightshadow, after all-then realized there was no point in stirring up old arguments.

  He guessed her intent, despite her silence. "The Masked Lady commands, I obey."

  Cavatina nodded her approval. He had a sense of duty. Perhaps she'd been wrong about the Nightshadows, after all. She'd learned a lot, in recent days.

  "What do you suggest we do now?"

  Karas seemed surprised she'd asked his advice. His eyes narrowed, as though he expected a trick. Then he shrugged. "We're outnumbered, probably a hundred to one. And that's just counting the Crones, all of whom will rise as revenants shortly after we kill them, if we don't take the time to permanently lay them to rest."

  Cavatina tightened her grip on her holy symbol. "Then we'll make sure we do just that."

  Karas shook his head. "There isn't time. The Crones are doing something with a voidstone. Something terrible."

  From somewhere outside the room came a series of sharp cracks, followed by the sound of falling rubble. The ground trembled under Cavatina's feet. She heard a hail of thuds on the roof. White dust drifted down from the rafters, gritty as powdered bone.