Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “New faces weren’t noticed?” Ruen asked. “With the diminished population, I’d have thought spies would be easier to detect.”

  “Sometimes they are, but other times, the drow kill our people in secret and take their places. We don’t find the bodies until later, if at all.” Garn’s hand tightened on his axe. Ruen saw the rage barely contained by the gesture. The Blackhorn patriarch’s only comfort lay in the promise of spilling drow blood.

  “Your family was kind to offer us hospitality,” Ruen said, thinking it wise to change the subject.

  Garn looked at him askance. His lips twisted in what might have been a smile, but the bitterness underlying the expression made it difficult to tell. “My daughters offer you their hospitality because they have faith in the king’s judgment. For my part, I think we should have killed that drow prisoner long ago. The king’s wasting valuable time worrying about him. Now your friend has given him another excuse to sit in his hall and fret over the creature instead of focusing on readying our armies. You’ll not be offended or surprised to learn that I am not as glad of your presence as my daughters.”

  “I’m not offended,” Ruen said. “Why doesn’t Mith Barak have your loyalty?”

  Temper flared in the runepriest’s eyes. Ruen wondered what he had said wrong, but Garn quickly hid the emotion and regarded him with a measured glance. “Perhaps it’s a failing in the language. I don’t count faith and loyalty to be equal. I would die for my king—he is one of my oldest friends—but there are limits to what he can accomplish, especially …”

  Garn stopped. He seemed suddenly reluctant to speak. Ruen waited, but he saw the restraint enter the dwarf’s expression, the mistrust, as if he’d just then remembered he was talking to an outsider and not one of his own people.

  They walked on in silence. Ruen’s thoughts were troubled. If the dwarves of Iltkazar doubted their king, it was yet one more obstacle they had to overcome in their struggle with the drow. Was it age or infirmity in Mith Barak that brought out Garn’s doubts? Ruen had not noticed any such deficiency in the king during their audience. Mith Barak had come across as strong, cunning, and dedicated to his people. Perhaps there was a deeper, unknown madness that Garn feared.

  The thought stirred the blood in Ruen’s veins. He pictured Icelin sitting in the library with the drow prowling around her. He dreaded the prospect of leaving the city, of leaving her unprotected.

  Though she probably wouldn’t welcome his company, Ruen thought, not after what he’d told her in the plaza. He shook his head. He owed her the truth, no matter how much it hurt her—or him—to say it.

  Sull had sworn to look in on her as often as he could, which was no small thing. The butcher was a tenacious protector, especially where Icelin was concerned. He’d stayed behind to help Joya handle the wounded soldiers returning from the outpost attacks and had appointed himself an unofficial camp cook at the temple of Moradin.

  Still, Ruen was uneasy. He reminded himself that obtaining the Arcane Script Sphere and prolonging Icelin’s life was worth the risks they took, but the words didn’t give him as much comfort as they marched along increasingly narrow tunnels and left Iltkazar behind.

  Icelin froze in the act of reaching for the fallen book, which now lay open to the third page, blank but for an inscription written in an elegant hand.

  Icelin read the words aloud, “ ‘To my lovely Aribella, on the occasion of the end of a life.’ Strange.”

  Zollgarza walked over and stood beside her. “You read Elvish?” he asked.

  Icelin blinked at him. “You’re mistaken. The language is Common.” She pointed to the text. She wasn’t brave enough to pick up the book. One of the first things she’d learned in her study of magic was never touch anything magical without first knowing the nature of the magic—a lesson she’d already been reminded of with the drow rings.

  Zollgarza went down on one knee and squinted at the inscription. “It appears the book alters the appearance of the text to suit the preferences of its reader. I’ve encountered such tomes before.”

  “In Guallidurth?” Icelin asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

  “Yes …” But the drow paused, uncertain, drawing out the word and staring intently at the book as if he could conjure the other from his memory.

  “Was it dangerous?”

  “What?”

  “The tome you encountered,” Icelin said. “Did it contain harmful magic?”

