Condemnation (4 page)

“This is no good,” muttered Halisstra. “I’m squinting so hard I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”

Even when she managed to open her eyes, she could see little more than bright, painful spots.

“Valas says it’s possible to get used to daylight, with time,” Danifae offered. “I find that hard to believe, now that I have experienced it myself. A good thing we mean to return to the Underdark soon.” Halisstra heard a small tearing sound from beside her, and Danifae pressed a strip of cloth into her hand. “Tie this over your eyes, Mistress. Perhaps it will help.”

Halisstra managed to arrange the dark cloth as a makeshift veil. It did indeed help to abate the fierce glare of the sun.

“That’s better,” Halisstra said.

Danifae tore another small strip and bound it around her own eyes as her mistress examined the ruins. It seemed to Halisstra that the palace they’d taken shelter in was one of the more prominent buildings, which only made sense. Magical portals were not easy to make, and were often found in well-hidden or vigilantly guarded locations. A colonnade stood along the front of the palace, and across the boulevard was another great building—a temple, or perhaps a court of some kind. There was something familiar about the architecture of the buildings.

“Netherese,” she said. “See the square column bases, and the pointed arches in the windows?”

“I thought Netherese cities floated in the air, and were completely destroyed by some magical cataclysm,” Danifae replied. “How could anything like this still stand?”

“It could have been one of the successor states,” Halisstra said, “built after the great mythallars of the old Netherese cities failed. They would share many of the same architectural features, but would have been more mundane, less magical.”

“There’s writing up there,” Danifae said, pointing at the facade of a crumbled building. “There … above the columns.”

Halisstra followed Danifae’s gesture. “Yes,” she said. “That’s Netherese.”

“You can read it?” Danifae asked.

“I have studied several languages—the common tongue of the surface, High Netherese, Illuskan, even some of the speech of dragons,” Halisstra replied. “Our libraries contain fascinating histories and potent lore recorded in languages other than drow. I developed the habit of studying such things over a century ago, when I believed I might find some forgotten spell or secret that might prove useful against my rivals. As it turned out, I found little of that sort of thing, but I did find that I enjoyed learning for its own sake.”

“What does it say, then?”

“I’m not sure of some of the words, but I think it reads, ‘High Hall of Justice, Hlaungadath—In Truth’s Light No Lies Abide.’ “

“What a simpleminded sentiment.”

Halisstra indicated the ruins around them and said, “You can see how far it got them. I know that name, though, Hlaungadath. I have seen maps of the surface world. Valas’s estimate of our location was accurate.”

“Even a male can do something right from time to time,” Danifae said.

Halisstra smiled and turned away to scan the ruins for any other sites of interest.

Something tawny and quick ducked swiftly out of sight. Halisstra froze on the instant, staring hard at the spot where she’d seen it, a gap in a masonry wall a short distance away. Nothing moved there, but from another direction came the sound of rubble shifting. Without looking away, she touched Danifae’s arm.

We’re not alone here, she signed. Back to the others—quickly.

Together, they backed away from the court of justice and out into the street again. As they turned to retrace their steps, something long and low, covered with sand-colored scales, slid out into the boulevard. Its stubby wings clearly could never support it in flight, but its powerful talons and gaping jaws were much more developed. The dragon paused and raised up its head for a better look at the two drow on the street before it, and it hissed in delight. It was easily fifty feet from nose to tail, a hulking, powerful creature whose eyes gleamed with cunning and malice.

“Lolth protect us!” Danifae gasped.

The two women backed away in a new direction, at a right angle to the palace where their companions waited. The dragon followed leisurely, sinuously winding from side to side as it paced after them.

“It’s herding us away from the others,” Halisstra snarled.

She sensed hard stone behind her, and risked a quick glance backward. They were pinned against a building, sliding alongside it as they tried to keep their distance from the monster. A dark alleyway gaped just a few feet away. Halisstra hesitated for a heartbeat, then grasped Danifae by the wrist and darted into the narrow opening at the best speed she could manage.

