Condemnation (35 page)

In either case, she would at least have an opportunity to spy out some of the town and the surrounding forest, which might come in useful if a chance to escape came up later—and there was always the chance of that.

“Very well,” she said.

Seyll unlocked Halisstra’s manacles, and helped the Melarn priestess to don the winter clothing and cloak she’d brought. She knotted a strong silver cord around Halisstra’s hands, and the small party left the palace dungeons and ascended into a cold, rain-spattered night.

Elventree was not really a town, nor an outpost, nor an encampment, but something in between. Ruined walls of white stone crisscrossed the place, hinting at the old ramparts and broad squares of a good-sized surface town, but most were crumbling with age. Many of the original buildings were nothing more than empty shells, but a number of them seemed to have been appropriated by the town’s current residents, who had covered the old buildings with wooden latticework or permanent tents in order to turn the proud old structures into humble, semi-permanent woodsmen’s homes. Great gnarled trees rose from the cracked pavement of ancient courtyards, and many structures actually stood well off the ground in their mighty branches, linked by swaying catwalks of silver rope and white planks. A handful of the town’s original buildings still stood more or less intact.

Halisstra saw that she had been imprisoned beneath an old watch-tower. Across the square an elegant palace rose through the trees, illuminated by hundreds of soft lanterns. Lord Dessaer’s palace, she surmised. The sound of distant song and laughter drifted through the air.

The priestesses of Eilistraee led Halisstra along an old boulevard that quickly carried them out of the town and into the dark, rainy forest. They marched for quite some time, the silence of the night broken only by soft footfalls on the forest floor and the constant pattering of the rain—which did indeed slacken noticeably as they went on, giving way to a partial overcast through which stars on occasion appeared.

Halisstra had had about all of the World Above that she cared to endure, but she occupied herself by quietly working at the knots of the rope binding her hands while keeping an eye on her captors, hoping they would relax their vigilance. Xarra, the drow, walked in front, while Feliane marched at the rear. Seyll stayed close by Halisstra at all times, either a little before her or a little behind.

“Where are you taking me?” Halisstra asked as the walk dragged on.

“A place we call the Dancing Stone,” Seyll answered. “It is sacred to Eilistraee.”

“The forest looks all alike to me,” said Halisstra. “How can you tell one part of it from another?”

“We know this trail well,” Seyll replied. “In fact, we’re not all that far from where we first encountered you and your companions. They abandoned you, and haven’t been seen since that night.”

Halisstra took a sip from her own flask to hide the smile that flitted across her features. The apostate priestess had made a mistake, and she didn’t even realize it. If they weren’t far from where she’d been captured, it stood to reason that she could follow the directions of Pharaun’s vision from there and have a reasonable chance of locating the Jaelre drow. Regardless of what else she accomplished that night, it had already been worth her while.

They came to a loud, rushing creek, its bed strewn with large boulders. Xarra crossed first, leaping lightly from rock to rock and continuing into the woods on the far side, keeping watch for any danger. Seyll followed, a few steps ahead of Halisstra, her eyes on the uncertain footing beneath her. Halisstra started to follow. The rushing water was loud, even though the creek was shallow and not at all wide. The moon slipped behind the clouds, momentarily darkening the forest floor.

Halisstra scented opportunity.

She quickly hopped two rocks into the stream and halted, as if studying her next step. Instead she pitched her voice low and began a bae’qeshel song, the sound covered by the noisy creek. Seyll continued to pick her way ahead, and behind Halisstra the surface elf Feliane stopped, waiting for her to cross.

It was difficult with her hands bound, even as loosely as they were, but the power of the enchantment was in Halisstra’s voice, not her hands. Even as Feliane lost patience and hopped forward to aid her, Halisstra turned around and fixed her red eyes on the pale girl’s face.

“Angardh xorr feleal,” she hissed. “Dear Feliane, would you draw your sword and free me of these troublesome bonds? I am afraid I will fall.”

The charm ensnared the young priestess easily. With a blank expression, she drew her blade.

“Of course,” the elf murmured vacantly.

She drew the razor edge carefully through the cords on Halisstra’s wrists. Halisstra glanced over her shoulder at Seyll and carefully moved to shield Feliane’s work with her body.

“What’s wrong?” Seyll called.

