Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

“Yet you believe you’ll be able to carry our astral forms there, when the realm is still sealed?” Halisstra asked.

“I know of only two ways to take you to the Demonweb Pits, and if one doesn’t work, the other must,” Tzirik said with a shrug. “The Masked Lord himself has instructed me to take you there, so there must be a way. Still, if you happen to know of any permanent gates or portals connecting our world with the Abyss, or the Demonweb Pits itself, I suppose you could make use of such a device.”

“Show me that physical travel will not work,” Quenthel said.

“Step close,” Tzirik said from behind his mask, his voice carrying a certain dry amusement, “and join hands with me.”

The drow shuffled close and joined hands in a circle with Tzirik, who took a place between Quenthel and Danifae, laying his left hand over their joined hands and leaving his right free to make the gestures necessary for the spell. He collected himself, then chanted out a rolling, powerful prayer whose unholy words filled the air with a nearly tangible darkness.

Halisstra watched carefully to make certain that the priest cast the spell correctly, and as far as she could tell, he did. For a moment she thought it would work, as the Jaelre chapel grew misty and faint around them, and her body seemed to somehow drop away from the world without moving an inch—but then she sensed through some preternatural perception an impediment, a barrier that prevented the company from materializing again in a new place and seemed to almost jolt them back to Minauthkeep. She reeled drunkenly as her senses whirled.

“That happened the last time I tried it,” Tzirik said.

Thunder gathered in Quenthel’s brow, but she managed to keep her calm as she detached her hand from Danifae’s and steadied herself against Jeggred.

“Pharaun,” the high priestess said, “what did you observe?”

The wizard raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised to be consulted by the Baenre, and said, “It seems plausible enough. If we travel by projecting our spirits into the Astral Plane, we won’t be going directly from this plane of existence to the Abyss. We’d actually traverse the astral sea and approach Lolth’s domain as spirits. It may be that the mysterious barrier we encountered does not bar such an approach.” The wizard smoothed his robes, considering. “And that might explain why our conjured demons couldn’t manage the trick either. They do not travel between planes by astral projection, as they have no souls.”

Quenthel muttered something to herself, folded her arms, and turned back to Tzirik.

“Fine,” she said. “You have convinced me. Where do you intend to leave our bodies?”

Tzirik walked over to one wall of the chapel and depressed a hidden stud, revealing a secret chamber behind the bronze mask of Vhaeraun. It was not large, but eight elegant old divans—furnishings that might have dated back to the castle’s days as a home to the surface elves of Cormanthyr—were arranged in a tight circle in the room, heads together, feet outward.

“Only a handful of my people know of this room’s existence,” said the priest,

“and I have instructed them to make no intrusion for as long as may prove necessary. You need not fear any harm here.”

Ryld, who stood a little behind Jeggred, turned away from Tzirik and gestured subtly to Pharaun and Halisstra, So if our spirits are defeated while we are astral, we return to our bodies. What happens to our spirits if someone sticks a knife in our bodies?

Death, the wizard replied. A cautious fellow would make sure his body was someplace safe and guarded by trustworthy sorts before sending his spirit off to some other plane.

Ryld grimaced, but made no other reply.

The company followed Tzirik into the small room. Halisstra stared with some trepidation at the old couch in front of her, knowing that she was doing so but unable to look away. She wasn’t the only member of the company regarding the divans like a collection of coffins; Quenthel must have been having the same thoughts.

She looked up from the couch to Tzirik and said, “We will leave behind a guard. Someone I trust will be here to watch over our bodies until I return, just as someone you trust will be watching over you.”

“Ah,” Tzirik said. “You are a dark elf indeed. Do as you will.”

“He might mean to have this whole castle descend upon whomever we leave behind,”

Jeggred snarled. “Best leave two, maybe three.”

“Our sentry’s only duty will be to cut Tzirik’s throat before he’s overwhelmed,” Pharaun said. “The question is, who stays?”

Quenthel glanced at Ryld, then her eyes slid toward Halisstra. For a moment Halisstra feared that Quenthel meant to leave her behind in order to deny her the audience she sought with Lolth, but even as her heart thudded in apprehension she realized that the last thing the Baenre would want—if she truly viewed Halisstra as a threat, anyway—would be a Melarn conscious and alone with her own helpless body. Quenthel’s eyes narrowed as she weighed the same considerations, and she turned to Jeggred.

“You must stay here,” she said to the draegloth.

Jeggred contorted himself in a spasm of anger.

“I am not going to sit here staring at your living corpses while you face the perils of the goddess’s realm! Mother told me to guard you. How can I do that when you leave me behind?”

“You will be guarding me,” Quenthel said. “No harm can come to me in astral form. It is here that I will be vulnerable, and I trust no one else with the task. It must be you, Jeggred.”

The draegloth waved all four arms in protest and said, “You of all people know what awaits you in the Demonweb Pits, Mistress. You will need my strength there.”

“Cease this at once,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith commanded. Her eyes flashed, and her whip rippled and spat. “It is not for you to question me, nephew. You will discharge your obligation in the manner I direct.”

Jeggred subsided into a sulking silence. In disgust he turned away and threw himself down on the stone floor, shucking his pack and bandoleer. Quenthel glanced at the others, and nodded at the couches.

“Come,” she said. “The goddess awaits.”

Tzirik waited while the Menzoberranyr chose divans and stretched out. He moved to the last one and sat down, then glanced over at Jeggred.

“If you will be staying here, half-demon, you should know that some of my kinfolk will be accompanying you on your vigil. Do not cause them any trouble, and I think you will find that they will be happy to leave you alone.”

Jeggred sneered in answer, and Tzirik laid himself down awkwardly in his plate armor, arranging his mace so that it lay at his side.

Halisstra found that she was lying between Ryld and Danifae. She glanced over at the weapons master. Ryld’s expression was taut and nervous. Clearly, astral travel was something beyond his experience too.

If our spirits are doing the traveling, why do we need all our weapons? he motioned to her.

They’re part of you, she replied. Your consciousness includes your belongings in your definition of yourself. Therefore, when your soul roams free from your body, your mind will imagine for you an astral copy of anything you have close at hand.

“Reach out and take each other’s hands,” Tzirik said. “Make sure you have a good grasp. I do not want to leave anyone behind.”

The priest started to chant again in his melodious voice. Halisstra stared at the ceiling and reached out to grasp Danifae with her right hand, and Ryld with her left.

Perhaps I should imagine for myself some good strong drink, Ryld observed. He reached out and caught Halisstra’s hand in his strong grip before she could reply.