Condemnation

The most doleful torment of incarceration, reflected Halisstra, was bore-dom, pure and simple. Like most of her extraordinarily long-lived kind, the priestess hardly noticed the passing of hours, days, even tendays when her mind was engaged. Yet, despite the wisdom and patience of her more than two hundred years, a few hours' confinement in a featureless stone cell seemed more onerous than months of the harsh discipline she endured in her youth.



The endless hours of the day crept by, a day in which her body longed to rest despite the painful glare of sunlight streaming in through that one cursed window. Meanwhile her thoughts veered wildly from praying for her comrades to return and rescue her to fomenting the most hideous and ago-nizing tortures she could imagine for each one for abandoning her to capture.



Eventually, she fell into Reverie, her mind empty of new schemes or old memories, and her awareness so dim and distant that she might have been sleeping in truth. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, not just the sheer physical exhaustion of the long tendays of travel and peril through desert, shadow, Underdark, and forest, but a kind of mental fatigue rooted deeply in the grief she still carried for the loss of the House she was to one day rule. Halisstra might not have permitted herself to shed a tear for Ched Nasad, but the malignant truth of her plight had an odd way of sur-facing in her thoughts, poisoning them with a cold, hopeless disbelief that was difficult to set aside. Long hours of imprisonment offered her the opportunity to exhume the hateful situation in its entirety and contemplate her loss of station, wealth, and security until her horrible fascination was in some way sated.



At dusk the guards brought her fresh food, a bowl of some bland but nourishing stew and another half loaf of bread. Halisstra found herself rav-enously hungry, and she devoured the meal with little thought to the pos-sibility of poison or drugs. Soon after she'd finished, the door to her cell was unlocked with a rusty scraping of iron, and Seyll Auzkovyn slipped inside again.



The priestess had shed her long, heavy cloak, and wore an elegant lady's riding outfit, an embroidered green jacket and knee-length skirt over a blouse of cream and high boots that matched the jacket. The sight of a drow priestess dressed as a noble surface elf struck Halisstra as jar-ringly incongruous.



"Did the surface lord dress you like that?" she sneered at the Eilistraee worshiper. "You seem almost a perfectly helpless gentlelady of the accursed sun elves in that outfit."



"How else should I dress?" Seyll replied. "I'm among friends here, and need not wear armor. Besides, I found that the skull and spider motifs of my previous wardrobe seemed to alarm the surface folk." She made a small gesture to the jailers outside, and the door was closed behind her. "Anyway,' she added, "there are no sun elves here."



"They're all the same to me," Halisstra said.



"When you know them better, you'll be able to tell their kindred easily enough."



"I have no wish to know them better."



"Are you so certain of that? There is always advantage in knowing one's enemies. . . especially if they need not be your enemies."



Seyll knelt easily on the floor beside Halisstra and composed herself. She was young, not much more than a hundred, and pretty enough in her own way, but her carriage was . . . wrong. Her eyes lacked the hungering ambition or the cold appraisal Halisstra was accustomed to seeing mir-rored in the faces around her. One could easily mistake Seyll's patient ex-pression for a sort of submissiveness, the lack of the will necessary to achieve, and yet there was a calm assurance about her that hinted at strength held in check.



Halisstra's eyes fell to Seyll's hands, as the priestess smoothed her gar-ments. They were strong, and callused like a weapons master's.



"I had the opportunity to examine the heraldry of your arms today, and study the devices. Melarn is a leading House of the city of Ched Nasad, is it not?"



"It was," Halisstra said.



She instantly regretted the slip. If thesurface folk didn't know of Ched Nasad's fate, then she hardly needed to provide them with a gift of infor-mation. She had to set a price on anything she revealed.



"You were defeated in a House war?"



It was a reasonable guess on Seyll's part, as most drow Houses that vanished, lost status, or otherwise fell low usually did so because of the actions of other Houses.



"Not quite."



Seyll waited a long moment for Halisstra to elaborate, and when she did not, the Eilistraee priestess shifted tactics.