Something waited for them in the shadows of the alley. Before Halisstra could skid to a stop, a tall golden creature reared up before her, half lion, half woman, beautiful and graceful. With a cold, cruel smile, the lion-woman reached out her hand and caressed Halisstra’s cheek. Her touch was cool, soothing, and in an instant Halisstra felt her fear, her determination, her very willpower drain softly away. Vaguely she reached up to push the creature’s hand away from her face.

“Don’t be afraid,” the creature said in a lovely voice. “Lie down and rest here a while. You are among friends, and no harm will come to you.”

Halisstra stood paralyzed, recognizing that the creature’s words made no sense, but empty of the willpower she needed to resist. Danifae whirled her away by her arm and slapped her hard across the face.

“It’s a lamia!” she snapped. “It seeks to beguile you!”

The lamia snarled in anger, its beautiful features suddenly hard and cruel.

“Do not resist,” it said, its voice harsher.

Halisstra could feel the creature’s spell drawing over her, sapping at her resolve, seeking to subjugate her will to its own. She knew that if she gave in she would go willingly to her death, even lie down helplessly while the lamia devoured her if it asked her to, but the sting of Danifae’s slap had reawakened the wellsprings of her will, just enough to fight through the lamia’s sweet words.

“We are drow,” Halisstra managed to gasp. “Our wills may not be broken by such as you.”

The lamia bared its teeth in fierce anger and drew a bronze dagger from its hip, but Halisstra and Danifae backed out of the shadowed alley into the sun.

The dragon’s gone, signed Danifae.

Halisstra shook her head and replied, An illusion. We were deceived.

Something was still hovering in the center of the street, a faint flickering phantasm that might have been about the size of the thing they had seen before, and they could hear as if from very far away its hissing protests.

“Illusion,” Danifae spat in disgust.

The dragon-wisp gnawed at the corners of their minds, joined by other, more insistent murmuring and shadows. Buildings seemed to shimmer and vanish, replaced by ruins of different appearance. Dark and horrible things slithered through the rubble, closing off retreat. Ghostly drow dressed in resplendent robes appeared, smiling and happy, calling for them to join them in their blissful revels if only they would surrender first.

The lamia padded softly out into the street after them, holding its dagger behind its back.

“You may resist our enticements for a time,” she purred, “but eventually we will wear you down.” She reached out with her hand again. “Won’t you let me smooth away your cares? Won’t you let me touch you again? It would be so much easier.”

A swift, graceful movement caught Halisstra’s eye, and she glanced quickly to her left. Another lamia, this one male, had leaped to a wall top overshadowing their retreat. He was bronzed and handsome, lithe and tawny, and he smiled cruelly down on them.

“Your journey must have been long and tiresome,” he said in voice of gold. “Won’t you tell me of your travels? I want to hear all about them.”

From the dark doorway of the court of justice, a third lamia emerged.

“Yes, indeed, tell us, tell us,” the monster crooned. “What finer way to pass the day, eh? Rest, rest, and let us care for you.”

It leaned against a great spear and smiled beatifically at them.

Halisstra and Danifae exchanged a single glance, and fled for their lives.

Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, was dissatisfied. Though the slave revolt had been quelled without too much trouble, it disturbed him greatly that so many drow males had made common cause against the matron mothers. Not only that, they had made common cause with slave races to turn against the city. It bespoke desperate fear long suppressed, and something else beside—it suggested an unseen enemy who found a way to give that fear a voice and a mission. Drow simply did not cooperate so easily with each other that a coordinated rebellion could take shape secretly and spring full-grown to life.

The watchful lull that blanketed the city in the aftermath of the crushing of the revolt and the illithilich’s demise struck Gromph as something malevolent and deceitful.

He stood up from his writing desk and paced across his chamber, thinking. Kyorli, the rat that served as his familiar, eyed him with cool disinterest as it munched on a slice of rothe cheese.

The sight of the rat somehow reminded the archmage that he hadn’t heard from Pharaun in a while. The arrogant popinjay had reported that Ched Nasad was in a state of chaos. Perhaps it was time to check in on him.

Gromph stepped through an archway into an open shaft and levitated up to the room that served as his scrying chamber. Of necessity it was somewhat less well warded than other portions of his demesnes, since he required a certain amount of magical transparency in order to cast his mind out into the wide world around his palace. He reached the chamber and sat cross-legged in front of a low table on which rested a great crystal orb.

