Realm Of The Underdark Part 4

A dangerous light ignited in Zak's eyes. If he were to regain the Dagger and present it to Matron Malice, she would have no choice but to grant him his place as weapons master once more. At that moment, he made a decision. Master her by serving her. Yes, it was the only way.

Zak stood in an abrupt motion. "I have to go." He shot the wizard a nasty grin. "I have a dagger to fetch for my beloved matron mother."

Perhaps it was only the shadows, but a smile seemed to touch the Spider Mage's gray mask. "Farewell, Zaknafein. It would be too dangerous for us to ever speak again. So let me say that it has been an honor to meet you."

At a loss for words, Zak could only nod.

"Use the disk," Jalynfein finished. "It will take you to Narbondel."

Without further words, Zak stepped onto the pale circle, and once again the world blurred around him.

Chapter Seven.

To Serve ...

Jalynfein sat in the silence of his chamber, deep in the heart of Sorcere. He gazed into the crystal, at the glowing pillar, thinking of the peril of which he had not warned the weapons master.

To pretend to serve Lloth was the only hope of finding a chance to undermine her power. But there was a grave danger in it as well. In posing as a slave of the Spider Queen, an elf might one day wake to find he has actually become one. Time was their ally, but it was also their enemy. In time, all things-even a drow of good and true heart-could become corrupted.

"Each day we burn in the Fires of Narbondel, my friend," Jalynfein whispered to the crystal. "For each day brings a chance to do good, and a chance to become evil."

Jalynfein sighed. It was beyond his power now. He waved a hand, and the crystal went dark. The Spider Mage stood. It was time to go serve Lloth.

Chapter Eight.

Relics.

Drizzt knew he shouldn't be here. Briza had charged him with the task of polis.h.i.+ng every doork.n.o.b in the entire house. She hadn't said anything about opening any of them.

The door clicked shut behind him. It was too late.

"Well, since I've already earned a whipping, I might as well look around," the young drow reasoned.

For a moment, Drizzt enjoyed the silence of the small antechamber. At present, all of House Do'Urden was astir with the final preparations for the Festival of the Founding, as well as for the imminent arrival of Matron Baenre and her entourage. Even by Briza's standards, the task she had a.s.signed him was a tedious one. House Do'Urden was not the largest house in Menzoberranzan, but neither was it the smallest. After polis.h.i.+ng a hundred k.n.o.bs, Drizzt had lost count. Then he had come to the very last k.n.o.b, set into a small door at theend of a seldom-trod hallway.

Drizzt wasn't certain what had first piqued his curiosity about the door. All of the other doors in the house were large and grand, graced by intricate carvings of webs and spiders and ancient drow heroes. This portal was so small and drab that he almost hadn't noticed it. Perhaps that was what had caught his interest. He hadn't even really meant to turn the k.n.o.b, but as he buffed it one last time with the cloth, the k.n.o.b had spun, and the door had swung open.

Now Drizzt gazed around the small chamber. After a moment he let out a sigh of disappointment. The room was empty, save for a few broken chairs and some rotting tapestries. Drizzt turned to leave. If he could slip out unnoticed, maybe he wouldn't get a beating after all. He reached for the k.n.o.b.

That was when he noticed it. The walls of the chamber were all speckled with purple mold-except for a small circle in the center of the wall to his left.

Drizzt frowned. That didn't make sense. Mold would grow on any surface that wasn't often disturbed .. .

In a second, he moved from door to wall, gazing at the circle of smooth stone.

There was only one possible reason mold hadn't grown over that patch of wall.

Testing his hunch, he lifted his hand and pressed against the circle.

I hadn't expected this, Drizzt thought as the floor dropped out beneath him.

He tried to levitate but was too slow. With a soft, "Oof!" he landed on a heap of something cold, hard, and clinking.

Coins, he realized after a stunned moment. It was a pile of adamant.i.te coins.

He glanced up at the opening a dozen feet above his head. It would be no problem to levitate out of here. But first. ..

He pulled himself to his feet, shaking off a handful of coins, and gazed around. A gasp escaped his lips. His lavender eyes made out cool shapes wrought from silver, ruby, and pearl. He let his fingers run over ivory cups and jeweled scepters. Excitement rose in his chest. This was the house's secret treasure chamber! If his mother or sisters found him here, they would beat him within a hairbreadth of his life. Had he any sense at all, he would leave at once. But life as a page prince was dull, and everything his eyes found was so fascinating. Besides, he wouldn't stay long.

