“Somewhere in the High Forest, then?” Danifae asked.
“Possibly. I’m not sure the trees look right. I’ve traveled the surface lands near our city, and the foliage looks different from what I remember of the High Forest. We might be some ways distant from Menzoberranzan.”
“Excellent,” muttered Pharaun. “We trek through the Underdark to Ched Nasad, are forced through a portal to the surface hundreds of miles from home, then we trek back down into the Underdark through shadow and peril, only to pass through another portal that takes us back to the surface, perhaps even farther from home. One wonders if we might have simply marched here from Hlaungadath without our pleasant detour through the Plane of Shadow, the delightful hospitality of Gracklstugh, and our lovely little tour of the minotaur-infested Labyrinth.”
“Your spirits must be rebounding, Pharaun,” Ryld observed. “You’ve found your sarcasm again.”
“A sharper weapon than your sword, my friend, and just as devastating when properly employed,” the wizard said. He ran his hands over his torso and winced.
“I feel half dead. Every time I turned around, some hulking bull-headed brute was trying to cleave me in two with an axe or pin me to the floor with a spear. Might I trouble you for one of your healing songs, dear lady?” he asked Halisstra.
“Do not repair his injuries,” Quenthel snapped. She still stood with one hand clamped around her torso, blood trickling between her fingers. “No one is mortally injured. Conserve your magic.”
“Now, that is precisely—” Pharaun began again, glaring at Quenthel and climbing to his feet.
“Stop it!” Halisstra snapped. “I have exhausted my songs of power, so it does not matter. When I have recovered my magical strength I will heal all who need it, because it is foolish to press on in our state. Until then, we will have to rely on mundane methods to address your injuries. Danifae, help me dress these wounds.”
The battle captive turned to Jeggred, who stood near, and motioned for him to sit down, shrugging her pack from her shoulders to search for bandages and ointments. The draegloth did not protest, a sign of how exhausted he was. Halisstra glanced over the others and decided that the wizard was most in need of attention. After pushing him back down onto the boulder, she took out her own supply of bandages. She studied Pharaun’s upper arm, where Jeggred’s talons had scored the flesh, and she began to apply an ointment from among the supplies they’d purchased in Gracklstugh.
“This will sting,” she said pleasantly.
Pharaun mouthed an awful curse and jumped as if he had been stabbed, yelping in pain.
“You did that on purpose!” he said.
“Of course,” Halisstra replied.
While she and Danifae worked on the others, Valas scrambled up a narrow path hidden along the wall of the sinkhole. He studied the ground carefully, and paused to stare thoughtfully into the forest nearby.
Halisstra looked up at him and asked, “Did you find something of interest, Master Hune?”
“There is a path here that climbs up out of the cave mouth,” the Bregan D’aerthe answered, “but I couldn’t say where the Jaelre went. Several game trails converge here, but none seem to have been used by any number of folk.”
“In the Jaelre palace in the Labyrinth you said you’d found clear signs that they had used the portal. How could there be no signs on this side?” Quenthel demanded.
“Dust and grit in the Underdark can hold signs of passage for many years, Mistress. On the surface, it is not so easy. It rains, it snows, the small plants quickly grow over disused paths. Had the Jaelre passed this way in great numbers within the last tenday or two, I would probably see the signs, but if they came this way five or ten years ago, I would be left with nothing to read.”
“They would not have marched far across the surface,” Quenthel mused. “They can’t be far away.”
“You’re probably correct, Mistress,” Valas replied. “The Jaelre would doubtless have preferred to move by night, staying under the cover of the trees during the day. If this is a very large forest—the High Forest, or perhaps Cormanthor—they might be hundreds of miles away.”
“There’s a cheerful thought,” Pharaun muttered. “What in the world brought the Jaelre up here, anyway? Didn’t they consider the possibility that the surface dwellers would slaughter them as eagerly as the minotaurs did?”
“When I knew them years ago, Tzirik and his fellows spoke from time to time of returning to the surface,” Valas said. He turned away from the forest and lightly dropped back down into the cave mouth. “Reclaiming the World Above is part of the doctrine of the Masked Lord, and the captains and rulers of House Jaelre wondered if the so-called Retreat of our light-blinded surface kin might not be an invitation to claim the lands the surface elves were abandoning.”
“Did it not occur to you back in Ched Nasad that your heretical friends might have decided to act upon their wishful thinking and abandon that black, fiend-ravaged warren they called home?” Quenthel asked. “Did it not occur to you that you might have been leading us into a dead end in the Labyrinth?”
The Bregan D’aerthe scout shifted nervously under Quenthel’s gaze, and said, “I didn’t see any better alternatives, Mistress. Not if we truly want to get to the bottom of things.”
“You were so eager to solve the mystery of the Spider Queen’s silence that you chose to gamble that your friend Tzirik was still in the Labyrinth, even though you knew his House had been planning to flee the place for years?” Ryld asked.
“We endured a great deal of peril in the city of the duergar and the domain of the minotaurs to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Perhaps we were not meant to find this Tzirik at all,” said Quenthel. “Perhaps Master Hune has led us far away from our true mission over the last few tendays, and perhaps it was no accident that he did so.”
“When we considered the question of whether we should return to Menzoberranzan,”
Jeggred said, “it was the Bregan D’aerthe who urged us to set off in search of this priest Tzirik—a heretic priest none of us have even heard of, except for Valas.” His eyes narrowed, and the draegloth climbed to his feet, his four clawed hands balling into fists as he shouldered Danifae aside. “Things become clear, now. Our guide is a Vhaeraunite heretic, and he has served the Masked Lord well by leading us through useless perils for days on end.”
“This is ludicrous,” Valas protested. “I would hardly have led the Bregan D’aerthe to the defense of Menzoberranzan if I was an enemy of the city.”
“Ah, but it is the classic ruse,” Danifae purred. “Introduce your victims to the agent you have chosen for their destruction by giving them reason to trust her. In your case, the job seems to have been expertly done indeed.”
“Even if that was the case,” Valas said, “why did I not betray you to the duergar in Gracklstugh? Or leave you to the minotaurs in the Labyrinth? I could have arranged your deaths, not a mere delay. If I was your enemy, you can be certain that is what I would have done.”
“Perhaps you would have placed yourself in peril by betraying us in either Gracklstugh or the Labyrinth,” Pharaun observed. “Still, you raise a cogent point in your own defense.”
“Nothing more than the glib lies of a traitor,” Jeggred snarled. He glanced at Quenthel. “Command me, Mistress. Shall I rend him limb from limb for you?”
Valas lowered his hands to the hilts of his kukris, and licked his lips. He was gray with fear, but his eyes sparked with anger. Each of the others in the company turned their eyes to Quenthel, who still leaned against a boulder, her whips quiescent at her waist. She stayed silent, as rain splattered down in the forest and birds chirped and called in the distance.