With a pass of his aged hands, he muttered the device’s activating words and commanded, “Show me Pharaun Mizzrym, the impudent whelp who thinks he can replace me someday.”

The last was not strictly necessary, but Gromph found it helpful to give voice to his frustrations before attempting to scry.

The orb grew gray and milky, swirling with fog, then it exploded with unheralded radiance. Gromph swore and averted his eyes. For a moment he believed that Pharaun had devised some new spell to discourage enemies from spying on him, but the Archmage soon recognized the peculiar quality of the brilliance.

Daylight.

Wondering what the Master of Sorcere could possibly be doing on the surface, Gromph shaded his eyes and peered again, looking closer. He saw Pharaun, sitting in the shadow of a crumbling wall as he studied his spellbooks. None of the other dark elves who had accompanied the wizard were in sight, though Gromph could see a nearby archway leading out into a hatefully brilliant courtyard beyond.

The tiny image of Pharaun looked up and frowned. The wizard had sensed Gromph’s spying, as any skilled wielder of magic was likely to do. Pharaun made a few silent passes with his hands, and the picture faded. Pharaun had cast a spell to block the scrying, though chances were good he had no idea who might be watching him.

“So you think you will elude me so easily?” Gromph said, staring at the grayness.

He steepled his fingers before him and cast a spell of his own, a mental sending to dispatch a message straight to the errant wizard.

Where are you? What transpired in Ched Nasad? What do you intend to do next?

He composed himself to receive Pharaun’s reply—the spell of sending conveyed the recipient’s response within a few minutes. The moments crept by, as Gromph gazed out the high, narrow windows of his scrying chamber, awaiting the younger wizard’s response.

He felt the feathery touch of Pharaun’s words appearing in his mind: Anauroch. Ched Nasad was destroyed by rebellion and stonefire. Lolth’s silence did extend there. We now seek a priest of Vhaeraun in hope of answers.

The contact faded after those twenty-five words. That particular spell didn’t permit lengthy conversations, but Pharaun had answered Gromph’s questions with uncharacteristic efficiency.

“Ched Nasad destroyed?” breathed Gromph.

That merited immediate investigation. He turned again to his crystal orb and commanded it to show him the City of Shimmering Webs. It took a moment for the mist to clear, and reveal to the Archmage a complete calamity.

Where Ched Nasad had stood, there was nothing but remnant strands of calcified webbing, dripping slowly into a black abyss like molten glass from a glazier’s pipe. Of the city’s sinister palaces and wall-climbing castles, virtually nothing remained.

“Lolth protect us,” murmured Gromph, sickened at the sight.

He had no particular love for the City of Shimmering Webs, but whatever misfortune had befallen Ched Nasad might visit Menzoberranzan in time. Ched Nasad had been a city nearly as large and as powerful as Menzoberranzan itself, but Gromph could see with his own eyes the completeness of its ruin. If one building in twenty of the city remained, he would have been surprised.

Gromph shifted his orb’s vision, searching as best he could for some sign of survivors, but the main cavern was largely deserted. He saw more than a few burned bodies among the smoldering debris, but any drow who’d lived through the burning of the city were clearly sheltering in the nearby caverns. Gromph was unable to bring them into the view of his scrying device, so after a time he decided that the effort was irrelevant and allowed the crystal orb to go dim again. He sat for a long time in silence, gazing absently at the darkened orb.

“Now, do I need to share this with dear Triel?” he asked himself when he finally stirred from his reverie.

He knew something that the matron mothers presumably did not, and that was always the sign of possibility. The trouble was, Gromph had no idea what possible advantage he could derive from hoarding the knowledge, and the risks of failing to communicate what he had learned were all too clear. Knowing that Lolth’s silence extended beyond Menzoberranzan, he might mount a direct challenge to the priestesses—if he were inclined to do so—but even if he brought the full strength of Sorcere against the ruling Houses of the city, what would be left if he did succeed? The smoldering wreckage of Ched Nasad seemed a likely result. Most likely the House loyalties among the masters of the wizards’ school would cripple any such nonsense from the start.