Drizzt donned an emerald crown and lifted a pale sword, pretending he was a great king of some deep, dark realm. He spun, waving the sword, imagining the terrible creatures of the Underdark he would slay.

A glint caught his eye. Sitting on a marble pedestal was a bowl of beaten gold. The sword slipped from Drizzt's fingers as he approached. The vessel was unadorned, but something told him this was no ordinary bowl. He reached out and touched the golden rim. As he did, clear water-springing from no visible source-filled the vessel. He bent over the bowl. At first all he saw was his own reflection, but then the water went dark, blacker than the deepest crevices of the Underdark. A sound of fear escaped Drizzt's throat, but he could not look away.

Images began to appear. They floated across the still surface of the water, quick and fleeting. He glimpsed his mother talking to his sisters, their heads bent together as they schemed some wickedness. The image changed and became his brother Dinin practicing with his swords. Then, in quick succession, came a dozen scenes scattered around the city: faces and places Drizzt did not know.

At last he understood. This was a scrying bowl. He had heard Matron Malice mention such a thing to Briza once, when she had not realized he was within earshot. This was one of the greatest treasures of House Do'Urden.

You should leave this place now, Drizzt, warned a voice in his head. The advice, however, was drowned out by exhilaration. The scrying bowl could show him anything he wanted! But what should he ask to see? Maybe he should let the bowl decide for him.

He gripped the rim. "Show me something important," he commanded. The metal seemed to hum beneath his hands.

For a moment he thought his request had confused the magical vessel, for thewater went dark again, so black that it hurt to gaze upon. Then darkness turned into fire. The flames receded, revealing in their wake a dagger. It was beautiful. The dagger rested on what appeared to be a stone step. A purple gem winked in its hilt, and its blade still glowed with the heat of the fire.

Drizzt bit his lip. The dagger seemed so real-so real that, before he even knew what he was doing, he reached into the bowl, his hand slipping beneath the cool surface of the water.

His fingers closed around hot metal.

With a yelp of surprise and pain, Drizzt s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back. The water bubbled, and there was a great hissing of steam. At last the vapor cleared.

Drizzt stared in fear and wonder.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

In his hand he gripped the dagger, its metal now cool, quenched by the water in the scrying bowl.

Chapter Nine.

Spiderjewel.

Reality melted, flowed, then condensed again around Zaknafein. Once more he stood high atop the center of the tangled web that was Menzoberranzan.

Narbondel. The stone was cool beneath his feet, but already the purple magelights bobbed through the streets of the city-the approach of the archmage. A new day was about to begin. The Festival of the Founding. Zak did not have much time.

The weapons master searched along the craggy top of the pillar until he found the small crevice. He snaked a hand inside, depressing the switch. As before, a dark hole opened in the stone. Without hesitation, Zak lowered himself into the stairwell below. His elven eyes adjusted to their new surroundings.

In minutes, he knew the Dagger of Menzoberra was gone. It could not have fallen far down the stairway, and the bright jewel in its hilt would have stood out against the dull stone steps, making it easy to detect. Zak swore as he padded up and down the staircase one more time, just to be certain. But he knew he would not find the relic, and he was right. He climbed out of the opening, back to the top of the pillar, then slammed the portal shut in disgust.

"Where is it?" he rasped to the darkness.

The Spider Mage had said the Dagger was not destroyed, and Zak did not doubt the wizard's words.

"Jalynfein would not lie to me. We are kindred spirits, he and I."

Yet if the relic had not been destroyed, that left only one possibility.

Someone else had retrieved it. But who? And where had it been taken? The Festival of the Founding was about to commence. He did not have time to search even a fraction of the city, let alone all of it. It seemed his quest for redemption had come to a premature and bitter end.

All at once, low laughter escaped Zak's throat. What a fool he was! Of course-he had possessed the power to find the relic all along. Reaching into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel. He set the gem on his outstretched palm. The ruby embedded in its abdomen winked to life. The arachnid spun a moment, then stopped. Zak followed the spider's orientation with his gaze. West.