  “I don’t … it doesn’t matter,” Zollgarza said. “This is a different tome. It may have any number of powers or destructive magic stored in its pages.”

  “The tome will do you no ill, so long as you intend no ill toward the tome,” said a woman’s voice.

  Icelin and Zollgarza both jumped. The sepulchral voice seemed to come from every corner of the room at once. “Show yourself!” Zollgarza shouted. “Another one of your mind probing spells, Mith Barak?”

  Ignoring the drow’s tirade, Icelin turned to see how the guards at the door reacted to the voice. There were two of them dressed in the king’s livery, and both wore gleaming mithral maces at their belts, though neither had drawn their weapons. Their gazes were fixed on Zollgarza, but other than the obvious distaste in their eyes, Icelin detected no emotion.

  “Did you hear that voice?” she addressed them.

  The guard standing to the left of the door nodded. “Nothing to be scared of,” he said, shooting a mocking smile in Zollgarza’s direction. His smile softened when he addressed Icelin. “It’s the king’s seneschal. She means no harm.”

  “Never thought I’d hear her voice again,” the other guard said wistfully.

  “Is she a spirit,” Icelin asked, “or simply invisible?”

  “Better to let her explain herself,” the first guard said. “It’s … complicated.”

  Soft, throaty laughter echoed from near the fire. Icelin turned and saw a dwarf woman sitting in the chair Zollgarza had occupied. She rose, spilling golden hair over her shoulders and down to her waist. The woman was shorter than most of the other dwarf women Icelin had seen, including Ingara and Joya. Her bright green eyes matched the robes she wore. The loose sleeves were lined in gold brocade, and she wore tan slippers on her feet.

  “Well met,” the woman said, inclining her head. “I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes.” She approached Icelin and held out her hand. Icelin took it. She was half-surprised to find it solid. “King Mith Barak instructed me to aid you. He indicated that time was short.” The woman’s face creased with sadness. “I will be happy to render any assistance I can. I am familiar with the titles and text of every book in the library and can retrieve any tome you wish.”

  “You’ve read them all?” Icelin said, stunned. “And you remember everything in them?” She wondered if the woman was afflicted with a spellscar just like her own. Icelin couldn’t imagine trying to find space enough in her head to store the knowledge of all these books. She’d go mad with the effort.

  The seneschal smiled. “Yes, I remember—more accurately, instead of reading them all, I am them all.”

  Zollgarza scoffed. “She is spirit, not flesh—a magical device for fetching books.” He went back to the fire and sat down, retrieving his book.

  “A shame it is to have the library polluted in this fashion,” the seneschal said, eyeing the drow in disgust. She addressed Icelin. “What would you have of me?”

  “Um …” Icelin didn’t know how the woman could help her, unless she knew where the Arcane Script Sphere was. But if she did, she would have surely told Mith Barak. “A few questions first, if you don’t mind?” Icelin asked. For some reason, the woman’s deep, wise gaze and aura of serenity made Icelin uneasy. She felt insignificant standing next to her, though the dwarf woman was much shorter.

  “Not at all.” The woman smiled kindly. “Ask what you will.”

  “Is he right?” Icelin asked, nodding at Zollgarza. The drow seemed not to be paying attention, but Icelin knew he heard their c
onversation. “Are you a spirit?”

  “I am the seneschal of the library and the caretaker of tomes,” the woman repeated. “I have knowledge and control of all the books you see.” She lifted her hand, and in response, the book on the floor rose into the air and snapped shut. It floated over to Icelin and hovered in front of her face. Hesitantly, Icelin reached up and took it. “Memories of any life I had before my time as seneschal are gone,” the woman continued. “I am bound to one of the tomes in this room, but which one, I will not name. My thoughts are full with the knowledge of thousands of ancient texts. They are enough.”

  “It’s just … how long have you been here?” Icelin asked.

  The seneschal smiled. “Do you mean, how long have I been here in this room, or how long have I been with King Mith Barak? In truth, I have lost count of the years. No future exists here, only the past.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly, but a pang struck Icelin’s heart. No thoughts of the future—Icelin knew something of living that way. “Since I’ve been in the library, I’ve thought I heard voices, whispers,” Icelin said. “Was that your voice?”

