'And?' he dared.
Quenthel stopped and faced him, anger in her face. The serpents of her whip flicked their tongues.
'And?' she asked.
Pharaun lowered his gaze but asked, 'And what, Mistress? Lolth calls her Yor'thae but what is the Yor'thae to do?'
For a moment, Quenthel said nothing. Pharaun looked up and found that her gaze was no longer on him.
'Mistress?' he prompted.
She came back to herself. 'That is not a matter for a mere male,' she said.
Pharaun bowed, his mind racing. He wondered if even Quenthel knew what it was that the
Yor'thae was to do, what it was that was happening to Lolth. The possibility that she did not troubled him.
Quenthel offered nothing further, and they began again to walk.
Pharaun looked behind him and met Danifae's gaze. She licked her lips, smiled, and pulled up the hood of her cloak.
Chapter Four
Around Gromph, hundreds of fires crackled and burned. Black smoke poured into the air,
casting the bazaar in a surreal haze. Abandoned shops and booths lay in charred heaps of rubble.
The blackened, petrified forms of drow merchants-turned to stone by the touch of the lichdrow
Dyrr, shapechanged into the form of a black-stone gigant-lay scattered about like castings. Some of the petrified drow had run like candle wax in the heat of the Staff of Power's explosion; they would never be restored to flesh. Gromph gave their fate no further thought.
Wide, deep scorings from the gigant's thrashings marred the otherwise smooth floor of the bazaar.
Still dazed from the destruction of the staff, Gromph sat in a heap on the cool stone floor with his legs stretched out before him. Smoke leaked from his clothes. His mind moved sluggishly; his senses felt dull.
But not so dull that he was not conscious of his pain. A lot of pain.
Much of his body was burned. He felt as though a million needles were stabbing his skin, as though he had bathed in acid. His once-severed leg still had not fully reattached and sent shooting pains up his thigh and hip. His non-magical clothes-thankfully, not much of his attire-
had melted into his flesh, turning his skin into an amalgam of burned meat and cloth. He could imagine how the exposed flesh of his face must look. He was surprised he could still see. He must have closed his eyes-his captured Agrach Dyrr eyes-before the explosion.
He held two charred sticks in his hands. He stared at them, dumbfounded as to their purpose.
In appearance, they reminded him of his forearms-thin and burned almost beyond recognition. It took a moment for him to realize what they were: the remnants of the Staff of Power.
With a wince, he uncurled his ruined fingers from the wood and let the pieces of the staff clatter to the ground.
Seeing no movement in the bazaar except Nauzhror, who squatted beside him and clucked nervously, Gromph thought for an absurd moment that the staff's destruction might have annihilated everyone else in Menzoberranzan.
The stupidity of the thought made him smile, and he instantly regretted even that small movement. The charred skin of his lips cracked, causing him an excruciating stab of pain. Warm fluid seeped from the wound and into his mouth. He gave expression to the pain only with a soft hiss.
Gromph was no stranger to pain. If he could endure his own rat familiar eating out his eyes and a giant centipede severing his leg, he could abide a few burns.
'Archmage?' Nauzhror asked. 'Shall I assist you?'
The rotund Master of Sorcere put forth a hand as though to touch Gromph's arm.
'Don't touch me, fool!' Gromph hissed through the charred ruin of his face. More blood leaked into his mouth. Pus ran from burst blisters.
Nauzhror recoiled so fast he nearly toppled over. 'I–I meant only to aid you, Archmage,' he stammered.
Gromph sighed, regretting his harsh tone. It was unlike him to let his emotions rule his words.
Besides, the beginning of a plan for dealing with what remained of the lichdrow was taking shape in his mind. And with Pharaun away on the mission to the Demonweb Pits, he would need
Nauzhror.
'Of course, Nauzhror,' Gromph said. 'We must let the ring do its work for a moment more.'
'Yes, Archmage,' answered Nauzhror.
Gromph knew that the magical ring he wore would heal his flesh. The process was painful,
itchy, and slow, but it was as inexorable as the rise of light up Narbondel's shaft. No doubt
Gromph could have benefited from a healing spell-which his sisters could again cast, it seemed-
but it galled him too much that Triel had already saved him once. The lichdrow had beaten
Gromph, turned him to stone, and he would have died or remained a statue forever but for his sister's intervention.
No, he could not ask her or any of the Baenre priestesses for healing or any other aid. Lolth's grace once more abided in them. Things would soon return to normal, and Gromph wished to be no more beholden to the priestesses of the Spider Queen than was absolutely necessary. He knew too well the price. Instead, he would endure a few more moments of agony while the ring regenerated his flesh.
I am pleased that you survived, Archmage, said Prath in his head. The telepathy spell was still working, it appeared.
I share your pleasure, Prath, Gromph answered. Now be silent.
Gromph's head ached, and he no more wanted the apprentice's voice rattling around in his head than he did a dagger in his eye.
In only a few moments, his skin was itching all over. He resisted the urge to scratch only with difficulty. After a few more moments, dead flesh started to fall from his body and new, healthy skin grew in its place.
'Archmage?' asked Nauzhror.
'A few more moments,' Gromph answered through clenched teeth.
He watched, wincing with pain, as clumps of blistered skin fell from his body and traced his silhouette on the ground. Gromph imagined himself as one of Lolth's spiders, molting its old form and pulling a larger, stronger body from the dead shell. The battle with the lichdrow had taxed him, but ultimately it had not beaten him.
Of course, he reminded himself, the battle was not quite over.
When he felt ready, when most of his dead skin had sloughed away into a grotesque pile on the bazaar's floor, he extended his still-tender hand to Nauzhror.
'Here, help me rise.'
Nauzhror took Gromph's hand in his own and pulled him to his feet.
Gromph held still for a moment, gathering himself, testing his regenerated leg, controlling the last vestiges of the pain.
Nauzhror hovered near him, as attentive as a midwife but not touching him.
'I'm quite capable of remaining on my feet,' Gromph said but was not sure that he was.
'Of course, Archmage,' Nauzhror answered but stayed close.
Gromph took a deep breath and let his shaking legs grow steady. Through his stolen Dyrr eyes, he surveyed the wreckage around him, surveyed the whole of the city.
Except for the smoking ruin of the bazaar, the center of the city remained unaffected by the siege. The great spire of Narbondel still glowed, tolling another day in the life of
Menzoberranzan the Mighty. Gromph could not remember if he had lit it or if another had.
He cocked his head and asked Nauzhror, 'Did I light Narbondel this cycle?