“Don’t answer,” Halisstra whispered to the girl. She kept her hands together and turned carefully to face the priestess. “A moment!” she called. “I’m not certain of this step with my hands bound. The next rock seems slippery.

Seyll glanced at the creek, then retraced her steps, leaping one rock to the next as she came back toward Halisstra and Feliane. Halisstra twisted to look back at Feliane, standing behind her with her sword drawn.

“Dear Feliane,” she said sweetly, “may I borrow your sword for a moment?”

The girl frowned slightly, perhaps aware somewhere in the depths of her enchantment-fogged mind that something was not right, but she extended the sword’s hilt to Halisstra. Again concealing the movement with her body, Halisstra took the blade in her hand.

“Here,” said Seyll. The Eilistraee priestess reached the next boulder and set her feet carefully, extending a hand. “Take my arm, and I will steady you.”

Halisstra spun with the quickness of a cat and buried Feliane’s sword beneath Seyll’s outstretched arm. The priestess gasped in cold shock and crumpled at once, slipping from her perch to fall awkwardly in the icy stream. She slumped down the moss-covered boulder and came to rest leaning against the stone, sitting waist deep in the rushing water.

Halisstra withdrew the sword and turned back to Feliane, who stared at her with dumb amazement.

“Seyll’s been hurt, girl,” Halisstra snapped. “Quick, run back to Elventree and fetch help! Go!”

The pale elf maiden managed only one jerky nod before she whirled and raced off. Halisstra leaped over Seyll’s rock and dashed quickly over the path. Xarra, the younger drow priestess, emerged suddenly from the wooded banks ahead of her, returning to find out what had delayed the others. To her credit, Xarra took in the situation with a single glance. She raised her crossbow and took quick aim.

Halisstra threw herself aside, twisting in midair as she sprang. Xarra’s quarrel hissed by her torso so closely she felt it tug at her coat as it flew past.

“You missed your shot, girl,” Halisstra snarled.

Xarra dropped her crossbow and reached for her sword. She died before the blade had cleared her scabbard, spitted through the throat. Halisstra straightened and looked down at the body, her heart pounding. The stream sang loudly beside her, and the air smelled of rain and wet leaves.

What next? she wondered.

Her prized mail, mace, and crossbow were in Lord Dessaer’s keeping in Elventree, and as much as she wanted to recover her possessions, it didn’t seem likely that she would be able to without the assistance of the Menzoberranyr. Her best move would be to arm herself as well as she could, take what provisions she could from Seyll and Xarra, and strike out in search of the Jaelre. With luck she would find them before Dessaer’s rangers found her.

Halisstra thrust the sword through her belt and ventured back out into the stream to see if Seyll was carrying anything of use. She splashed down into the cold stream beside the Eilistraee priestess, gathered her up beneath the arms, and hoisted her back onto the stone slab in order to get a better look at her gear. The armor was clearly magical, as was the shield slung over Seyll’s shoulder and the sword at her belt. Halisstra began unfastening the mail, intending to strip it from Seyll’s body.

Seyll’s eyes fluttered, and she groaned, “Halisstra. …”

Halisstra recoiled, startled above all else, and somewhat repulsed to find that she was stripping the corpse of someone who was not quite dead yet. She glanced down at the stone and studied a coursing rivulet of blood streaming from Seyll’s side to the foaming water of the creek. The priestess’s breath sounded wet and shallow, and bright flecks of blood stained her lips.

“I hope you will forgive me, Seyll, but I have need of your arms and armor, and you will be dead in a very short time,” Halisstra remarked. “I have decided to decline your gracious invitation to join your observances tonight, as I have pressing business elsewhere in the forest.”

“The … others?” Seyll gasped.

“Xarra had the decency to die swiftly and without awkward conversation. The surface girl I charmed and sent running off into the forest.”

Halisstra unbuckled Seyll’s sword belt and dragged it loose, setting it well out of the dying drow’s reach. She set to work on the armor fastenings.

“While I admire your determination to save me from myself, Seyll, I can’t believe you didn’t see this as a likely outcome of your attempt to convert me.”

“A risk … we are all … prepared to take,” Seyll managed. “No one is beyond redemption.”

She mumbled something more and reached up to interfere with Halisstra’s work, but the Melarn priestess simply batted her hands away.