"Ched Nasad is a long way from Cormanthor. At least six or seven hundred miles, with the great desert of Anauroch and the phaerimm-haunted Buried Realms between here and there. Lord Dessaer is curious about the circumstances that would bring a high-ranking daughter of a powerful House of Ched Nasad into the lands of his people. To be honest, I am curious too."



"So this is to be the method of interrogation, then?" Halisstra said. "A sympathetic ear to garner the answers to questions asked in seeming friendship?"



"Some account of your purpose in Cormanthor must be made before Lord Dessaer will release you into my parole. If your business is as inno-cent as you say, you need not be imprisoned here."



"Release me?" Halisstra laughed long and quietly. "Ah, I see you have not lost your penchant for cruelty despite your apostasy, Auzkovyn. Did your surface friends ask you to play on a prisoner's hopes by offering free-dom in exchange for cooperation, or did you suggest the tactic? Did you really think a single day in this accursed cell would reduce me to desper-ately grasping at phantom hopes?"



"The hopes I offer are not phantoms," Seyll said. "Tell us what you're doing here, show us that you're no enemy of the peaceful folk of Cor-manthor, and you will have your liberty."



"You can't expect me to believe that."



"I am here, am I not?" Seyll answered. "Clearly some of our kind learn to live in peace with the surface folk."



"Of course you have nothing to fear among the surface folk," Halis-stra retorted. "Your vapid, dancing goddess is too weak to threaten them."



"As I told you before, I was a priestess of Lolth when I was captured," Seyll said. She formed her hands into a gesture of supplication, a cere-monial pose Halisstra knew well. In the tongue of the abyssal planes where Lolth dwelt, Seyll mouthed the words of a high and secret prayer: " 'Great Goddess, Mother of the Dark, grant me the blood of my enemies for drink and their living hearts for meat. Grant me the screams of their young for song, grant me the helplessness of their males for my satiation, grant me the wealth of their houses for my bed. By this unworthy sacri-fice I honor you, Queen of Spiders, and beseech of you the strength to destroy my foes.' "



The infernal words seemed to crackle with dark power, each harsh syl-lable charged with an evil potency that spread through the cell like a slick of poison. Seyll made a drawing motion of her hand, showing the manner in which the knife was to be wielded, and settled back on her heels.



Shifting back to Elvish, she closed her eyes and said, "Many hapless souls died beneath my knife, yet I found redemption and peace here. Whether the same awaits you is a question I cannot answer, but I offer myself as proof that you can walk these lands in peace if you wish."



Halisstra stared at Seyll, almost as if seeing her for the first time. She had been about to condemn the priestess once more as a weak failure, a traitor to the one true drow goddess, but the words died on her lips. No one but a priestess of high station would have been taught that rite, yet Seyll had decided to turn her back on Lolth. Not only that, but she still lived, and seemed to have found some amount of contentment in her decision. Halisstra had of course been indoctrinated over years of train-ing to regard heresy, apostasy, as the vilest sort of crime imaginable. Yet in her years of sacrifice and abasement before the Spider Queen's altar she had never before encountered a true apostate. Oh, she'd slandered some of her rivals with false accusations of turning away from the Spider Queen, but actually sitting in the presence of someone who had com-mitted the ultimate betrayal of the goddess, and - so far, at least - lived to tell the tale. . . .



"I want to challenge you to do something," Seyll said. "I believe you have the intelligence and the imagination for it, but we shall see. Imag-ine, for a moment, that you could live in a place where you can walk the streets without fearing an assassin's dagger in your back. Imagine that your friends - real friends - want nothing more from you than the pleas-ure of your company, that your sisters cherish your accomplishments instead of resenting your successes, and your children are not murdered for an accidental failing. Imagine that your lovers seek you out for who you are, and not your station or influence. Imagine that your goddess asks you to celebrate her with your joy, not your terror."



"There is no such - "



"You answer too quickly. I asked you to imagine it, if you can," Seyll said. She stood and moved away, turning her back on Halisstra. "I will wait."