  “Not me.” The woman reached out and ran her fingers gently over the book spines on the nearest shelf. “You’re hearing their voices.”

  “The books?” Icelin stammered. “You mean they—”

  “Many of them are no more than what they appear,” the seneschal said. “Others are living entities, sleeping for centuries at a time, stirred awake by the breath of life—the presence of a seeker of knowledge.” The seneschal removed a tome from the shelf and pressed it to her chest reverently. She spoke a word Icelin didn’t understand, and then she returned the book to the shelf. “When they sense such a person, the pages whisper and sing, and the ink may as well be blood in living veins.”

  Caught by the seneschal’s voice, Icelin couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s face. For the first time, fear of the library and this ancient spirit shivered through her body. The fire cast long, ominous shadows on the walls. Whispers that had lingered at the edge of her consciousness grew louder, more insistent. Icelin didn’t want to listen to those voices, not like this. Whatever secrets she heard, she would never be able to forget.

  “You’re frightening her, spirit,” Zollgarza spoke up. “Cease with your romantic prattle and make yourself useful.”

  Icelin blinked and freed herself from the seneschal’s penetrating gaze. She dipped her head, rubbing her temples, which had begun to throb.

  “Forgive me,” the seneschal said, bowing. “Understand I mean you no harm. It has been a very long time since I spoke to another person like this. I fear I am out of practice.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Icelin stifled a groan. She’d let herself be trampled on by a ghost—albeit a very powerful one—and had to be rescued by the drow. Ruen would be appalled.

  She’d been trying not to think about him or worry about where he was at that moment. Likely, he was with one of the dwarf patrols. He might even be fighting right now. If a drow slew him, she might not find out for several days.

  Stop it, she told herself. You’re here to find the sphere.

  “Very good,” the seneschal said. “You have strong mental discipline for one so young and afflicted.”

  “You can read my mind?” Icelin’s head snapped up. “You might have mentioned that earlier!”

  “Again, forgive me.” The spirit smiled wider. “Please don’t be uneasy. I doubt any thought you entertain would surprise me.”

  “What about the other books—spirits of books—in the library?” Icelin said. “Can they read thoughts too?”

  “No,” the seneschal replied. “Their intellects are not so well defined. They are objects of power, presence, and memory, but only in the most primal sense. I was surprised you heard their voices so soon. However, you are not without power yourself, and as I said, they are drawn to the true seeker.”

  “Is that why they remain silent to me, spirit?” Zollgarza said, smirking. “Because I am not a ‘true seeker’?”

  The seneschal stared at Zollgarza coldly. “Lost child, what you seek cannot be found within this room.”

  Zollgarza met her stare with a look that made Icelin shiver. “Pitiful specter, you have no idea what I’m looking for.”

  “I see the emptiness in your soul,” the spirit countered. “Memories gone … pieces of yourself you long to reclaim.”

  A strange thing happened then. Zollgarza’s cold mask cracked at the edges, and through the broken bits, Icelin glimpsed pain—pain and anger so intense she stifled a gasp. He tore his gaze away from the woman’s face, as if he’d also been caught by her power. Meeting Icelin’s eyes, the drow pulled the mask back into place over his features.

  I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see, Icelin thought. A weakness or a desire—what was it the drow sought? Was it somehow tied to the magic that cloaked him? Judging by the mask Zollgarza had adopted, he would not speak of those desires, especially not to her. Not that it mattered. She had her own desires and her own task to complete.

  “I’m ready now,” she said, addressing the spirit.

  “Very well.” The spirit put a hand out, though she did not touch Icelin. “Know before you begin that great power surrounds you. There are dangers here, as well as treasures.”

  “What sort of dangers?” Icelin asked. Gods, what now?

  “I told you some of the books possess souls. Like any living thing, they are capable of compassion and deceit, of manipulation and regret. Some will give up all their knowledge and secrets for a kind word, while others will use any means to deny and destroy you.”

