Archmage (24 page)

Not that the Second House had needed any aid. The fight had already greatly diminished, with destroyed, smoking husks of demons thick about the street and the Barrison Del’Armgo wall untouched.

But still, some other House had thought it prudent to join in with one of its war engines.

Symbolically, Gromph realized. That catapult throw was meant to send a message more than it demonstrated any practical aid.

“Conspiracy?” the archmage asked under his breath.

As with the huge demon fight that morning, wise old Gromph Baenre was not surprised.

“Arach-Tinilith or the high priestess of House Baenre?” Yvonnel teased in her squeaky baby voice.

Long past the shock at the sight and sound of a tiny child speaking with such sophistication, Minolin Fey considered the question carefully.

“Well?” the impatient child demanded.

“What are you asking me?” Minolin Fey replied. She swallowed hard as she dared to presume. “Are you seeking my preference?”

“Would I have asked if I was not?”

“I did not think either position would . . .”

“You should think more, then,” baby Yvonnel interrupted. “In either position, I will need someone capable of thinking, after all.”

She was all insults and promises, Minolin Fey thought, and surely not for the first time. All she ever got from her little girl were taunts and teases, and the latter stung more than the former, for Minolin, who was not Baenre by blood, considered the teases as no more than the cruelest taunts of all.

And yet . . .

“High priestess,” she said, not daring to not answer, and thinking that her life expectancy would increase greatly if she stayed at Yvonnel’s side. If this was truly to be her choice, going out from House Baenre to the Academy would make her a prime target for those who would not accept this child as the matron mother in a time that would surely be marked by great upheaval.

“Good,” the baby replied. “I was thinking the same. Sos’Umptu, should she survive, serves House Baenre well from Arach-Tinilith. Were I to bring her in to my side and put you in the Academy, it might embolden your mother to believe that she still commands your loyalty.”

The child put on a very sweet smile then and Minolin Fey felt her heart warming at the sight, and all she wanted to do was rush over and hug Yvonnel close to her breast and smother her in kisses.

“I have no desire to destroy your House,” the baby said, abruptly tugging Minolin Fey back to the present and throwing aside the warm compulsion. For a brief instant, Minolin Fey thought herself a foolish child, reaching to pat a purring housecat, only to discover it to be a guardian familiar, all teeth and murderous claws.

But then, before she could truly register that Yvonnel was magically toying with her, she wanted to rush over and hug the child, her baby, once more.

“You need to make sure that Matron Byrtyn knows that,” the baby said, and it took the confused Minolin Fey a moment to realign her thoughts to the conversation at hand.

“That you wish her and her House no harm?”

“Yes. Her House, which is your House.”

“No,” Minolin Fey said before she could think better of arguing. Black wings of panic rose up around her, thrumming about the edges of her thoughts.

“No?”

“I am Baenre now,” she replied.

“Not Fey-Branche?”

“Baenre!” Minolin Fey declared.

“And who do you serve, Minolin or Baenre?”

“The Matron Mo . . .” Minolin Fey flinched as she heard the reflexive response pouring forth, particularly to this particular audience.

“To all who look, I am the loyal servant of Matron Mother Baenre,” she tried to clarify, using the wide caveat and undefined title as she tried to wriggle free.

“And who is that?” the devious little child asked.

Minolin Fey licked her suddenly dry lips. She felt backed into a cage. As far as she knew, Quenthel still held the favor of Lolth and thus, the legitimate title of Matron Mother Baenre. Was this wretched little deviant creature testing her, ready to report her blasphemy to Quenthel should she answer otherwise?

Or would Yvonnel destroy her if she pledged her fealty to Quenthel? And the daughter of Byrtyn Fey held no illusions. Despite the tiny, cherubic little body of Yvonnel, Minolin had no doubt whatsoever that this child, steeped in the knowledge of Yvonnel the Eternal, could easily obliterate her.

“Yv . . . Matron Mo . . .” she stammered, and wicked little Yvonnel turned her lips into an amused smile.

“Whomever Lady Lolth determines is the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan,” poor Minolin Fey sputtered.

“Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre,” Yvonnel told her, and then, with that mischievous grin so common with this little one, and so ominous to Minolin Fey, who understood the level of mischief this little one could accomplish, Yvonnel added, “for now.”

C
atti-brie crouched by the mound of black stone, delicately running her fingers across the veins of angry red still flaring from the molten lava entombed within. Even with the protection of her ring, the woman felt the heat here, and the power. This was a direct line to the primordial, she knew, and it was still connected to the pulse and strength of the beast, still thrumming with the threat of catastrophe.

She put her ear to the mound and called softly, then listened to the distant voice of the great primordial beast.

Sometime later, she opened her eyes and worked hard not to gasp, for in her communion with the primordial, the woman had been as overwhelmed as in her communion with her goddess Mielikki. The power, the wisdom, the strength of this creature seemed so far beyond her—to think that most would only see the fury and bared power of the thing, would think it a volcano, inanimate and unconscious, a natural firestorm akin to a great tornado or hurricane or any other natural disaster.

But no, Catti-brie had understood for a long while, and knew without the slightest doubt now, this primordial was a preternatural and supernatural disaster, and one full of energy and magic beyond her comprehension.

But not beyond her curiosity.

The woman lifted her staff, the silver-gray cypress branch with its blue sapphire crown, in both hands, hovering the end over the hot mound. She felt a connection of divine powers, and a comfortable communion. Without even thinking of the action, indeed, without even fearing that she would destroy this staff from the cherished garden of her youth, Catti-brie drove the butt end down hard, punching it through the cooling crust and right into the molten lava below. She began to chant, though she knew not the words—
dreos . . . corrachag-cagailt . . . toitean
—as she slid the staff downward into the red liquid stone. The heat assailed her, stinging her eyes, but still she pressed the staff downward, sliding her hands until she was holding only the bulbous, gemmed top of it, the rest submerged. The skin on her fingers reddened, despite the protection of her, but the sting didn’t deter her from her . . .

From her what, she wondered? She supposed it was spellcasting, but she couldn’t be sure, for all of this was beyond her. Mielikki had given her the staff, Kipper had added a prized possession to it, and now she was dipping it in the blood of a primordial of fire. It made no sense.

She slowly lifted her hand and eased the staff back out. She dared grab it in the middle with her other hand, wincing as the dripping lava bit at her.

Almost immediately, the blue tendrils of her magic, both arcane and divine, came forth from the bottoms of her sleeves, wrapping her hand in healing magic and wrapping the staff in . . . in what, she did not know.

She pulled the staff free and moved it to the side, tapping it on the ground to let the rest of the loose lava fall away.

Catti-brie stared at this enchanted weapon, the gift of Mielikki and of the primordial. No longer was it light gray, silvery, as it had been, but black and streaked with lines of glowing red. And the sapphire was not blue—oh, what had she done?—but rather, glowing an angry red.

And she could feel the staff teeming with power.

And she knew how to get at that power!

But something was lost, she feared, as she stared at the staff, something precious, something beautiful. What had she done?

She glanced at the mound, to see that the top was already cooling to black, then looked at her staff to see that it, too, was cooling. To her great relief, as the red glow dissipated, so, too, did the staff and the gemstone return to its previous colors and textures. She held it up in front of her eyes, clutched it tightly in both hands. She could feel the power contained within.

The power of Mielikki.

The power of the Magi stone.

The power of the primordial.

The power of Catti-brie.

“Thank you,” she whispered and she knelt before the mound once more and placed a hand upon it. Her fingers still trembled with the vibrations of power within the stone, and she knelt there staring at the cooling lava for a long while, until she heard someone clear her throat. She turned to see Penelope and Kipper standing behind her.

“What do you know?” Penelope asked.

“More than the rest of us, I gather,” Kipper added.

“This vein ties to the primordial being that feeds the forges,” Catti-brie explained. “Directly.”

“The one you told us about—in the pit beyond the Forge?” asked Penelope, and Catti-brie nodded.

“A being of tremendous power,” Catti-brie explained. “A godlike creature that sacked Neverwinter, burying it under a mountain of ash and lava. Were it not for the swarm of water elementals trapping it within the pit, it would do so again, and perhaps send forth its power to consume Port Llast, or Luskan, or even Waterdeep.”