"I can't imagine such nonsense. It's an empty fantasy, signifying noth-ing. We're not meant for such things; no one is, not dark elf, not light-elf, not even the insipid humans. Only a fool dwells on dreams."



"Yet, for the sake of argument at least, would it not seem a pleasant thing?" Seyll said over her shoulder. "You must entertain impossible dreams all the time. All thinking creatures do. Perhaps you've dreamed of having your enemies in your power, or of a lover you couldn't take, or of rising to the station you truly merit."



Halisstra snorted, truly irritated, and shook her hands in her manacles.



"If you can imagine the destruction of all your enemies at once," Seyll pressed, "you can certainly imagine the faithfulness of a friend or a god-dess pleased by your loyalty, not your sacrifice."



"All gods demand sacrifice. You delude yourself if you think Eilistraee is any different. Perhaps you're simply too weak-minded to understand your bonds." Halisstra looked away and added, "You have succeeded in boring me again. You may leave now."



The priestess walked to the door. She rapped once on the rusty iron and waited, turning back to face Halisstra.



"What if I show you that you're wrong?" she said softly. "Tomorrow night we dance in the forest for Eilistraee's delight. I will bring you there, and you will see for yourself what our goddess demands of us."



"I will have no part of it," Halisstra snapped, finally irritated enough to forget her resolve to feign a grudging conversion to the surface dwellers' vapid beliefs.



"Your faith in your Spider Queen is so weak you can't bear to watch us dance?" Seyll asked. "Listen, watch, and judge for yourself. That's all I ask."



The endless black gale that shrieked up through the vertical streets of ruined Chaulssin welcomed Nimor's return with a barrage of gusts so pow-erful that even he was momentarily rocked on his feet. His white hair whipping around his head like a wild halo, the Anointed Blade paused a moment in his steps to allow the blast to die away.



He could not remain long in the City of Wyrmshadows, not while Menzoberranzan's army marched and the Agrach Dyrr contingent tramped along without him, but he wasn't in such a hurry that he couldn't tarry a moment in the hidden citadel of his secret House. Nimor Imphraezl was a prince of Chaulssin, after all, and the magnificent ruin, the hell-carved citadel, was his domain. He had not been born there, of course, nor had he spent his childhood years in the shadow-haunted city. The place was too perilous for the young, so the Jaezred Chaulssin fostered their princes in a dozen minor Houses in as many cities throughout the Underdark. From the time he reached adulthood and came into his an-cient birthright, though, Nimor had regarded the windswept ruin as his own palace.



The gust passed, at least as much as any blast of wind ever did in the black chasm yawning around the city, and the assassin continued on his way. Menzoberranzan was little more than an hour distant through the Plane of Shadow, and so it was fairly easy for Nimor to manufacture an excuse to absent himself from the marching column to tend to some "per-sonal matters." Even if Andzrel Baenre summoned the House captains to a sudden council of war during Nimor's absence, he took little risk in leav-ing for a short time. The army moved quickly, as armies go, but no one would find it overly suspicious for a noble to tarry in the city for a short time before riding out to catch up to the column.



He reached the great, spiraling stair cut through the heart of Chaulssin's stone mountain and ascended quickly, taking the steps two at a time. In the great hall at the top, he found the patron fathers assembled again, clus-tered together in twos and threes as they traded news and fomented plots to advance the House during their time of remarkable opportunity. Grandfather Mauzzkyl turned to level his fearsome glare upon Nimor as the assassin entered.



"Once again you keep us waiting," he said.



"I beg your forgiveness, Revered Grandfather," Nimor replied. He drew up into the circle with the others and made a small bow. The winds outside the chamber moaned eerily in the distance. "I was summoned to a council of war that I did not think it wise to miss."



"One might say the same of this gathering," observed Patron Father Tomphael.



Nimor forced a smile and replied, "I have been working for some time to cultivate a particular identity and level of responsibility among Men-zoberranzan's defenders, Tomphael. That sort of effort is not to be lightly thrown aside. Until the revered grandfather instructs me otherwise, I will keep you waiting when it is necessary to protect our plots against the Spider Queen's favored - "



"Enough, Nimor," Mauzzkyl rumbled. "How do things proceed in Menzoberranzan?"



