“A clone, Lord,” Nisviim observed.
Inthracis pushed aside the memories of his earlier deaths and nodded. The time had come.
Without preamble, he spoke aloud Nisviim’s true name: “Heed me, Gorgalisin.”
Instantly, Nisviim’s body went slack, his eyes vacant. The arcanaloth stood perfectly still, as much an animated corpse as the dergholoths outside the laboratory. At that moment, Inthracis could have commanded Nisviim to do anything and the arcanaloth would have done it without question. Indeed, had he desired it, Inthracis could have used the invocation of Nisviim’s true name to wrack the arcanaloth’s soul or stop his heart.
He did not desire it, of course. A bound, named arcanaloth was too valuable an asset to waste with an amusing death.
Instead, Inthracis said, “In the event that you gain knowledge of my death or if I do not return to Corpsehaven within a fortnight of this day, you will enter this chamber—” and Inthracis telepathically projected into Nisviim’s mind the words to bypass the wards of his laboratory and the secret clone chamber—“and dispel the stasis on this body. Thereafter, you will return to your quarters and forget that any of this ever occurred. Nod if you understand.”
Nisviim nodded.
“Return now to your quarters,” Inthracis said, “and let slip from your consciousness all that has transpired during the last hour. Thereafter, sound the muster and summon the regiment to the Assembly Hall.”
Nisviim nodded, turned, and walked slowly from the chamber.
Inthracis watched him go, content that even if he died in combat with the drow priestesses, or if Vhaeraun betrayed and murdered him, he would live again.
In a thoughtful mood, he studied his hand, compared it to that of the clone in stasis. He wondered for a few heartbeats as to the nature of identity. Was the vivified clone still him? Was Nisviim still Nisviim when commanded by his truename?
For a moment, Inthracis felt as much a construct as Corpsehaven, no more truly alive than the dead who prowled its halls.
Chapter Eight
The storm railed against the temple for hours. Feliane and Uluyara sat in peaceful Reverie throughout, untroubled by the angry scream of the wind and the blistering patter of the smoking, acidic rain. Halisstra allowed them their rest.
Within only a few hours, the storm abated, as though the plane itself was too exhausted to continue its tirade. Even the ever-present wind died down somewhat. Halisstra offered a prayer of thanks to Eilistraee, rose quietly, and exited the makeshift temple.
She stepped forth into the fall of night. Lolth’s tiny sun was just vanishing behind the distant horizon, casting its last spiteful rays of blood-red light over the landscape. The violence below too had abated, and Halisstra took a moment to enjoy the silence—no storm, no keening webs, no whispered, “Yor’thae.”
She felt free of Lolth, entirely free. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, a clean breath.
She turned and saw that the walls of the temple were pitted from the rain, but that the symbol of Eilistraee over the door remained intact, untouched by the storm.
Our goddess is stubborn, Halisstra realized with a smile.
High above her, the river of souls flowed on toward their eternal fate. Looking at them, she felt a pang for Ryld. She hoped he had found at least some peace.
The souls flowed as one toward a range of craggy mountains that soared so high they looked like a wall between worlds. Halisstra noticed that while vortices of power still churned in the sky, there were fewer than before.
She felt as though events were settling down, consolidating before the final resolution.
Unfortunately, she did not know just what the final resolution would be. She pressed the flat of the Crescent Blade against her palm and tried to keep her heart calm.
Feeling small but still determined, she walked to the edge of the tor and looked out and down on the Demonweb Pits.
The sight nauseated her.
Evidence of the destructive violence had survived the storm. Legs, torn carcasses, and pedipalps lay strewn across the broken land for as far as she could see. Ichor stained the rocks, even after the rain. Gorges, holes, and pits marred the surface of the landscape; webs spanned every opening; lakes of acid steamed poison into the air.
Soon, she knew, the wind would return and with it, the keening of the songspider webs and the call to Lolth’s Yor’thae.
Why did Lolth need this Yor’thae, Halisstra wondered? What was the Chosen supposed to do?
With effort, she pushed the questions from her mind. Lolth’s schemes no longer concerned Halisstra.
She touched the symbol of the Dark Maiden embossed on her breastplate and smiled. She felt that she had stepped on a new path, that Lolth’s voice would no longer pull at her soul. She was free of the Spider Queen.
For now, said a stubborn voice from the depths of her brain, but she pushed it back down.
The sun sank behind the mountains and its light faded entirely. Halisstra felt a painful itch between her shoulder blades, as though she had been poked with needles. She turned and saw, through a convenient hole in the clouds, eight red stars rising into the sky. Seven were bright, one dim. Clustered like a spider’s eyes, the stars looked down on Halisstra with palpable malevolence.
She answered their gaze with a defiant stare and a raised blade.
Gromph sat behind the enormous, polished dragonbone desk in his office in Sorcere. A dim green glowball cast the room in viridian and threw long shadows on the walls. Various trinkets, weapons, sculptures, and paintings decorated the office, the magical flotsam Gromph had gathered over the course of his long life.
His magical ring had almost fully regenerated his flesh. The burns were entirely gone; the blisters healed. He tapped his fingertips on the desk—the skin was still slightly tender and tingly—and thought about his next steps.
Though he’d had little time to spare, he had managed a quick meal of spiced mushrooms and cured rothe meat while he and Nauzhror had awaited Prath’s arrival. Gromph had not taken the time to bathe or change his attire, so the stink of filth and smoke still oozed from him. More conscious of the smell in the close confines of his office, he crinkled his nose, spoke the words to a cantrip, and used the minor magical power to mend his clothes and clean himself up, at least a bit.
A knock sounded on the zurkhwood door that opened onto the hallway.
“It is Prath, Archmage,” the apprentice called.
With a flick of his finger, Gromph temporarily suspended the wards on his door.
“Enter,” he commanded, and Prath did.
The wards reengaged when the door shut.
Prath nodded to Nauzhror, who sat in one of the two cushioned chairs opposite Gromph’s desk, and crossed the room.
“Sit, apprentice,” Gromph said and indicated the second chair.
Prath sank into it, saying nothing.
Gromph studied the two wizards, thinking the apprentice overly muscular and fidgety, the Master overly fat and ambitious. Neither yet understood exactly what Gromph proposed to do.
Gromph’s personal office was perhaps the most secure location in the city, the haven from which he could begin in secret his assault on House Agrach Dyrr. A series of wards—far more than those that simply prevented entry through the doorway—sheathed the room to prevent not only physical intrusion but scrying and other magical surveillance. Gromph perceived the wards in the room around him as a tickle on the newly regrown hairs of his arms, a slight charge in the air.
Of all the mages in Menzoberranzan, only the lichdrow would have had a chance to penetrate Gromph’s ward scheme, and only maybe.
Of course, the lichdrow was no more than dust at the moment. Gromph intended to ensure that he stayed that way.