“You have not ventured here before, Mistress Melarn?” said Tzirik from somewhere behind her.
Halisstra craned her neck back to look for him, but in response the entire vista seemed to revolve and spin in one quick, smooth motion, bringing into her view the floating forms of her companions. The Vhaeraunite priest stood—no, that was not right, floated was better—a dozen yards from her, his armor as sharp as the edge of a knife, his cloak rippling softly in a breeze Halisstra could not feel. He spoke softly, yet his voice carried with a marvelous clarity and precision that made it seem that he stood within arm’s reach.
“I would have expected a priestess of your stature to be familiar with the astral realm,” the priest added.
“I know something of what to expect, but I have never had the occasion to journey to other planes,” she replied. “My knowledge of this place is only . . . theoretical.”
She noted that each of her comrades seemed every bit as sharply defined, as tangible and real, as Tzirik himself. From some spot she could not easily perceive—somewhere in the middle of their backs, or perhaps the napes of their necks—sprang a slender, gleaming tendon of silver light.
Halisstra reached around behind her head and felt her own cord. The warm, pulsing artery vibrated with energy, and when her fingers brushed it, a powerful jolt quivered through her torso as if she’d just plucked the heartstring of her own soul. She jerked her hand back, and resolved not to try to touch her cord again.
“Your silver cord,” Tzirik explained. “A nigh indestructible bond that ties your soul to its rightful home: your body, back in Minauthkeep.” The priest offered a cruel smile. “You will want to be careful of it. There are few things that can part an astral traveler’s cord, but if something did, that traveler would be destroyed in an instant.”
Halisstra watched as Ryld felt for his own cord and touched it. His eyes widened and he snatched his hand back just as swiftly as she had withdrawn her own.
“How long do these things get?” the weapons master asked.
“They are infinite, Master Argith,” Tzirik said. “Don’t worry, they fade to intangibility within a foot or two of your skin, so you won’t be tripping over your own cord. In fact, it has the habit of keeping itself out of your way, quite without a thought on your part.”
Halisstra glanced around the company, watching as the Menzoberranyr struggled to adjust themselves to their new environment. Ryld and Valas flailed their limbs slowly as if trying to tread water. Quenthel held herself as stiff as a blade, her limbs locked tight to her sides, while Danifae drifted languidly, her long white hair streaming behind her. Pharaun merely waited, his eyes sparkling with dark amusement as he watched the efforts of his companions. Tzirik glanced around, studying their surroundings, and nodded.
“This is something of a timeless place,” he said, “but time does pass here, so I suppose we should begin our journey. Follow me, and stay close. You may think you can see forever from here, but things have a way of vanishing in the mists.”
He glided off without moving, arms folded, his cloak whipping silently behind him.
Follow him how? Halisstra wondered, watching the priest go, but somehow in conceiving the desire to keep the priest close by, she found herself leaping forward with such alacrity that her next impulse was to yelp out loud, if only to herself, “Stop!”
And she did, so quickly and with so perfect an end to motion that her mind told her she must lurch forward, as if she had tried to stop too suddenly from a run. She managed to throw herself into a violent circle before she stopped completely. Fortunately, she was not the only one having trouble.
Danifae scowled prettily as she tried to make herself go anywhere at all, and Ryld and Valas had somehow collided with each other and clung together, unwilling to trust themselves to the void again.
“Oh, in the name of the goddess!” Quenthel growled, watching them. “Simply clear your minds and think of where you want to go.”
“With all due respect, Mistress, where is it that we should desire to go?” Valas asked as he disentangled himself from Ryld.
“Concentrate on following the priest,” the Baenre replied. “He cast the spell, so he will be able to find the portal leading into the Demonweb Pits. It may take many hours, but you will find that time passes strangely here.”
With that, Quenthel moved off in pursuit of Tzirik.
Halisstra closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and concentrated on trailing the priest at a comfortable distance. She closed up quickly and smoothly, and this time she didn’t allow herself to react in panic. Soon enough the rest of the company sailed along beside her, keeping together easily as they became more and more accustomed to the strangeness of the Astral Plane. Halisstra indulged herself by experimenting with her mode of locomotion, at first orienting herself horizontally so that she felt like she flew like a bird through the pearly void, then trying to face her direction of travel so that she felt as if she was walking swiftly without moving her legs.
As it turned out, it didn’t really matter what she did with her body as long as her mind remained focused on staying near her companions, and the true immateriality of the astral sea began to seep into her understanding. She was only a spirit, weightless, perfect, yet she was in a place where spirits became tangible. Somewhere beyond the endless pearly expanse that met her eye lay the realms of the gods, a thousand infinite concepts of existence where the divine beings who ruled over the fate of all Faerûn—of all the worlds, for that matter—had their abodes. She could spend a hundred drow lifetimes exploring the domains that touched on the astral sea, and not even come close to seeing them all.
The thought made her feel small, almost insignificant, and she pushed it from her mind. Lolth had not called her to the Demonweb Pits for her to be overawed by the silver void of the Astral Plane. She had called Halisstra and the others to stand before her, capable and confident, to profess their faith and adoration. For what other purpose could the goddess have done all that she had done by withdrawing her power from her faithful, by permitting the fall of Ched Nasad, by causing the endless toils and tribulations that had assailed the First Daughter of House Melarn?
There is a purpose, Halisstra told herself, a purpose that will be made clear to me soon, if I keep my faith strong and do not falter.
The Queen of the Demonweb Pits has brought us this far. She will bring us a little farther.
19
How long it took them to cross the Astral Plane, Halisstra could not begin to say. She’d never realized before the extent to which the routine processes of one’s body measured the days. Her astral form didn’t grow tired or hungry, and didn’t know thirst or discomfort of any sort. Without the minor actions of looking after the body’s needs—taking a sip from a waterskin when thirsty, halting to take a meal during their day’s march, or even stopping to sink deep into Reverie and while away the bright hours of daylight—time simply lost its doleful count.
From time to time they caught glimpses of phenomena other than the endless pearly clouds and twisting gray vortices that streaked the surrounding sky. Strange bits of matter drifted through the astral sea. On several occasions they passed boulders or hillocks of rock and dirt that hovered in space like miniature worlds, some nearly the size of mountains, others only a few yards across. Weird, empty ruins graced the larger of them, the abodes of astral sojourners or long gone residents. The strangest things they came across were whirling pools of color slowly revolving in the astral medium. The hues ranged from bright, shining silver to blackest midnight shot with angry purple streaks.
“Don’t stray too close to any of the color pools,” Tzirik had said. “If you enter one you will be ejected into a different plane of existence, and I have no desire to wander into strange worlds looking for a careless traveling companion.”