Jaleigh Johnson - Spider and Stone

She floated in darkness, broken only by surges of arcane light-magic that burned where it touched her skin. Icelin flinched in pain, but there was nowhere to go.

Gods, make it stop, she cried silently. I can’t bear any more.

Let go .

The feminine voice came from the darkness, and again Icelin had the sensation of hands encircling her from behind. The same soothing coolness and sense of calm she’d felt in the library when she’d been connected to Zollgarza’s mind reached out to her now.

She’d heard the woman’s voice before, in her dreams.

Who are you? Icelin asked.

Let go , the voice repeated. Don’t fight the storm. All will be well .

I’m afraid . Icelin let the invisible hands draw her through the darkness, as if she floated on her back in a pool of deep water. She was terrified of sinking, but she wanted to relax into the arms that held her. Warm hands they were, like a mother’s touch.

That’s better. The more you fight, the more the magic will bind and drag you down into the abyss .

Who are you? Icelin repeated, desperate. Please tell me .

You know . Humor touched the woman’s voice. We haven’t been formally introduced, but I think we’ll get on well .

Mystra? The memory of the goddess, speaking to her through the Arcane Script Sphere? Had the artifact been speaking to her through her dreams all along? All this time she’d been connected to the goddess and hadn’t known it. Icelin’s fear evaporated. She floated in the dark, but she no longer felt alone.

Lady , she called out in her mind, I am very, very glad to know you .

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

29 UKTAR

The next several hours were largely a blur for Icelin. She remembered waking, her head jostling against Ruen’s shoulder. He carried her, stumbling, across the rubble-strewn plaza. Staring up at the smoke-filled sky, Icelin saw that half the temple of Haela Brightaxe had been blown away by the explosion. The stone garden lay in ruins. The king’s hall and the temple of Moradin had both sustained damage, but they and most of the other buildings in the plaza still stood. Ruen carried her in the direction of Moradin’s temple.

“I’m all … all right.” Coughing, Icelin tried to slip from Ruen’s arms, but he held on to her.

“Try not to move,” Ruen said. “You hit your head. You need healing. Sull’s already at the temple.”

“Joya,” Icelin said faintly. “She can … heal me.”

“She’s missing.” Ruen’s arms tightened around her. A weight settled in Icelin’s stomach.

Gods, I’m so weary, she thought. Fires still burned throughout the city, and soldiers moved through the plaza, but she saw no sign of the drow.

“Is it over?” Icelin asked.

“The drow fled in the wake of the explosion,” Ruen said. “The soldiers are dealing with the stragglers. From what I hear, there’s no sign of the mistress mother or any of their other leaders.”

“What about the king?” Icelin asked. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Her mouth tasted like smoke.

“He’s alive,” Ruen said. “I don’t know any more than that.” He looked down at her. The lines at his eyes and mouth had deepened. He looked aged, and as weary as Icelin felt. Yet he refused to put her down. “Questions can wait. Sleep now.”

“But I have to tell you … Mystra … she …” But Icelin’s strength failed her. Her eyes drifted closed. She wanted so badly to tell him about the woman’s voice, the arms that had comforted her. Instead, she let go, and relaxed into the warmth of Ruen’s arms.

When she woke again, she was in Moradin’s temple. Lying on her back, she looked up at a carving of Moradin’s symbol on the far wall. Veins of mithral ran through the stone grooves, which created a soft, liquid glow in the dim light from bunches of lichen arranged low along the walls.

Slowly, Icelin sat up. The temple was full of wounded, and dozens of soldiers milled around, offering aid, but there was a noticeable hush in the air. Icelin looked for familiar faces and saw Sull and Ingara standing on the other side of the room, talking in low voices. Icelin made her way over to them. Her body felt emptied out, hollow inside from all the magic she’d used in the past days.

There would be a price for what she’d done. Icelin had accepted that going into the battle. She couldn’t bring herself to feel regret, but for Ruen’s sake, and for the sake of the life they had ahead of them, she wondered how much more of her longevity she’d given up, hoping the price hadn’t been too high.

Let go, she told herself, echoing the voice she’d heard whispering to her in the darkness. The future would take care of itself, and no matter what happened, she would not have to face it alone.

“You’re awake,” Sull said when Icelin reached them. “How are you feelin’? We were worried when you didn’t wake up right away.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Icelin asked anxiously. “What’s happened?” She touched Ingara’s arm. The woman hadn’t spoken or greeted her. A haunted expression lingered about her eyes. “Is it Arngam?” she asked.

Ingara managed a small smile. “He’s well,” she said. “A little bit of smoke won’t slow him down.”

Icelin swallowed and nodded, but her relief was tempered by a terrible knowledge that filled her as she looked around the temple and failed to see Joya’s familiar presence there. “Your sister,” she said. “She didn’t make it, did she?”

Ingara shook her head. Her eyes shone. “We found her near the bridge. Not a mark on her-she was just … gone. Father thinks-” she cleared her throat “-the grief was too much, that it was time. Moradin came for her. And it wasn’t in vain. At least a dozen dwarves are alive because of her.”

“I’m so sorry, Ingara.” Icelin closed her eyes and let the grief come.

They had lost Joya, and Icelin had let the sphere slip away from her. Yet Icelin had heard the artifact call out to her, the memory of Mystra. Was it in drow hands now? Or had it moved on, freeing itself? She hoped and prayed it was the latter.

“Where is Ruen?” she asked.

“He’s with the king in his hall along with Garn, Obrin, and the master armswoman, plus the regency council,” Sull said. “You were summoned too, but we didn’t want to wake you. The council’s decidin’ what’s to be done.”

“Done about what?” Icelin asked. “Is the king all right?”

Sull and Ingara exchanged a glance. “You’d better go,” Sull advised. He held out a hand to help her.

When they exited the temple, Icelin was able to take in the full extent of the damage to the city. Fully half of it had been destroyed, buried in piles of rock and debris from wrecked dwellings. Fresh grief seized Icelin at seeing the devastation.

“They got the nine doors closed,” Sull said, following her gaze. “Whatever drow didn’t get out in the retreat got trapped, and the soldiers took care of them. They weren’t expectin’ the explosion, and they were too slow reactin’ afterward.”

“It cost the dwarves, too,” Icelin said. “I wonder how many of them were also caught in the blast. But it was the only way, wasn’t it? The drow won’t risk attacking again.”

“Don’t see how they could,” Sull said. “They lost half their force and their mistress.”

“What happened to Zollgarza?”

Sull shrugged. “The king was going to let her go free, but she disappeared during the battle-probably killed in the explosion too.”

They entered the hall, and a pair of guards escorted them to the king. Mith Barak sat on his throne, his hands resting heavily on the stone arms. A shell of what he had been, pale, his once silvery beard flat gray, the king nevertheless stood when Icelin entered the hall.