“A foolish risk, then. Lolth has punished your faithlessness through my hand, apostate,” Halisstra said. She pulled off Seyll’s boots and undid the leggings of her mail. “Tell me, was it worth it, to follow the path that led you to a cold and pointless death here in this miserable forest?”

To Halisstra’s surprise, Seyll smiled, finding some last reservoir of strength.

“Worth it? Upon … my soul, yes.” She laid her head back and gazed up into Halisstra’s face. “I… have hope for you still,” she whispered. “Do not… concern yourself… with me. I … have been … redeemed.”

Her eyes closed for the final time, and the wet sound of her breathing halted.

Halisstra paused in her work. She had expected anger, resentment, perhaps even fear or scorn, but forgiveness? What power did the Dark Maiden hold over her worshipers that they could die with a blessing for their enemies on their lips?

Seyll turned away from the Spider Queen, she told herself, and through me the Spider Queen exacted her vengeance. Yet Seyll died with calm assurance, as if she had escaped Lolth finally and completely with the ending of her life.

“The Spider Queen take your soul,” she said to the dead priestess, but somehow she doubted that Lolth would.

“A swift march is our surest path to victory,” Andzrel Baenre said, addressing the assembled priestesses.

Nimor stood to one side and watched the Baenre weapons master, one of only a handful of males invited to take counsel with the assembled females. All of the great Houses, and no less than sixteen of the minor ones, were represented in the hastily mustered Army of the Black Spider, named for the banners under which they marched. Nearly thirty high priestesses—at least one from almost every House, and in some cases, several high priestesses from the same House—filled the great command pavilion provided by the Baenre contingent, watching Andzrel like predatory cats while reclining, sitting, or standing as rank and opportunity dictated. Nimor and the other few males stood, of course. No mere male would be seated while a high priestess remained standing.

“We lead some four thousand drow soldiers and twenty-five hundred slave soldiers into battle. By all reports it would seem that we are evenly matched with the duergar army that marches up from the south, but we do not intend to meet the duergar in a fair fight, of course.” The word “fair” sent a wave of chuckles echoing through the tent. Andzrel used a slender baton to direct their attention to a large map inked on rothe-vellum. “We can stop a force significantly stronger than our own by picking the right ground to fight for. The place we will halt the duergar advance is here, at the Pillars of Woe.”

“If I decide that your plan has merit, you mean,” drawled Mez’Barris Armgo of House Barrison Del’Armgo. “Triel Baenre may trust in your judgment, but I intend to think for myself, boy.”

A tall, powerful female, the matron mother of the Second House was the ranking priestess present and nominally in command of the entire expedition. Each of the Houses had contributed some number of its priestesses to command their contingents in battle, ranging from unblooded acolytes to first daughters and matron mothers. Weapons masters such as Andzrel and males—including Nimor in his role as Zhayemd Dyrr—commanded warbands, companies, and cavalry squadrons, attending to the endless details of organizing the army of Menzoberranzan.

“My cousin presents House Baenre’s views, Matron Mez’Barris,” Zal’therra Baenre rasped. “Matron Triel endorses the weapons master’s battle plan.”

Foremost of Triel Baenre’s cousins, Zal’therra looked nothing like the petite Matron Mother of House Baenre. She was tall and broadly built in the shoulders, a strapping female with a remarkable amount of physical fortitude and a coarse, intimidating manner. She and Mez’Barris were two of a kind in physique, yet the Matron Mother of House Del’Armgo possessed a brilliant, vicious cunning that was nothing more than a sullen streak in the Baenre priestess. Mez’Barris fixed her red eyes on the younger woman, but did not respond.

Andzrel knew better than to speak while the two females sparred. He waited through a moment of silence before he continued the briefing.

“Here is Rhazzt’s Dilemma,” he said, “where Captain Zhayemd of Agrach Dyrr reported the duergar vanguard yesterday morning. It lies about twenty-five miles south of the Pillars of Woe, at the lower end of the canyon. Assuming the worst, we can expect the duergar to storm the outpost and force the entrance by sometime late today, perhaps tomorrow if we’re lucky. Duergar are hearty soldiers and can march all day long, but they’re slow, and their army will be burdened with a long supply train and heavy siege engines. Ascending the gorge will be difficult going. It seems that, in the worst case again, they should reach the Pillars in five days—more likely seven or eight.”