Jaleigh Johnson - Spider and Stone

Her mind traveled the hidden pathways of the Underdark, passing through ancient stone, stagnant cave waters and tunnels covered with strange, glowing fungi. Some of the creatures that dwelled there marked her passage, the cold-blooded kuo-toa and roving bands of quaggoths, but only as a vague sense of wrongness, of danger passing swiftly over their heads. Then she was gone, her awareness pointed toward Iltkazar.

Imaginative creature that she was, Fizzri thought she smelled the fire stink of dwarven forges and sweat, the little vermin scurrying around like mice in too-large holes. Zollgarza’s awareness should not be hard to discern among these lesser intelligences. With that hope, she flew freely, spreading her awareness in a wide net.

She was wholly unprepared for the pain.

Agony erupted in the mistress mother’s chest. She coughed once, dredging up blood that dripped from her mouth and nose. Dropping to her knees, Fizzri clutched the altar and pressed her cheek against the cool obsidian. Gods, the weight-it was crushing her. She struggled to draw breath as a fire spread from her chest to every nerve in her body. She collapsed in front of the altar, hands clutching her chest as if her heart might burst from it.

For a long time, she couldn’t move. The pain wracked her, obliterating all thought. She couldn’t pray either until finally, the fire receded. A dull ache lingered in her chest, flaring each time she breathed. How long until it faded?

The magic that protected Iltkazar was stronger than she’d thought-much stronger. She would not be able to find Zollgarza by that means. For now, she must wait to see if Zollgarza resurfaced. If he didn’t, she would command the army to proceed with the assault on Iltkazar. One way or another, she would get the sphere.

Fizzri dragged herself back to her knees in front of the altar. She laid her head on the blood-soaked runes and repeated her prayer. “Lolth, I will find him. I will obtain the power you seek. This I swear.”

The pain dwindled in her chest, and Fizzri felt the edge of triumph blocking out the agony. Lolth heard-and approved.

“Stand behind me,” Garn told Icelin and Ruen.

They’d crossed a narrow stone bridge that traversed a deep chasm. Drafts of frigid air wafted up from the blackness of the pit. A wide tunnel on the opposite side left room for the four of them to stand abreast.

Icelin gazed down into the pit. Ruen stood beside her, ready to reach out a hand if she stumbled. She stood too near the edge for his comfort. Why did she always do that? Ruen suppressed an exasperated sigh. Didn’t she see the danger?

These past few months they’d been traveling along the Sword Coast, Icelin had been oblivious to everything-her life in Waterdeep, her spellscar, and her diminished lifespan. Wrapped up in the sights of Faerun, she had discarded all the weights that threatened to hold her back. At first, Ruen had taken this as a good sign. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He might have felt better if they’d been able to find the Arcane Script Sphere or at least confirm that it was nearby. Ruen theorized that the artifact would act on Icelin’s magic in a fashion similar to her staff, only far more powerful, focusing and guiding her magical energy and preventing it from raging out of control. If he were right, that stabilizing force would prolong her life and let her use magic safely. It was a slim hope, but it was the best they had. Even so, Icelin hadn’t seemed discouraged. In fact, over the past tenday, she’d stopped showing an interest in Ruen’s theory, and when they’d finally reached the dwarven ruins, she’d seemed much more interested in learning about the remnants of the people who’d once used them. Perhaps it was being among the dead and forgotten. Icelin didn’t need the reminder of her own mortality staring her in the face.

Ruen looked at his gloved hands. How many times had he wanted to reach out to Icelin to comfort her? He had never been skilled at gestures like that, and his spellscar only made things worse. It was cowardly, he knew, but the thought of touching her, of the piercing reminder that eventually all that warmth and life would be gone from her-he didn’t like to think of it.

Yet that wasn’t the true reason he refrained from touching her. What woman in her senses would take comfort from his touch when she knew what he could do? Ruen thought bitterly. When he was a boy, his own mother hadn’t wanted to touch him. The first time he ever used his power he’d predicted the death of an old woman in his village. The memory of that icy pain lingered in Ruen’s hands. He’d screamed and pushed her away, told his mother that the old woman was going to die. She’d passed the next day, and after that, most of the villagers thought his touch caused death instead of merely predicting it. He’d stopped letting folk near him after that.

He didn’t want Icelin looking at him the way the villagers had. No, the best thing he could do for her was find the Arcane Script Sphere. The only thing hampering them now were the dwarves.

Garn stood in front of the group, but he wasn’t looking at the chasm. He surveyed the bridge, arms out in front of him as if testing the air. Obrin stepped up beside him and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. They both looked solemnly at the bridge, and Obrin murmured something that sounded to Ruen like a prayer. Then he stepped back, caught Ruen watching him, and glared.

“What is it?” Icelin asked. “Why have we stopped?”

Garn answered her. “We need to seal this passage to the surface. Don’t worry,” he added when Ruen started to speak, “there are other routes above that are closer to the city. If the king commands it, we’ll bring you back by one of those, but these outlying passages aren’t easily defensible, not anymore.”

“You’re going to destroy the bridge, aren’t you?” Icelin said. “I sense the magic on it. It’s very old, isn’t it?”

Garn nodded. He never took his eyes off the structure. “The dwarves who carved it out of the stone are long gone, but there were Blackhorns among them. I can feel them, as if they were standing beside me.” He spit into the chasm. “Glad I am that they aren’t here to see us so … diminished.” Obrin made a sound of displeasure, but Garn ignored him. “Keep back until I’m finished,” he commanded. “The bridge took years to shape, but I’ll bring it down in only a few breaths.”

Ruen stepped back, Icelin following. Obrin stood with his father as Garn traced a pair of symbols in the air. His hands moved too quickly for Ruen to follow the shapes, and no glowing rune appeared in the wake of his casting. Garn gestured again, and the symbols appeared on the side of the bridge in swirls of fire, burrowing into the stone.

Standing at his side, Icelin sucked in a breath. “Are you all right?” Ruen asked.

“I’m fine,” Icelin said softly, but Ruen heard the sadness in her voice. “Something so ancient, beautiful, and yet … my great uncle used to tell me all the tales, of the elves in their deep forests, and the dwarves in stone halls where their kin lived and died for centuries, forging bonds that surpass the understanding of humans. The long-lived races of the world are used to the rise and fall of glory, he said, but when I see this … I don’t know how he can stand it,” Icelin said, watching Garn calmly weave his destructive magic.

“You can look away,” Ruen said. He was aware of Obrin watching them intently. “You don’t have to watch, if it troubles you.”

Icelin shook her head. “It would do them both a dishonor,” she murmured. She met Obrin’s watching gaze, but the dwarf flushed and looked away quickly.

The fiery runes covered the bridge now. Garn drew his axe off his belt and went down on one knee. He turned the black horns, symbols of his family, toward the bridge and sketched three vertical lines in the stone. The scrape of obsidian echoed in the chamber. Garn turned the axe upright.