  “Can’t you tell me which one is which?” Icelin said, feeling helpless.

  The seneschal smiled sadly. “Can you tell that of any living being? Like the depths of any soul, they are changeable, mysterious, and sometimes frightening. Never forget to use your judgment, and you won’t go astray,” she advised. “When you are ready, tell me what knowledge you seek.”

  The knowledge she sought—Icelin didn’t have to consider the question long. “The Arcane Script Sphere,” she said. “If I’m going to find it, I need to know more about it. Are there any written accounts of it in the library?”

  She expected a long delay while the seneschal explored her memory. Efficient as Icelin’s mind was, the older the memory, the longer it took her to recall all the details. She started in surprise when the seneschal answered her question almost immediately.

  “There are four such texts in the library,” she said. “One of these I am forbidden to share.”

  “Why?” Zollgarza interjected, surprising Icelin again. She hadn’t expected him to show interest in what she asked the seneschal. Then again, he was seeking the sphere as well.

  The spirit’s lips compressed in a line. She repeated, stiffly, “It is forbidden.”

  Or perhaps they contained knowledge the drow could use against Iltkazar if they obtained the sphere, Icelin thought. “Can I examine the other texts?” she asked.

  The seneschal lifted her hand. Two books floated down from a high shelf and settled in the air in front of her. To Icelin, they appeared to be mundane tomes, but the spirit’s warning rang loudly in her mind, so she assumed nothing. “A Contemporary View of the Arcane and The Goddess Touch, by Ignatius Meifarl,” the seneschal recited, “which contains the most detailed account. I have also included an untitled collection of observations on various powerful artifacts, including treatises on the Crown of Horns and the Death Moon Orb. There is a passage discussing the Arcane Script Sphere written by the archmage Dantheliz Thorn. The other text is protected under glass. When you have finished with these, I will show you how to read it.”

  “My thanks,” Icelin said. Her fingers itched to snatch the texts out of the air, but she thought that would be impolite.

  “Perhaps you’d like to read by the fire?” The seneschal made a sweeping gesture, and the books sailed across the room and made a neat stack on a table by one of the wingback chairs.
A blanket lay folded beside the chair. “If you require anything further, simply call for me.” With that, she vanished as soundlessly as she’d appeared.

  Icelin followed in the wake of the flying books and sat down in the chair. The leather cushion was wide enough for her to tuck her legs up, and she draped the blanket over them. The blanket and the fire chased away the chill, and the flames provided ample, if wavering, light to read by. She picked up the first book and opened the cover. As soon as she did so, the whispers lingering at the edge of her hearing quieted. Perhaps they were trying to be polite while she gave her attention to one of their fellows. Icelin smiled slightly to herself at the thought.

  Before she began, she risked a glance at Zollgarza. He’d not moved from his own seat, but his book lay discarded before the hearth. He stared into the fire, his face frozen in that same stony mask. She wondered what he could be thinking. For a moment, Icelin felt a swell of pity for him, but she quickly banished the feeling. He didn’t want her pity, and it was dangerous to feel sorry for the drow. She would have to tread carefully around him.

  For now, she had information in front of her, the opportunity to learn more than she ever had about the Arcane Script Sphere. Ruen would want her to take advantage of that, to do everything she could to get the sphere. Even though he’d made it clear there was no future for them together afterward.

  This was what she wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  Icelin closed her eyes briefly as fresh pain and doubt welled up inside her. She took another deep breath and waited for the ache to pass before she began reading.

  THE HALL OF LOST VOICES

  24 UKTAR

  RUEN FELL ON HIS KNEES, GASPING, AND WAITED FOR the pain to pass.

  It didn’t.

  A second wave of dark energy slammed into him from behind. He rolled behind a rock, where a pair of dwarves and Garn had stacked stones on three sides to form a protective trench. Barbs of pain rippled along his skin, the most intense concentration focused on his left hand, where he wore a silver ring on his middle finger. Pain cramped his muscles. He clutched his hand, tried and failed to close it into a fist.