"Very well, Revered Grandfather. Crown Prince Horgar Steelshadow of Gracklstugh marches an army of nearly five thousand duergar on Men-zoberranzan. The matron mothers have decided to meet the duergar in the field instead of awaiting a siege, since they fear the belligerence of other Underdark realms. I have, however, arranged for the crown prince's army to steal a march on the Menzoberranyr, and I also have command of a contingent of troops who can be turned at the right moment to help assure the outcome we desire. Finally, I have convinced the cambion warlord Kaanyr Vhok to bring his army of tanarukks against Menzoberranzan as well, though I am less certain of the Scoured Legion. Vhok may or may not show, and if he does, he has little allegiance to our cause."



"You intend to destroy the forces of Menzoberranzan in detail, then," Patron Xorthaul observed. The black-armored priest stroked his chin. "What if the Menzoberranyr prove more resilient than you expect, and defeat the duergar instead? Or Kaanyr Vhok proves unfaithful? It might have been better to lure a smaller force into your trap, Anointed Blade. Your first play is too risky."



"If I had presented the duergar as less of a threat, the matron mothers would have been sorely tempted to ignore them altogether. As matters stand, one of three results may come of the battle between Gracklstugh and Menzoberranzan. The duergar might win, it could be in effect a draw, or the drow could prevail. We're doing what we can to deliver Menzoberranzan's army into the crown prince's hands, but even if he fails to destroy the Lolthites outright, there is an excellent chance the duergar will badly maul the Menzoberranyr - in which case, the duergar may weaken our enemies so badly we can overthrow them ourselves. At the worst, if Gracklstugh is routed, well. . . other than the failure of our plan, we lose little."



"Remember, Patron Xorthaul, our strategy against Menzoberranzan is a strategy of attrition," Mauzzkyl said. "The city is too strong to take in one stroke, so we must bleed it to death with a dozen cuts."



"Menzoberranzan's wizards will certainly divine the existence of such a great army so close to their city," Patron Tomphael, himself a wizard, observed. "The matron mothers will recall their force, or reverse your ambush on the duergar instead."



"Our allies in Agrach Dyrr have helped us with this," said Nimor. "Gromph Baenre has vanished. The Masters of Sorcere are quite naturally testing each other's resolve and resources to determine who shall be the next archmage."



"There are many powerful wizards serving thecity's Houses, Nimor," Tomphael replied. "They will not be distracted by an opportunity at Sorcere."



Nimor permitted himself a rueful nod and said, "True, but as we well know, House wizards tend to spend a lot of their time spying out the weaknesses of other Houses. So far, no one seems to have come for-ward to dispute the version of events I advanced to the Council."



"It would be no more than the better part of wisdom to set your plans with the assumption that your plots will be unmasked at the most incon-venient time possible," Patron Xorthaul said. "What will you do if some raw apprentice in some second-rate House happens to scry the approach of the crown prince's army, and the matron mothers recall theirs? They might stand a siege forever."



"Now you understand," Nimor said patiently, "why I went so far as to approach Agrach Dyrr with an open offer of alliance, and decided to risk bringing Kaanyr Vhok into the equation. We need the Fifth House against that very possibility, to admit Horgar's army - or theScoured Legion - into the city, if it comes to that."



Mauzzkyl folded his arms and lowered his fiery gaze.



"In either case, we shall have them," the revered grandfather said, a smile of dark satisfaction twisting his features. "If Kaanyr Vhok betrays you, you still have Agrach Dyrr. If Agrach Dyrr betrays you, you have the cam-bion. I presume that Dyrr and Vhok know nothing of each other?"



Nimor said, "I thought it best to reserve at least one surprise against each of my ostensible allies, Revered Grandfather. It seemed wise to me to make certain that I would have as many options as possible, for as long as possible, in developing the attack on the city."



"Excellent. What assistance might we provide you?"



