R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (78 page)

“Watch her,” the mage said to Valas as he stepped into the cell, Halisstra close behind.

It was obvious from the relieved look in Quenthel’s eyes that she was glad to see him. Pharaun only smiled as he uttered a magical phrase. The collar around Quenthel’s neck clicked open.

“Help her,” he directed to Halisstra.

Pharaun then moved over to Jeggred, whose red, feral eyes glittered in anticipation.

“Your arrival was timely, wizard,” the draegloth said, spreading his arms wide. “Free me so that I may rend the traitor and watch the life fade from her eyes.”

“You will do no such thing,” Quenthel said. Halisstra had helped the high priestess remove the gag. “Do not touch her, Jeggred. Do you understand me?”

Jeggred looked at Quenthel for a moment, but then the demon inclined his head in acquiescence.

“As you wish and command, Mistress.”

Pharaun had but one more spell with which to unlock the restraints that held Jeggred, and he quickly utilized it to free one of the draegloth’s arms. For the other bindings, the mage decided to cast a different spell, one that would suppress the magic that strengthened the adamantine. He quickly wove the dispelling magic and watched as the aura surrounding the metal faded from his sight.

“Try to break it, now,” he said to Jeggred.

The draegloth jerked experimentally on the chains holding him to the walls, then he really leaned into the effort, but the adamantine links still would not yield.

Pharaun frowned.

“Perhaps a bit of cold, to make them brittle,” he mused aloud, producing a small, clear crystal from his
piwafwi.
“Gather the lengths together in a group,” he directed the draegloth. Jeggred did so, holding them in his free hand like a set of reins on a pack lizard.

Pointing the crystal at the sections of chain, the Master of Sorcere focused a cone of magically summoned arctic air along their lengths. When the incantation was completed, he gestured for Jeggred to try again.

This time, when the fiend began to work the restraints over, the frosty metal shattered, freeing him. He still had the collar and manacles around his neck and limbs, but that could be dealt with later.

“My thanks, wizard,” the draegloth said, then strode over to where Quenthel was in the process of freeing herself from the last of the black, sticky, resinlike substance that her hands had been encased in.

Quenthel stood in the center of the cell, naked but seemingly oblivious to it.

“Do you make a habit of remaining maddeningly out of reach until the last possible moment, Mizzrym?” she said, scowling slightly. “You cut your arrival a bit close, didn’t you?”

Pharaun sighed inwardly, realizing that whatever gratitude had been present before had been replaced by the high priestess’s usual haughty demeanor.

“My pardon, please, Mistress Baenre,” he said in as gracious a tone as possible. “We dallied with some of the local maidens as long as we could before rushing here at the last moment. I didn’t think you would mind terribly much.”

Ryld chuckled at the wizard’s snide remark, while both Halisstra and Danifae gave him sharp looks, reminding him that the two members of House Melarn were unaccustomed to his disrespectful relationship with Quenthel. The Mistress of the Academy merely scowled at him then turned away to face Faeryl, who cringed, still under Valas’s guard.

“Strip her and give her clothes to me,” Quenthel commanded, eliciting a high-pitched squeak of protest from the ambassador.

Valas held the prisoner steady as Ryld stepped up to help him, and Halisstra jumped forward almost eagerly and began to disrobe Faeryl, who struggled to avoid the ignominious fate.

“Just who are these two?” Quenthel snapped, eyeing Danifae.

The battle captive cocked her head to one side, eyeing the high priestess in return, as though gauging how much she should defer to this new leader.

“I am Danifae Yauntyrr, Mistress Baenre, formerly of Eryndlyn. I am Halisstra Melarn’s personal attendant.”

“A battle captive?” Quenthel smirked, and Danifae merely bowed her head.

Quickly enough, Faeryl stood naked in the midst of the group, still held between Valas and Ryld, while Quenthel donned the ambassador’s clothing. As the high priestess was dressing, she jerked her head in the direction of the collar, still chained to the wall where she’d been restrained only moments before.

“Lock her up,” Quenthel commanded.

“No!” Faeryl protested, trying desperately to jerk free of her two captors. As Valas, Halisstra, and Ryld all corralled her, the ambassador shrieked and began to fight against her captors. “No! You can’t leave me down here. . . .”

