“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Danifae said. “I think Vhaeraun is suggesting that we won’t learn anything more unless we go to the Demonweb Pits ourselves, and beseech the goddess in person.”
Tzirik remained silent and watched the Menzoberranyr. Quenthel paced in a small circle, considering the idea.
“The Spider Queen requires a certain amount of initiative and self-reliance in her priestesses,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith said, “but she also demands obedience. To go before her in her divine abode in the expectation of answers . . . Lolth does not smile on such effrontery.”
Halisstra fell silent, thinking furiously over what Tzirik suggested. Ventures into other planes of existence were not unknown, of course. Pharaun’s spell had carried the company across the Plane of Shadow, after all, and there were many more universes that mortals armed with the right magic could reach, a multitude of heavens and hells, wonders and terrors beyond the confines of the physical world, but the notion of attempting such a journey without Lolth’s explicit invitation terrified Halisstra.
“The penalties for failing to understand the goddess’s will in this matter would be severe indeed,” Halisstra said.
“Have we not just heard the goddess’s will?” Danifae asked. “She led us to this place and this question through her silence, just as surely as if she had placed the commands directly in our hearts. She might be angered if we fail to do this.”
Halisstra was accustomed to a feeling of certainty when it came to interpreting the Spider Queen’s wishes. Before the divine silence had fallen over the priestesses of Lolth, she’d known the rare touch of the goddess’s whispers in her mind. It didn’t happen often, of course—she was only one priestess, and Lolth was served by uncounted thousands—but she knew what it felt like to understand to the depths of her soul what the Spider Queen wished, and how she could accomplish it. Halisstra felt nothing. Lolth’s will, evidently, was that she should figure it out for herself.
Halisstra glanced up, where the bronze mask of Vhaeraun hung over a black altar. The foreignness of the place seemed palpable, a tangible expression of everything she had lost. Instead of standing before the ancient altar in the proud temple of House Melarn, Lolth’s divine certitude thrumming in her very soul as she performed the rites of sacrifice and abasement the Spider Queen demanded, she stood alone, lost, an interloper in the temple of a pretender god, groping blindly for a hint of Lolth’s intentions for her.
She imagined standing before Lolth, her soul naked to her goddess, her eyes blasted by the sight of Lolth’s dark glory, her ears scoured by the sound of the Spider Queen’s sibilant voice. Perhaps it was effrontery to think that Lolth would erase her doubts, supply answers for her questions and a balm for her wounded heart, but Halisstra discovered that she did not care. If Lolth chose to discard her, to punish her, then she would, but then why had she destroyed Ched Nasad and House Melarn if not to bring Halisstra before her and receive her plea?
“I agree with Danifae,” she said at last. “I cannot see what the point of this has been, other than to summon us before the goddess’s throne. We will find our answers in her presence.”
Quenthel nodded slowly and said, “I read her will in the same way, sisters. We must go to the Demonweb Pits.”
Ryld and Valas exchanged worried looks.
“A sojourn to the sixty-sixth layer of the Abyss,” Pharaun observed. “Well, I have dreamed of the place. It would be interesting to see if the reality matches my dream from years ago, though I have to say, I do not relish the thought of meeting Lolth in person. She minced my soul to pieces when I had that vision. It took me months to recover.”
“Perhaps we should return to Menzoberranzan and report what we have learned before we consider anything rash?” Ryld asked, clearly alarmed by the prospect of descending into the infernal realms.
“Now that I understand the goddess’s will, I do not wish to delay in obeying it,” Quenthel said. “Pharaun can use his sending spell to apprise Gromph of our intentions.”
“More to the point,” Valas said, “how exactly does one get to the Demonweb Pits?”
“Worship Lolth all your life,” Quenthel replied, a dark look clouding her eyes,
“then die.”
Halisstra glanced at the high priestess, then looked at the scout and said,
“Were the goddess granting us our spells, we could do it easily enough. Without them, it is not so easy. Pharaun?”
The wizard wrung his hands.
“I will learn the proper spells at the first opportunity,” he said. “I suppose I will have to locate a wizard of some accomplishment who happens to know the right spells, and persuade him to share one with me.”
“That will not be necessary, Master Pharaun,” Tzirik said. He stood up from his seat and descended the dais, powerful and confident. “As it so happens, my god has not seen fit to deprive me of my spells. I have an interest in seeing for myself what transpires in Lolth’s domain. We can leave as soon as tonight, if you like.”
Company by company, the Army of the Black Spider marched proudly into the open cavern behind the Pillars of Woe. It was nothing compared to the vast cavern of Menzoberranzan, or the incomprehensible gulf of the Darklake, but the plain at the head of the gorge was still impressive, an asymmetrical space perhaps half a mile across, its ceiling rising a couple of hundred feet overhead. Innumerable columns supported its roof, and shelflike side caverns twisted away on all sides like highways beckoning in the dark.
Nimor surveyed the place from astride his war-lizard, watching as the great Houses of Menzoberranzan filed into the cavern, forming up in glittering squares beneath a dozen different banners. He’d had more than two days to reconnoiter the various crevices, caves, and passages leading to the open spot. The strategic value of the Pillars of Woe was obvious. Only one road lead south through a torturous canyon, yet several tunnels met where he’d led the drow, each leading into Menzoberranzan’s Dark Dominion.
“A good place for a battle,” he said, nodding to himself with satisfaction. His mount, vicious and stupid beast that it was, still seemed to dully sense the impending conflict. It hissed and pawed at the pebble-strewn floor, its tail twitching in agitation.
Nimor waited near the center of the scout line holding the gap between the Pillars, at the head of a force of almost a hundred Agrach Dyrr riders. Those among his scout force who had any other House allegiance lay sprawled among the rocks and crevices of the gorge below, where Nimor and his men had slaughtered them soon after reaching the Pillars of Woe.
Nimor ached to go riding up to greet Mez’Barris Armgo, Andzrel Baenre, and the rest of the army’s priestesses and commanders. He could see their pavilion, already rising in the center of the cavern.
The difficulty with a betrayal spanning a whole battlefield, he thought, is that one simply can’t be everywhere at once to savor the moment in its entirety. He noted a lean runner-lizard pelting from the command pavilion toward where his company waited.
“It seems I am wanted, lads,” he called to the Agrach Dyrr soldiers waiting behind him. “You know what to do. Wait for the signal. When it comes, hold nothing back.”
Nimor kicked his war-lizard into motion and rode back a short distance to meet the messenger. The rider was a young fellow in the livery of House Baenre—no doubt a favored nephew or cousin, given a relatively safe task in order to gain a blooding without too much risk. He wore no helmet, allowing his hair to stream out behind him like a mane. A bright red banner fluttered from a harness secured to his saddle.
“You are Captain Zhayemd?” he called, slowing his lizard to greet Nimor.
“I am.”
“Your presence is requested at the command pavilion immediately, sir. Matron Del’Armgo wants to know where the gray dwarves are, and how best to dispose the troops.”