The Anointed Blade considered the question. He was sorely tempted to say none at all, and claim all the glory of the victory to come, but the time was coming when his ability to move from place to place would be limited by the role he played at the head of Menzoberranzan's army, and he needed help in handling Kaanyr Vhok. Besides, if the Sceptered One proved unfaithful, he could blame whomever had been sent to the warlord.



"We should gather our strength and be ready to strike when our allies play their part in reducing Menzoberranzan's defenses," he said.



"We do not have any great force at arms, Anointed Blade," Mauzzkyl said. "I will not commit the Jaezred Chaulssin to a pitched battle."



"I understand, Revered Grandfather." If they gathered all their strength in one place, the secret House would hardly amount to the num-bers of a single minor House of Menzoberranzan - though the Jaezred Chaulssin could have an impact out of all proportion to their numbers. "I need one of my brothers to go to Kaanyr Vhok's Scoured Legion and steer the warlord in the right direction. My responsibilities in Menzoberran-zan's army and my efforts to guide Horgar Steelshadow and the renegade Agrach Dyrr do not permit me sufficient time to look after Kaanyr Vhok as well as I would like."



Mauzzkyl nodded and said, "Very well. Zammzt, there is nothing left for you to do at Ched Nasad. I want you to go to Kaanyr Vhok and serve as our voice in his camp. Do whatever you must in order to keep his army aligned against Menzoberranzan, but you will answer to Nimor."



The plain-faced assassin replied, "Of course, Revered Grandfather."



He glanced over at Nimor, but did not allow his thoughts to show on his face.



"I approached the warlord through his consort, Aliisza," Nimor told Zammzt. "She is an alu-fiend and a sorceress of no small skill. She knows that I represent a society or order of some kind, so she should not be sur-prised to receive another of us."



Though I doubt she'll extend you the same welcome she gave to me, he told himself.



"When do you expect the Menzoberranyr to first encounter Horgar's army?" Mauzzkyl asked.



"Four days, I think."



"Do what you can to sow dissent and uncertainty, Anointed Blade," Mauzzkyl said. "The time for subterfuge and stealth is ending. The Jaezred Chaulssin leave the shadows and take the field. Destroy the matron mothers' army and bring your duergar allies to Menzoberranzan as quickly as possible. We will meet you there, and we will see if the Masked Lord favors us or not."



Nimor bowed again, then turned and strode away from the assembled patron fathers. Something would go amiss in his plan - something had to. One could not create such an elaborate collision of so many disparate forces without some of the components falling by the wayside. As best he could tell,though, the Jaezred Chaulssin were prepared. The longer he could keep secret the deadly maneuverings of his allies and his House, the better his chances for success.



Perhaps I will encourage Andzrel to appoint me chief of the expedition's scouts, Nimor thought. No need to trouble the Baenre with irrelevant reports of armies on the move, after all.



The dark elves of House Jaelre proved to be suspicious and ungracious hosts. Ryld had expected to be shown into an audience room of some kind, where they would meet a clan matriarch and bribe, threaten, or per-suade her into allowing them to consult with the priest Tzirik. However, nothing like that occurred. Since they refused to surrender their weapons, the Jaelre drow ushered the company into a small, disused guardroom that had once warded the ruined castle's main gate.



"You will wait here until Tzirik chooses to receive you," the female commanding the watch told them. "If you attempt to leave this room, we will take that as a sign of hostile intent and fall on you at once."



"We are a high embassy from a powerful city," Quenthel said in re-sponse. "You mistreat us at your peril."



"You are slaves of the Spider Queen, and most likely spies and sabo-teurs," the captain replied. "Lolth holds no sway here, spider-kissing bitch."



She closed and locked the iron door before Quenthel could summon a suitable retort, though the fierce agitation of her snake-headed whip cer-tainly hinted at the depths of her anger.



"Do we intend to remain confined here, like rabble locked up in a debtors' gaol?" Jeggred snarled. "I have half a mind to - "



"Not yet, Jeggred," Quenthel countered.



She paced back and forth angrily, her mouth working in silent fury. Pure ire fueled Quenthel with relentless energy. Confinement in a small room with her pent-up anger would be difficult for all of them.