“Shut up!” Quenthel said, slapping Faeryl. “You sniveling, wretched creature, did you really believe you could get away with your betrayal? Did you honestly think you could defy me, a Baenre, and the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith? By the Dark Mother, child, the depths of your foolishness surprise me! Lock her up,” she repeated, gesturing once more at the thick adamantine collar.

“No!” Faeryl protested again, struggling as she was hauled over to the wall.

The ambassador flailed and kicked, but the scout and warrior held her tightly as Halisstra fitted the collar around her neck. When the adamantine band clicked shut, the imprisoned drow sobbed once, and as soon as the two males relinquished their grip on her, she began frantically jerking on the restraint.

Quenthel started to turn away, then paused.

“You can redeem yourself, if you like,” she said to Faeryl.

“How?” the frantic dark elf asked. “Anything! I will do whatever you want.”

“Tell me where my things are,” Quenthel replied. “Tell me where all of my possessions were stored when I was brought here.”

Faeryl’s face fell in despair.

“I don’t know,” she sobbed, dropping to her knees in supplication. “Please don’t leave me here. I will find them for you.”

“Don’t bother with her,” Halisstra said. “I know where your things are, Quenthel Baenre.”

Quenthel turned and eyed the daughter of House Melarn.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

“That is for you to decide,” Halisstra answered, “but consider this . . . I led your males down here to find you, I lured the traitor out into the hall before she could kill you, and I live here and can find my way around. While that would ordinarily be a strike against me, as I told the wizard, I have no quarrel with you, and I do not want to see you suffer the consequences for House Zauvirr’s betrayal of my mother.”

Quenthel’s eyebrows raised as she listened to the other priestess’s words, then she looked at Pharaun.

“She speaks the truth,” the wizard admitted. “At least thus far. She has thrown herself in with us, though she has few alternatives. The other matron mothers, led by Ssipriina Zauvirr, are wresting control of her House away from her, after the death of her mother.”

“Hmm,” Quenthel mused. “Very well. We’ll address your status later. If you know where my things are, lead on.”

“Wait!” Faeryl cried out, lunging forward against the chain around her neck. “She will betray you, Mistress. All the noble Houses despise you for your plans to steal from the city. You can’t trust her.”

“On the contrary,” Quenthel laughed derisively, shaking her head. “She is a Melarn, a member of the only House in Ched Nasad I
can
trust. Let’s go.”

The high priestess turned to depart the cell, and Pharaun was stepping into the hall behind her as Faeryl wailed once more, “You can’t leave me here!”

The ambassador began a chant, and Pharaun recognized the pattern of the words as a divine incantation, though he wasn’t sure what sort of spell the dark elf might still have retained in her memory.

Before she could complete the invocation, though, Jeggred was in front of Faeryl. The draegloth flicked a hand out, across her face, slicing his long claws across one cheek and catching her by surprise so that she lost her concentration and the words of the spell died in her mouth, the magic lost.

Faeryl cried out, backing away and clasping her bloody cheek. She began to tremble, remembering all the terrible things Jeggred had done to her. She cowered from the towering fiend, folding herself into the corner, as the draegloth glared down at her. He did not raise a hand to strike her further.

Quenthel stepped up beside the demon, wrapped her hands lovingly around his arm, and smiled at the imprisoned drow.

“You know, Faeryl,” the Mistress of the Academy purred, “You’re actually right.”

Faeryl only blinked at Quenthel, terror in her eyes.

“You said before that I couldn’t leave you here. Sadly, it’s true. There’s no telling what other spells you might still have tucked away in that clever little mind of yours. Jeggred, my pet, repay her for the things she did to us. Take your time . . . enjoy the moment.”

Quenthel strolled out of the room, along with Ryld, but Pharaun remained, as did Halisstra and Danifae.

Faeryl’s first scream rang in Pharaun’s ears, echoing in the small cell. The draegloth had not yet touched the ambassador, but as the wizard watched, smiling, Jeggred moved closer. Her screams rose in pitch, and they were suddenly silenced as Jeggred casually reached out with one large clawed hand and grasped her by the neck, just beneath the collar she wore, cutting off her air. Madly, Faeryl began to flail at the fiend, but he easily lifted her up and extended his arm out fully, so that the naked drow’s feet rose off the floor, kicking at the air. She pummeled feebly at the draegloth’s arms, and just as she was fading, Jeggred released her, watching as she crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. Before she could fully regain her breath, he reached down and poked a single claw up under her chin.

