Condemnation (51 page)

“Join hands, then,” Pharaun said.

He placed his own hand over Ryld’s and Halisstra’s, and spoke a short phrase just as the first blows sounded on the panel of the secret door. In the blink of an eye they stood on the cold, mossy ground of the cave mouth in the forest clearing. It was close to dawn. The skies to the east were pearly gray, and cold dew lay heavy around their feet. The glen was as empty and cheerless as it had been the first time the company camped there, a little more than a tenday past. Most of the snow had melted off, and icy water trickled into the sinkhole and ran out of sight beneath the hill.

“Here we are,” the wizard announced. “Now, if nobody minds too much, I believe I am going to find the most comfortable spot I can in the cavern below and sleep like a damned human.”

He clambered down the slippery rocks without waiting for a response.

“Take your rest later, wizard,” Quenthel called after him. “We must determine what we need to do next, the meaning of the things we saw—”

“What we saw has no meaning,” Halisstra said, “and what we do next does not matter. I’m with Pharaun.”

She summoned up the strength to leap lightly from boulder to boulder, descending back into the comforting and familiar darkness of the cavern below.

Behind her Quenthel fumed and Jeggred rumbled in displeasure, but Ryld and Valas shouldered their packs and followed Pharaun down into the cave. Danifae turned to the Baenre priestess and rested one hand on her shoulder.

“We are all troubled by what we’ve seen,” the battle captive said, “but we’re exhausted. We’ll all think more clearly when we have had some rest, and perhaps then the goddess’s will might be more plain to us.”

Grudgingly, Quenthel nodded in assent, and the rest followed into the cave. Halisstra and Pharaun had already thrown themselves down on the pebbled floor of the cavern a few dozen yards from the entrance, shucking their packs and leaning back against the walls. The rest of the Menzoberranyr filed in slowly and picked out their own spots, collapsing wherever they happened to stop moving.

Seyll’s bloodstained armor seemed unbearably heavy on Halisstra’s shoulders, and the hilt of the Eilistraeean’s sword jammed painfully into her ribs. She was too tired to find a better position.

“Will no one tell me what happened in the Demonweb Pits?” Jeggred railed. “I have waited in that empty stone room for days, guarding your sleeping bodies faithfully. I deserve to hear what happened.”

“You will,” Valas answered. “Later. I don’t believe any of us rightly know what to make of it. Give us time to rest, and to reflect.”

Rest? Halisstra thought.

She felt as if she could sleep—sleep in the unconscious and helpless manner of a human—for a tenday and not feel healed of the fatigue she carried. Her mind refused to reflect any longer on why Lolth had abandoned her, yet she had something in her heart that demanded examination, a grief that would not permit her the refuge of the Reverie until she had found some way to let it out.

With a sigh, she pulled her satchel close and opened it, taking out the leather case of her lyre. She carefully unsheathed the heirloom, running her fingers over the rune-carved dragonbone arms, touching the perfect mithral wire.

At least I still have this, she thought.

In the silence of the forest cave, Halisstra played the dark songs of the bae’qeshel, and softly gave voice to her unbearable grief.