“But is it contained?” Kipper asked, moving closer, but quickly retreating, wincing against the oppressive heat.

“Aye, is this a new tendril or an old one?” Penelope asked.

“Old,” said Catti-brie, and her two companions offered sighs of relief—short-lived relief, though, as Catti-brie continued, “Old and new. It pulses with new lifeblood, thicker and richer than ever before, save the eruption itself.”

Penelope and Kipper turned to each other with concern.

“The containment magic is failing,” Catti-brie explained. “The Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan was destroyed, and its residual magic has fed the water elementals to the pit, entrapping the primordial. But it will not hold forever, likely not even for much longer.”

“A vague reply where specifics could save many lives,” Kipper complained.

“Centuries more?” Penelope asked.

Catti-brie looked at the mound, unsure, but finally shook her head. She turned back to Penelope. “A decade, perhaps? Less? I can only estimate at how much of the magical containment has eroded in the time since I was last here, and can only wildly guess at when that erosion will allow the beast to break free of its bonds. The erosion seems substantial.”

“Then this journey is a fool’s errand,” said Kipper.

“Let us not dive into grim Kipper’s well of eternal darkness,” Penelope scolded, and managed a smile at the often dour old mage as she did. “The magic is here to hold the beast, and has done so for millennia. We need only find a way renew that power.”

“I have seen the pit,” Catti-brie reminded her. “Not all the wizards of the Ivy Mansion could control a small fraction of the water elementals dancing along the walls of the primordial’s cage if they did nothing else, not even sleep or eat. It would take all the wizards of the world, Elminster himself and Khelben beside him, and with a renewed Mystra with her hands upon their shoulders.”

“So often do we make wide eyes at the ancient relics and powers we uncover,” Penelope interrupted. “We gasp in astonishment and awe at that which those long past have made and have done. When really, if we look closer, we oft find that their ways can be replicated, their artifacts reproduced, their marvelous engineering improved upon. Are we to surrender hope now, then? Is this escape a foregone conclusion? For if so, then go to your father, King Bruenor, and tell him that we must be gone from this place.”

“That one wouldn’t listen,” Kipper muttered.

“No,” Catti-brie answered. “It has not happened, so it is not a certainty.”

“Then lead us, and let us investigate more, discuss more, and reason more, and let us see what we shall see,” said Penelope. “Did you come to this particular place at the primordial’s call?”

Catti-brie looked around. They were in the same area as where she had helped Bruenor and Drizzt turn the tide on the kobolds, and the monsters had been sent running. Back the way she had come, toward the throne room, the dwarves were hard at work repairing doors and patching corridors, and the other way, deeper into the complex, many dwarves had gone, securing the next steps in the reclamation of Gauntlgrym. Drizzt was out there too, patrolling the corridors ahead of Bruenor’s battle force.

“I came to learn what I might now that the region is secured from the kobolds,” she answered.

“Not so secure that you should be out alone.”

“But I am not alone, am I?”

Penelope smiled. “Lead on, my friend.”

Catti-brie turned back to the mound. With a slow breath, she placed her hands upon the glowing pile once more, and followed its tendrils. She visualized the main vein, reaching back to the primordial pit, and noted, too, the tributaries. Most were new, she understood, and tiny and inconsequential—for now—but one seemed quite old to her, a continuation of this same ancient vein that had produced the eruption point.

She nodded to her left, toward the mines, the natural tunnels that ran alongside the area the ancient Delzoun dwarves had carved out as the upper chambers of their homeland.

“They’ve got the mines blocked just outside of the throne room,” Penelope said. “They’ll not let us pass through.”

As she spoke, though, old Kipper moved to the chamber’s left-hand wall. He muttered a few words in the arcane tongue of wizards and brought his hands up, feeling the stone.

“Kipper?” Penelope asked.

“Not so thick here,” the old mage replied with a wink.

“And a nest of drow on the other side?”

“Now, now,” Kipper teased. “Let us not dive into grim Penelope’s well of eternal darkness.”

That brought a laugh from both of the women.

“You’ve a passwall enchantment prepared, no doubt,” Catti-brie said dryly.