Danifae watched her, then restrained Quenthel's agitated pacing with a gentle hand on the Baenre's arm.



"What is it, slave?" the priestess snapped.



"Your zeal is admirable, Mistress," Danifae said, "but, please, we must be patient now." She shielded her hands as best she could and added,Re-member, we may be watched.



"She has a point, dear Quenthel," Pharaun said. "You don't want to start a fight against the very people we came to see. Your hard words and proud manner play better at Arach-Tinilith than on another god's doorstep."



Quenthel turned a look of such icy hatred on the wizard that Danifae put up a hand to steady her. Danifae herself shot Pharaun a venomous look, contempt twisting her beautiful features.



"Silence, Pharaun," the battle captive snapped. "Your smug arrogance and endless baiting play better at Sorcere. At least the Mistress has the strength of her convictions - all you have is cynicism."



Danifae studied Quenthel's face and offered her a shy smile.



"Save your anger for later, Mistress," the battle captive said softly. "Surely the goddess will be more pleased if you exact an accounting of the faithless after you've wrung the usefulness from them than if you destroy the tools required to serve her."



Quenthel allowed herself to relax. She drew a deep breath, and took a seat at a barren wood table on which a flagon of water stood.



"Fine, then," Quenthel breathed. "We will see what happens."



That, Ryld guessed, was about as close as Quenthel would ever come to admitting that she had been wrong about something. With little else to do, the company settled down to endure whatever wait the Jaelre chose to test them with.



Long hours passed. The night faded into an overcast morning, which then gave way to a gray, rain-soaked afternoon.



Studying what portions of the old castle he could see from the slitlike windows, Ryld came to the conclusion that Minauthkeep was not half so ruined as it first appeared. The Jaelre had cleverly repaired much of the an-cient structure while leaving the outward appearance mostly unchanged.



Eventually, as the wait grew interminable, the weapons master settled back against the wall of the chamber and allowed himself to drift off into a light trance, Splitter bared across his lap in case he needed it quickly.



He was roused from Reverie near nightfall, when the iron door of the chamber abruptly boomed with three forceful knocks. The lock turned, and the watch captain of the previous night entered, with several more Jaelre guards behind her.



"You are summoned before High Priest Tzirik," she said. "You are to disarm yourselves here. The wizard must consent to have his thumbs bound together, and the draegloth will be manacled."



"I will not," Jeggred snapped. "We're not your prisoners, to be dragged before your master in chains. Why should we do for you what you lack the strength to make us do?"



"You came to us, half-breed," the captain said.



"Mistress?" Danifae whispered.



Without taking her eyes from the captain's face, Quenthel drew out her whip. Weighing it in one hand, she seemed to struggle with herself, then she tossed it to the corner of the chamber.



"Yngoth, watch over our arms,"she said to one of the hissing vipers. "Strike dead any who would tamper with our belongings in our absence. Jeggred, you will permit yourself to be bound. Pharaun, you as well."



Ryld sighed and set Splitter on the floor, kicking the blade to within striking distance of Quenthel's vipers. Valas discarded his kukris as well. With a grimace of distaste, Pharaun stepped up and held out his hands. A Jaelre drow tied his thumbs together with stout cord, a measure that would make it very difficult for the mage to make the complex gestures and passes needed for many of his spells. Jeggred's large upper arms, the long ones with the wicked claws, were chained together, but his smaller humanoid arms were left free.



The draegloth rumbled.



"Be still, nephew," Quenthel said, then she turned to the Jaelre cap-tain. "Take us to the priest."



The watch captain nodded to her soldiers, who formed up in a tight phalanx around the Menzoberranyr, swords drawn. They marched the com-pany out of the guardroom and into the depths of the keep. The company was shown into a large hall or gallery appointed as a shrine to Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord. Ryld studied the temple with some interest. He'd never set foot in a place dedicated to any deity but Lolth. At the upper end of the hall, across from the entrance, a great half-mask the size of a tower shield hung from the wall, overlooking the shrine. The symbol was made of beaten copper, with two black disks to mark the eyes.