There was no time to waste. Zak stepped off the pillar and into an updraft, wrapping himself in his piwafwi and letting the warm air conceal his body heat from prying eyes. He sank to the ground, vanis.h.i.+ng into the city's streets, just as the regal procession reached the base of Narbondel.

The archmage laid his hands upon the ancient pillar. Fire welled forth. Stone glowed crimson. The Festival had begun.

Chapter Ten.

A Goblin at the Gate.

Matron Malice gazed around herself, eyes glittering with satisfaction.

Everything was in place for the Festival. On her orders, the servants hadbrought House Do'Urden's most opulent treasures into the feast hall: chairs fas.h.i.+oned of dwarf bones, onyx tables resting on dragon claws, crystal goblets colored crimson with a tincture of faerie blood-taken from the hated light elves in a raid on the surface world. Malice's was not the richest house in Menzoberranzan, but it could muster a remarkable display all the same. Matron Baenre could not help but be impressed.

Malice smiled, but the expression felt hollow. Despite her imminent victory, her satisfaction was marred. Something was missing. In chagrin, she realized who it was. Yet she was better off without the unruly weapons master, she told herself. She would find others to replace him, in her bed and in her heart. It was foolish to waste her thought on Zaknafein. This was to be her day of glory.

Dinin hurried into the feast hall and bowed low before her. "Forgive the intrusion, Matron Mother, but you asked me to inform you if anyone-anyone at all-came to the house's gate. A lone goblin has shown up, and it begs hospitality."

Briza let out a snort of outrage. "The brazen little worm." She gripped her snake-headed whip. "I'll take care of it, Mother."

Malice glared at her daughter. "And earn us the further disfavor of Lloth?"

she sneered. "I think not. Put away your whip, Briza. You like the feel of its grip far too much. Perhaps it would do you good to remember what the other end of it feels like."

Briza stared in slack-jawed shock, then hastily coiled her whip, lest she feel its bite herself.

Malice stroked her jaw in thought. "The Spider Queen will appear somewhere in the city today, and there is no telling what form she'll take. We cannot take the risk of turning any stranger away." She turned to her son. "Dinin, bring the goblin here. Whatever it wants, it shall get."

Dinin stared in surprise, but had the sense not to question his matron mother.

He returned minutes later with the goblin: a small, sniveling creature with green skin and a warty face. Malice resisted the urge to stick her dagger into the loathsome thing's throat. There were too many stories of families who had turned away some wretched creature only to learn it had been Lloth in disguise, even as they died from food turned into poison. Malice forced herself to smile.

"Welcome to House Do'Urden," she spoke. "Would you like some wine?"

The goblin nodded, rubbing gnarled hands together and baring yellow fangs in a grin. "Garn, but I love the Festival of the Founding!" it croaked.

Malice herself was bathing the goblin's crusty feet in a silver basin when the feast hall doors opened and Matron Baenre entered.

"Don't forget to wash between the toes," the ancient elf said in her rasping voice. "Goblins are not known for thoroughness in hygiene."

Malice leapt to her feet, wiping her hands against her gown. "Matron Baenre! I was only . . . that is, I was just trying . . ." Her cheeks glowed with warm embarra.s.sment.

Baenre cackled, leaning on her staff. "Fear not, Matron Malice. I appreciate a matron mother who knows the value of tradition. But I think you have shown this goblin as much hospitality as tradition warrants this day."

The goblin looked up, eyes bulging as it realized its fun was at an end.

Malice nodded to Dinin, and her son grabbed the goblin, dragging it kicking and screaming from the hall. Malice breathed a sigh of relief. Things had gotten off to an awkward start, but it seemed no harm had been done. Perhaps this was going to turn out well after all. Recovering her sense of protocol, she lowered her head in formal greeting.

"We are honored by your presence on this day of celebration, Matron Baenre."

With an impatient hand, the ancient dark elf waved the words away. "Well, of course you are. Now, where is the mushroom wine? I'm thirsty."

"This way," Malice spoke, leading Matron Baenre toward a table. "I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction."

"Oh, I'll be the judge of that." Matron Baenre cackled again, and this timethe sound of her laughter was not quite so congenial.

Malice clenched her teeth. Maybe this wasn't going to be so easy after all.

Chapter Eleven.

Intruder.