“Several,” Kipper confirmed. “And a few dimensional doorways ready as well. Very handy spells when navigating a maze, especially when one is fleeing hordes of enemies, you know.”

Catti-brie shrugged. “I do now.”

“Shall we see what we can see?” Kipper asked, rubbing his hands together, and before either had begun to answer, the old mage began his spellcasting. Soon after, a section of the room’s wall disappeared, creating a ten-foot deep tunnel that ended in more solid stone.

“Not to worry, the next will get us through!’ Kipper assured them, walking forward and beginning a second spell.

As he did so, Penelope conjured a stronger magical light, placing it on the end of her long staff.

Shortly after, the three entered the naturally sloped tunnels of the complex’s northern mines. They lingered about the magical opening for a bit, protecting the unexpectedly opened flank of the dwarf workers, and when the passwall effect ended, the solid stone returning, the three made their way, side by side, down into the maze of ancient mines.

The kobold died without a sound, and fell to the ground with not a whisper of noise, guided expertly by a strong dark hand.

Drizzt stepped over the body, slowing only a moment to wipe his bloodied scimitar on the creature’s ragged fur.

On he went, picking his way from door to door, through rooms that looked as they had millennia before, and others that had been twisted and blasted, ravaged by time, by the eruption of the volcano, and by other mighty denizens of the Underdark. At one point, Drizzt found a tunnel that had most likely been cut by an umber hulk entering a side wall to a narrow room and exiting through the opposite wall. The floor between the tunnel holes showed the deep scratches reminiscent of an umber hulk’s powerfully clawed feet, leaving an impression as clearly on the solid stone as a bear might leave on a forest’s dirt path.

A closer inspection of the tunnel edges showed Drizzt that this was not a new cut, but neither was it centuries old.

The drow nodded, reminded of the many obstacles the dwarves would find in trying to fully reclaim and reopen this place. Complexes like Gauntlgrym, so vast and far-reaching, tied to mines that wound deeper into other Underdark tunnels, would not remain empty in a land where creatures benign and malignant alike were always seeking security . . . or food.

Drizzt moved along, as invisible as a shadow in a lightless room, so quiet that the skittering of a rat would sound more akin to the scrabbling of a tunneling umber hulk beside him. He kept his bearings at all times, and occasionally heard the ring of a dwarven hammer, another comforting reminder that he was not too far outside the perimeter of the lands Bruenor’s kin had tamed.

But then he came upon the remains of a most curious encampment.

Someone had set a cooking fire—Drizzt had never known kobolds to cook their food, or at least had never known them to go to such trouble as to cook their food in an environment with little kindling to burn.

He noted a footprint in some soot residue.

“Drow?” he whispered under his breath, for the boot was too thin, its edges too refined, to be something he would expect from a kobold, and the step appeared far too light to be that of an orc or even a human.

He searched the small room and happened upon a curious parchment, a wrapper, he knew, much like those surface elves used to preserve their foodstuffs when they journeyed the open road.

Some scratches in the wall not far from that caught his eye. No, not scratches, he realized upon closer inspection—someone had purposely and efficiently cut deep lines—letters!—into the hard stone.

Drizzt recognized the lettering as Elvish, surface Elvish and not Drow, though he did not know the word they spelled out.

“ ‘Tierf,’ ” he read aloud, his expression quizzical.

He looked back at the cuts, marveling at the sharp edges and clean lines. Some fabulous tool had been employed.

Drizzt stood back up as if he had been slapped.

“Tierflin?” he asked more than said, his thoughts going to Sinnafein’s dead son, and by extension, to Tos’un Armgo, whom he knew to be in possession of Khazid’hea, a sword that could so gracefully and easily mar any but the hardest of stones. Was Tos’un Armgo in this place?

No, it could not be. Tos’un had died on the mountainside of Fourthpeak, crashing down with the smaller white dragon sent spiraling to the mountainside by Tazmikella and Ilnezhara and finished off by Brother Afafrenfere. Drizzt had seen that firsthand.

Doum’wielle, perhaps, the daughter of Tos’un and Sinnafein, who had reportedly run off with the sword?