Two males waited for them. The first was young, dressed in black leather armor that showed off a well-muscled chest. A curved kukri was thrust through his belt, and a small green asp was coiled around his arm. His left leg was encased in an awkward harness of iron and leather, and he moved stiffly. The second was unusually short and stocky, with brawny shoulders and a bald pate, dressed in a breastplate of black mithral and masked with a ceremonial veil of black silk.



"The visitors, my lords," the watch captain said.



The veiled priest studied them. His expression was virtually unread-able behind the veil.



"Valas Hune, as I live and breathe," he said at last. "Well, this is a sur-prise. I haven't seen you in more than fifty years." He hesitated a moment longer, then strode forward boldly and clapped the Bregan D'aerthe scout on the shoulders. "It has been too long, old friend. How are things with you?"



"Tzirik," Valas said. He smiled back, his dour face stretching with unaccustomed enjoyment, and he took the priest's hand in a firm grip. He glanced around the chamber. "I see you have finally achieved the Return you were always talking about. As far as how things go with me, well, that will take some explaining."



Tzirik studied the company carefully.



"A Master of Sorcere," the priest said, "and another of Melee-Magthere."



"Master Pharaun Mizzrym, an accomplished wizard," Valas replied, "and Master Ryld Argith, a weapons master of no small skill."



"Gentlemen, if Valas vouches for you, you are welcome guests in Minauthkeep," the priest said. When he looked at the others, his face hardened, geniality fading into sharp appraisal.



"The draegloth is Jeggred," Valas said, "a scion of House Baenre. The lesser priestess is Danifae Yauntyrr, a highborn lady of Eryndlyn, late a battle captive. The leader of our company is - "



"High Priestess Quenthel Baenre," Quenthel interrupted, "Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Tier Breche, First Sister of House Baenre of Menzoberranzan."



"Ah," Tzirik said. "We rarely have dealings with those of your persua-sion, let alone a priestess possessed of so many impressive titles."



"You will find me possessed of more than titles, priest," Quenthel replied.



Tzirik's face went cold.



"Lolth may rule in your buried cities," he said, "but here in the night of the surface world, Vhaeraun is the master." He turned and gestured to the crippled male behind him. "In the interest of common courtesy, may I present my cousin, Jezz of House Jaelre."



The younger male limped forward.



"You are a long way from home, Menzoberranyr," he said in a rasping voice. "That, more than anything, spared you. The spider-kissers we feud with come upfrom Maerimydra, a few miles south of here, but we have not met folk from Menzoberranzan in quite some time."



He laughed softly, finding humor in some private joke. Tzirik smiled as well, but the smile did not reach his eyes.



"Jezz refers to the ironic fact that we are Menzoberranyr ourselves, or at least were, once upon a time. Almost five hundred years ago the wise and beneficent Matron Baenre ordered our House destroyed for the twin perversions of being governed by males and following the Masked Lord. Many of my kin died screaming in the dungeons of Castle Baenre. Of those who escaped, many more died in the long, hard years of exile in the lonely places of the Underdark. You must understand how ironic it is for a Baenre daughter to place herself in our power. If nothing else comes of whatever business you bring before me, Valas, you will have my gratitude for this." He moved closer and folded his powerful arms. "So, why do you seek me, Baenre?"



Quenthel kept her face impassive.



"We need you to commune with Vhaeraun," she said, "and ask your god a few questions on our behalf. We are willing to pay and pay well for your trouble."



Tzirik's eyebrows rose.



"Really? And why would Vhaeraun want me to do this for you?"



"You will, of course, discover what it is that brings us here, and what your god knows of it."



"I could torture you for a few years and discover as much," the priest said. "Or, for that matter, having agreed to ask the Masked Lord your questions, I might not see fit to share the answers."



"True, perhaps," Quenthel said, "though I think you might find thatwe are far from helpless, even with our weapons back in our chambers. Before we make a trial of that, let us see if we can reach an agreement of sorts."



"She's bluffing," Jezz remarked. "Why deal with these venomous crea-tures? Spare your friend if you like, but slay the priestesses at once."



