know why you have come. But I have entered into a bargain with Triel. I am to destroy the phylactery myself.
Gromph thought the words a poor lie. But even if they were true, the archmage was unbound by any such bargain. Triel had never mentioned it to him.
But you do not know its location, Matron Mother. And even if you did, I would be concerned that the impulse to see the lichdrow reincorporated would be too strong for even one of your iron will. I will be pleased to destroy it in your name.
With that, Gromph terminated the connection. He knew Yasraena would be coming, so he took a deep breath and stepped across the heavily warded temple threshold. The wards did not trigger. Gromph would never know whether it was something Larikal wore or her very blood, but he did not care. He was in.
From the dome above, Lolth stared down. The center aisle extended toward the apse, toward the black altar, behind which loomed the forbidding body of the spider.
The golem was waiting.
Yasraena rushed through the halls for the scrying chamber, heedless of the indignity of her pace. She dared not communicate through the telepathic amulet for fear that Gromph Baenre would eavesdrop.
In her mind, Esvena's voice sounded, Matron Mother! We are deceived. The image in the basin is not what it appeared to be. Gromph Baenre-
Is in our house, Yasraena finished for her. She sent her next projection to all of her daughters and sisters, Cease using the amulets immediately. The archmage is in the complex and wears
Larikal's amulet. He can hear me even now.
The connection fell silent, and for the first time since the siege began, real fear took hold in
Yasraena. If Gromph got to the phylactery before her, all was lost.
She had to get to him first.
When she reached the scrying chamber, no one dared look at her. The two male wizards stood near the scrying basin, heads bowed. Esvena could not make eye contact.
To Esvena, Yasraena said, 'Where is Larikal?'
Esvena fumbled for an answer.
'Your sister!' Yasraena said. 'Where was she last searching?'
One of the male wizards in the chamber offered, 'Geremis last reported that they were to search the temple, Matron Mother.'
The temple. Yasraena could hardly believe her ears. Had the lichdrow secreted his phylactery within the temple? She cursed him for the arrogant, scheming fool he was.
Yasraena clenched her fists, then her jaw. Her body shook. Anger and fear threatened to overwhelm her.
Through gritted teeth, she said to Esvena, 'Go to the walls and retrieve the vrocks and any
House mages you can find. Then meet us at the temple. Go, now.'
Esvena streaked from the chamber.
Yasraena looked to the two males still with her and said, 'You two, accompany me to the temple. The Archmage of Menzoberranzan awaits us.
When the shapechange spell expired on Prath, Nauzhror swore aloud. Prath studied his hands,
saw them grow larger, and looked wide-eyed across the desk at Nauzhror.
At that moment, the Dyrr wizards had learned of Gromph's deception.
For a heartbeat-but only a single heartbeat-Nauzhror wrestled with what action he should take. Nauzhror coveted the archmage's position, but his fear of failing Gromph Baenre outweighed his ambition. If Gromph succeeded and learned that Nauzhror did nothing more after the shapechange spell expired, Nauzhror knew he would suffer. If Gromph failed and died, he knew too that Triel Baenre would investigate herself, and again, Nauzhror would suffer.
In the end, the Master of Sorcere knew that he could do nothing but play his part to the best of his abilities and hope that Gromph succeeded.
To Prath, still sitting in the archmage's chair, he said, 'Get up, boy.'
Prath leaped from the chair as though it was on fire. Nauzhror circled the desk and slid into the chair. With an expertise born of decades of training, he attuned Gromph's chrysoberyl scrying crystal and caused it to show him the Xorlarrin forces gathered outside of House Agrach Dyrr.
The soldiers and wizards were massed but standing idle.
Nauzhror studied the locale for a time, fixed the image in his mind, and let the scrying crystal go inert.
'What should we do now, Master Nauzhror?' asked Prath. The apprentice's voice betrayed his nervousness.
Nauzhror replied, 'Now, we assist the archmage's efforts by seeing to it that Yasraena will be faced at the same time with enemies within and without.'
Without further explanation, he spoke a word of power and teleported into the midst of the
Xorlarrin army.
Chapter Fifteen
Pharaun's mind fogged the moment he stepped onto the Pass of the Soulreaver. His equilibrium failed him. He felt as though he were moving back and forth, up and down, all at once.
Staggering, he held out a hand until it touched the cool wall of the narrow pass. He stood still,
leaning against the stone and trying to recover himself.
The mage knew he wasn't moving but still felt a sensation of motion and perceived the rapid passage of time. He stood at the center of the world as it streaked around and past him.
Pharaun closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and clutched at the wall with a death grip.
Time and motion stopped so suddenly he almost fell forward.
He opened his eyes and saw no souls, no Quenthel, nothing but stone walls to either side of him rising toward infinity. Darkness shrouded the pass, but ordinary darkness through which
Pharaun could see. A smooth, narrow path stretched before him, disappearing into the far distance. He turned around and saw the same path extending backward to the limits of his vision.
But he had taken only one step. Hadn't he?
Pharaun had teleported, gated, dimension doored, and shadowalked enough to understand that the Pass of the Soulreaver was not a physical place with spatial dimensions so much as it was a metaphor, a symbol for whatever bridged the time and distance between the ruined land he had just left behind and Lolth's personal realm that lay ahead.
For a disconcerting instant, though, he wondered if the entirety of Lolth's plane was no more than metaphor, if the minds of he and his companions had given form to something otherwise formless.
The thought disquieted him, and he pushed it from his brain.
'Quenthel,' he called and did not like the quaver he heard in his voice. The word echoed off the stone, and when it came back to him, the voice was not his own.
A scream of terror: 'Quenthel!'
Hysterical laughter: 'Quenthel.'
A despairing mumble: 'Quenthel.'
A wail of pain: 'Quenthel!'
Pharaun's skin crawled. Sweat beaded his forehead. His skin was clammy. He kept his mouth shut and walked down the path-slowly.
He saw nothing and heard nothing but the twisted echo of his own voice, but. .
He was not alone.
And it was not Quenthel he sensed.
From ahead-or was it behind? — whispering began, hissings, the remnant of ancient screams.
The inarticulate mutterings soaked into his soul. He felt itchy, soiled. His breath came fast.