Pharaun saw that the talon penetrated deep into the soft tissue, probably through the dark elf ’s tongue, pinning her mouth shut. Faeryl squealed in pain, but it was a muffled cry. She reached up to try to pull the fiend’s hand away, but he slowly, relentlessly began to lift her, forcing her to scrabble to her feet, clinging to his arm with both her hands to support her weight and keep the talon from plunging deeper, penetrating the roof of her mouth. Higher and higher the draegloth lifted, until at last Faeryl was on her tiptoes, frantically trying to lift herself off this impaling spike by her arms alone, tears streaming down her face.

Jeggred merely held her there, watching her squirm, using his two smaller hands to caress the ambassador. He brought his other hand up and flicked a claw across her exposed throat, slicing through her vocal chords.

With blood streaming from the gash in her neck, her red eyes wild with terror, Faeryl tried to scream, but all that issued from her was a muffled, wet gurgle. Jeggred laughed and let her dangle, unable to cry out at all.

Danifae and Halisstra turned away, but whether satisfied or disturbed at the fiend’s display of ruthlessness, Pharaun was not sure. He was the only one who remained in the cell, and he couldn’t draw his eyes away from the scene before him.

Blood ran down Faeryl’s neck and chest, and her struggles were growing more and more feeble. Finally, perhaps growing tired of this sport, Jeggred raked at her again, across the abdomen this time, slicing cleanly so that her entrails were freed. The fiend let her drop to the ground at last, and Faeryl crumpled at the draegloth’s feet, though Pharaun could see that she was not yet dead.

The ambassador blinked in shock and occasionally thrashed weakly as Jeggred crouched down. When Pharaun realized the demon was preparing to feast, dining on Faeryl even as she lay there, still conscious but too weak to fight him, the wizard finally had to turn away. The wet sounds of the demon at his meal followed him out into the hallway.

Gromph Baenre did not relish the latest message he had to deliver, for several reasons. First and foremost, it was not good news, and however much he was removed from the source of the report, he was still the messenger. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t mind for that reason alone, for there were few individuals in Menzoberranzan who could actually take out their displeasure on him, the most powerful mage in the city. Of those few, most held on to only a shell of their former power and were relying on him to conceive of a way to restore it. No, being the bearer of bad news this day would not be as risky as it might on other days, but then he didn’t often have to deliver such unpleasant information to his sister.

That brought the Archmage of Menzoberranzan around to the other cause for his distress. Triel Baenre was at home, which meant that Gromph had to go visit her, rather than the other way around. He detested leaving Sorcere, detested having to go to the Great Mound even more, and certainly didn’t like doing any of it under such circumstances. It was yet another reason for him to add to his list of reasons why he wanted the crisis resolved. He was tired of all the inconvenience it was causing him personally.

As he flew over the streets of Menzoberranzan on his way to the Great Mound, Gromph peered below in consternation. He had sent word to the appropriate individuals in charge that more troops were to be dispatched, but he had yet to see the results of his orders. The disquiet below was growing again, and if they weren’t careful, the nobles of the city would find themselves right back in the middle of another uprising.

Well, Triel could put her foot down again, he supposed, insist that the other matron mothers respond promptly when the call came for more soldiers, but he doubted it would make them quicken their pace one whit. They were going to tend to their own Houses first, High Council be damned.

Approaching the edge of House Baenre, Gromph settled himself to the balcony outside his sister’s audience chamber. The guards on duty there peered at him warily for a moment, but when they saw who it was, they stiffened in salute. Ignoring them, the archmage walked briskly past them into the council chambers themselves, hoping to find Triel there. She was not.

Clicking his tongue in exasperation, Gromph passed out of the large audience chamber and into the hallway beyond, which led to her personal quarters. Arriving at the door to her suite of rooms, the archmage was greeted by a pair of stoic females, robust specimens who were well armed and apparently trained equally as well in the art of combat as divine magic.