"Patience, young Jezz. There is always time for that later," Tzirik said. He paced away, then looked back to Quenthel. "What is it you wish to learn?"



Quenthel squared her shoulders and met the priest's gaze evenly.



"We wish to know what has become of Lolth," she said. "The goddess refuses us our spells, and has done so for many months now. Since we do not have access to the magic she normally grants us, we have no way to ask her ourselves."



"Your fickle goddess is testing you," Tzirik said with a laugh. "She's withholding your spells simply to see how long you remain loyal."



"So we thought at first," Quenthel said, "but it has been nearly four months now, and we can only conclude that it is her will that we should seek the answer for ourselves."



"Why ask a priest of Vhaeraun?" Jezz asked. "Surely the priestesses of a neighboring city could be persuaded to intervene on your behalf."



"They have lost contact with the goddess, too," Danifae answered. "I came from Ched Nasad, where we had experienced the same silence as the priestesses of Menzoberranzan. We have reason to believe that all the drow cities throughout the Underdark are in the same situation. Lolth is speak-ing to no one, drow and lesser races alike."



"That would explain the retreat of Maerimydra," Jezz said quietly to Tzirik. "If their priestesses are powerless, they might be too busy with their own difficulties to cause any trouble for us."



"The facts would seem to fit," Tzirik replied. He turned his attention to Pharaun. "What of your vaunted wizards? Could they not summon up demons and devils aplenty and question them as to your goddess's myste-rious silence, or use divination spells of their own?"



"We found that the infernal powers knew little more than we did," Pha-raun said. "It seems as if Lolth has barred contact with the neighboring layers of the Abyss, sealingthe borders of her realm against other powers." He raised his thumb-bound hands and made a small self-deprecatory gesture. "That is what Isurmised from the reports of my colleagues investigating the matter, at any length. I did not do so personally, as the archmage has instructed me not to conjure such beings on pain of a particularly grotesque death."



Tzirik studied the Menzoberranyr, then paced over to consult with Jezz. The two Jaelre spoke together quietly, while the Menzoberranyr waited. Ryld surreptitiously studied the guards nearby, calculating which of them he could disarm in order to provide himselfwith a weapon if it came to that. He still wore his dwarvenbreastplate, and felt reasonably confident that he could wrest a halberd away from one of the guards before he was run through - though it might be a better move to use his belt knife to sever Pharaun's bonds as the first step in any kind of fight.



He was interrupted in his planning when Tzirik and Jezz returned to the company.



"I will intercede with Vhaeraun on your behalf," the high priest of the Jaelre said, "not least because I, too, would like to know what Lolth is up to. However, I think it is fair to expect a service for a service, and as you have approached me and not the other way around, I will seek Vhaeraun's guidance only after you have completed your task."



"Fine," grated Quenthel. "What do you wish us to do?"



"Three days west of here lie the ruins of Myth Drannor, once the cap-ital of the old surface elf realm of Cormanthyr," Tzirik said. "During the course of our exploration of the ruins, we have come to suspect that a book containing secret and powerful lore - the Geildirion of Cimbar - is buried in the secret library of a ruined wizard's tower. We have need of the knowledge that is in the Geildirion, for it will help us to master the ancient magical wards our long-lost surface cousins raised about their realm. Unfortunately, demons, devils, and fiends of all kinds plague the city's ruins, and the tower itself is home to an unusually powerful beholder mage. We have sent two expeditions to the tower, but the beholder de-stroyed or drove off our scouts with ease. I have no wish to throw away the lives of more of my charges, but I would dearly like to possess that book. Since you seem to be the best Menzoberranzan has to offer, perhaps you can succeed where our warriors have so far failed. Bring me the Geildirion, and I will seek Vhaeraun's insight regarding Lolth's silence."



"Done," Quenthel replied. "Provide us a guide to this place, and we will get your book for you."



Jezz laughed softly and said, "You might not be so quick to agree, if you knew how dangerous the beholder really is. You will earn our aid, that is for certain."