Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

“Pharaun, prepare your spells quickly,” Quenthel commanded after sizing up the chamber. “Halisstra, you and Ryld will stand watch here. Jeggred, you and Valas keep watch on the far archway, over there.”

“Unfortunately, you must keep your watch for some time,” the wizard said. He made a rueful gesture. “I was ready to study my spellbook earlier, when I’d had some time to rest in the courtyard of the palace above, but the poor hospitality of our lamia hosts has left me somewhat fatigued. I must rest for some time before I will be able to ready my spells.”

“We’re all tired,” Quenthel snarled. “We have no time for you to rest. Prepare your spells at once!”

The snakes of her whip coiled and hissed in agitation.

“The exercise would be pointless, dear Quenthel. You must keep our enemies away from me until I have recovered from my exertions.”

“If he is so powerless,” Jeggred rumbled, “now would be as good a time as any to punish him for his disrespectful attitude and many transgressions.”

“Stupid creature,” Pharaun snorted. “Slay me, and all of you will die in these light-blasted wastelands within a day. Or perhaps you have suddenly acquired a knack for the arcane arts?”

Jeggred bristled, but Quenthel silenced him with nothing more than a look. The draegloth stalked off to take up his watch at the far end of the long, dusty chamber, crouching in a jumble of fallen stones near the opposite entrance. Valas sighed and trotted off to join him.

“Ready your spells as fast as you can, wizard,” the priestess said, deadly anger tightly contained in her voice. “I have little patience left for your wit. Give Halisstra your lightning wand in case we need spells of that sort to repel another attack.”

It was a measure of his true exhaustion that Pharaun didn’t even bother to seek the last word. He turned to Halisstra and dropped the black iron wand into her hand with a sour smile.

“I suppose you know how to use this already. I’ll want it back, of course, so please try not to exhaust it completely. They’re hard to make.”

“I won’t use it unless I have to,” Halisstra said.

She watched as the wizard found a shadowed spot beside a large column and sat down cross-legged, leaning against the cold stone, and she tucked the wand into her belt. Quenthel composed herself against the opposite wall, watching Pharaun as if to make sure he was not feigning his need for rest. Ryld Argith pushed himself erect and set out for the passage leading back toward the monster-haunted surface, leaning on his massive greatsword as he did so. Halisstra started to follow, but Danifae said, “Shall I keep watch here, Mistress Melarn?”

The girl knelt on the dusty floor between the wizard and the priestess, the dagger thrust through her belt. She looked up at Halisstra, her expression blank and perfect, the picture of an innocent question.

The Melarn priestess repressed a grimace. Arming a battle captive was tantamount to admitting one no longer had the strength to force her submission, and she suspected that Danifae would later exact a difficult price for continued compliance. Danifae watched serenely as her mistress considered the offer. Halisstra could feel Quenthel’s eyes on her too, and she steeled herself against glancing at the Baenre priestess to measure her approval.

“You may keep the dagger to defend yourself—for now,” Halisstra allowed. “Your vigilance is not required. Do not presume to suggest such a thing again.”

“Of course, Mistress Melarn,” Danifae replied.

The girl’s face was devoid of emotion, but Halisstra didn’t like the thoughtful look in Danifae’s eye as she composed herself to wait.

Will her binding hold? Halisstra mused.

In the heart of House Melarn, surrounded by the full strength of her enemies, Danifae would not have dared to throw off the magical compulsion that enslaved her, even if she could do such a thing. Things had changed, though. Danifae’s care in how she addressed her mistress in front of Quenthel did not escape Halisstra’s notice. Without her House, her city, to invest Halisstra with absolute dominion over what she called her own—her life, her loyalties, and possessions such as Danifae—any or all of those things might be wrested away from her. The thought left her feeling as hollow and as brittle as a rotten piece of bone.

What happens when Danifae decides to test the bounds of her captivity in earnest? she wondered. Would Quenthel permit Halisstra to retain her mastery over the girl, or would the Baenre intercede simply to spite Halisstra and strip her of one more shred of her status? For that matter, was Quenthel capable of freeing Danifae and claiming Halisstra herself as a battle captive?

The girl studied Halisstra from her lowered eyes, demure and beautiful. Patient.

“Are you coming?” Ryld asked. He stood in the mouth of the passage, waiting.

“Yes, of course,” Halisstra said, barely repressing a scowl.

Deliberately turning her back on the servant, Halisstra followed Ryld back out to the tunnels leading to their refuge. For the moment, she was safe enough. Danifae could not remove the silver locket from her neck with all of her will, strength, and effort. The moment she touched it, the enchantment would lock her muscles into rigidity until she abandoned the attempt. Nor could she ask someone else to remove it for her, since the moment she tried to speak of the locket, her tongue would freeze in her mouth. As long as the locket encircled her neck, Danifae was compelled to serve Halisstra, even to the point of giving her own life to save her mistress. Danifae had borne her bondage well, but Halisstra had no intention of removing the locket in the presence of the Menzoberranyr—if, in fact, she ever did.

She and Ryld took up positions in a small rotunda a short ways down the tunnel, a dark and open space from which they could keep the approach to their refuge under careful observation without being seen themselves. Folded in their piwafwis, they were virtually indistinguishable from the dark stone around them. Despite the capricious chaos and gnawing ambition that burned in every drow heart, any drow of accomplishment was capable of patience and iron discipline in the performance of an important task, and so Halisstra and Ryld set themselves to watch and wait in vigilant silence.

Halisstra tried to empty her mind of all but the input of her senses, to better stand her watch, but she found that her head was filled with thoughts that did not care to be dismissed. It occurred to Halisstra that whatever became of her from this day forward, she would rise or fall based on nothing more than her own strength, cunning, and ruthlessness. The displeasure of House Melarn meant nothing. If she desired respect, she would have to make the displeasure of Halisstra Melarn something to be feared in its place. All because Lolth had decided to test those most faithful to her. By the caprice of the goddess House Melarn of Ched Nasad, whose leading females for centuries beyond counting had poured out blood and treasure upon the Spider Queen’s altars, had been cast down.

Why? Halisstra wondered. Why?

The answer was cold and empty, of course. Lolth’s machinations were not for her priestesses to understand, and her tests could be cruel indeed. Halisstra ground her teeth softly and tried to thrust her weak questions out of her heart. If Lolth chose to test Halisstra’s faith by stripping her of everything she held dear to see if the First Daughter of House Melarn could win it back, the Spider Queen would find her equal to the challenge.

Care to talk about it? Ryld’s fingers flashed discretely in the sophisticated sign language of the dark elves.

Talk about what?

Whatever it is that troubles you. Something has you tied in a knot, priestess. It is nothing to concern a male, she replied.