The deep gnome made a thick sound in his throat, and for a moment Araevin feared the small creature was dying in front of his eyes before he realized that Galdindormm was laughing-a dry and harsh sort of laughter, but laughter nonetheless. “Why would surface-dwellers come to Lorosfyr? Do you have no ears for the whispers in the dark? Leave while you can, or my fate will be yours.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Maresa snorted.
“Lorosfyr?” Araevin asked the deep gnome. “This place is called Lorosfyr?”
“That is the name for the abyss,” the gnome croaked. “Lorosfyr, the Maddening Dark. It is a mighty vault. Many days across, many days around. It is accursed.” The gnome shook his head and shuddered, his eyes growing distant as some inner fear caught his mind. “Ten thousand steps I climbed, crawling on my hands and knees, and still I can hear her calling me back. Do not let me go back to her, I beg you! Do not let me listen to her!”
“Who, Galdindormm? Who are you speaking of?” Araevin asked gently.
“The Sybil of the Deeps… Selydra, the Pale Queen…” Weakly the gnome raised his arms and buried his face, trying to hide from whatever memory tormented him. “She drank of my soul, strangers. And now she will come to drink of yours. There is no escape. No escape.”
Warm, steady rain shrouded the towers of Myth Drannor, steaming and smoking where it fell on the forges and foundries the fey’ri had built amid the ruins. Sarya Dlardrageth enjoyed the sounds of raindrops hissing against hot metal and the harsh ringing hammer strokes of her fey’ri armorers at work. She had spent so many centuries immobile yet aware in the vaults beneath Hellgate Keep, and even though she’d been free for the better part of five years, she still reveled in simple physical sensations and freedom from confinement.
She stood in an old broken archway with her wings spread over her head, sheltering her face from the summer rain as she watched her fey’ri at work. Half a dozen of her demon-tainted followers worked to restore an ancient battle-construct to life. The secret crafts of weapon making and the building of arcane war engines were just as valuable to the old Siluvanedan way of war as swordplay and battle magic. Two of the more magically skilled craftsmen chanted and wove their hands in arcane passes, reweaving the old spells that had once powered the device. Others chipped away at countless ages of rust and corrosion, while two more of her fey’ri smiths were busy pouring molten iron into a sand mold, fabricating a new armor plate to replace one that was irreparably damaged.
Her son Xhalph towered behind her, his four powerful arms folded in two rows across his broad chest. “Is this truly worth the effort, Mother?” he asked. “The old war-machines are good for defense, but they are ponderous and slow. They’re almost useless in the attack, especially when our foes cower a hundred miles away.”
“It pleases me to have the war-constructs put back in working order,” Sarya answered. “The automatons we’ve already repaired serve as a stout defense for our new capital when our legions are far away. And one never knows-we might yet find a way to bring them to the fight.”
Xhalph inclined his head, accepting her explanation. He was unconvinced but saw no point in arguing about it. Of course, he had most of the strength of his demonic father, a mighty glabrezu. Xhalph could crumple armor plate in his bare hands, or cleave a strong human knight and the horse on which he rode with a single blow of one of his heavy scimitars. But he overlooked the fact that few of Sarya’s fey’ri possessed such a distinguished bloodline. He’d never needed old lore or skill at magic to master his foes, when pure physical ferocity sufficed.
Just as well, Sarya decided. Given his formidable physical prowess, an inclination toward arcane study or subtle plotting would have made him too dangerous to her. She had already been forced to destroy her son Ryvvik not long after the three Dlardrageths had been freed from the vaults beneath Hellgate Keep, simply because Ryvvik was gifted with a subtle and treacherous turn of mind. She would not like to do the same to Xhalph and start over again with new offspring.
A flutter of wings behind her caught her attention. “Lady Sarya, Teryani Ealoeth has returned from the Sembian camp,” a fey’ri said, bowing before her. “She craves an audience with you.”
Sarya frowned. Teryani was her spy and assassin in the midst of the Sembian army. Each time she ventured to leave the Sembians and report, she risked discovery… but Teryani was not the sort to waste Sarya’s time.
“Very well. Have her join us.”
The messenger thumped his breastplate in salute and sprang back up into the air, winging back to his post. He quickly returned with a strikingly beautiful fey’ri in tow. Teryani had a finely shaped face with large, dark eyes, hair of silken midnight, and a soft, coy smile that could incite men to kill when she willed it. She knelt before Sarya, and said, “My queen.”
Sarya smiled coldly at the deference the girl showed, and motioned for her to rise. “Teryani, my dear. What brings you here?”
“I have news that seemed important, Lady Sarya. I saw Ilsevele Miritar ride into Tegal’s Mark with the champion Starbrow, a little more than a day ago. They are waiting for an audience with Miklos Selkirk.”
“Did you learn what business they have with Selkirk?”
“Miritar’s daughter has been sent to work out a truce with the Sembians,” Teryani said. “Moreover, I think she may hope to make an ally of Sembia.”
The daemonfey queen hissed in irritation and shook out her wings with a quick snap. Without even thinking about it, she began to pace restlessly, a habit she had formed since escaping from the imprisonment of millennia. Teryani simply awaited her queen’s will with equanimity, hands folded in her lap. She did not lack for courage, Sarya noted.
“You did well, Teryani,” she finally said. “We must find some way to keep our enemies from collaborating against us.”
“The Sembians are close to breaking, Mother,” Xhalph observed. “Many of their mercenary companies have given up the battle already. As long as we refrain from attacking Sembia itself, there is little reason for the fat merchants who rule that land to pour more of their precious treasure into the Dales. Miritar will waste her time trying to convince them otherwise.”
Sarya turned to gaze at her son with some small surprise. It was not often that Xhalph discerned a point at which restraint became a virtue, but he was right about Sembia. As long as she did not directly threaten the Sembians in their rich cities to the south, they would be inclined to write off the Dalelands as a bad investment.
“If they are as close to giving up the campaign as you think, then we should help to decide the issue for them,” Sarya said. “Leave them be for now. While they count the costs of their campaign, we will turn our full strength against Miritar. But we must see to it that their negotiations lead to nothing.”
“What do you wish me to do, Lady Sarya?” Teryani asked.
“If you can slay Miklos Selkirk or Ilsevele Miritar, and make it seem like an act of treachery by one side or the other, that should fix things nicely,” Sarya said. “I suspect it would work better if you arranged for Miritar’s death and affixed the blame to the Sembians.”
“It will be as you wish, my queen.” Teryani bowed again, acknowledging the command. Then she looked up to Sarya. “Neither the palebloods nor the Sembians will find cause to believe that we had anything to do with it.”
“Good. I think I may have the perfect instrument for you to use in this work.” Sarya smiled cruelly, implications dancing in her mind. “I will place at your disposal the services of the Cormanthoran drow. Use them to handle the slaying, and see to it that they are found to be in the employ of Sembians who wished Ilsevele Miritar dead… but did not want to be caught at it.”
Teryani’s dark eyes danced with mischief. “If I may be so bold, my queen, that is a subtle and brilliant ploy indeed. I will endeavor to carry it off as you have commanded.”